Refund Warrior

Because I asked the cafeteria to refund the two cents I'd been overcharged for a plate of leftovers, someone filmed me and posted the video on the campus forum, turning me into the "refund warrior" everyone online loved to hate. Just as people were dragging me for being both poor and heartless, my brother, Jack Griffin, showed up at the school gates on a livestream, wearing a worried expression. He held up a spending record and shoved it in my face. "Brielle, Mom sends you $10,000 every month for living expenses. "Dad worries you'll have a hard time away from home, so he secretly gives you another $5,000. Even I, as your brother, save $3,000 from my monthly paycheck to send you. "You get $18,000 a month, and you still asked for a refund after donating just $10 to a sick classmate. Where did your conscience go?" The comments exploded instantly. "$18,000 a month and she's still the refund warrior? She's seriously messed up!" I stared at the string of fake transfer screenshots on Jack's phone. Then I looked at the limited-edition sneakers on his feet—the ones he'd bought with my living expenses. 'Fine. If you all insist I was greedy for money, then I'll be greedy enough to show you exactly what that looks like.' Chapter 1 I opened my banking app and, in front of the more than ten thousand people watching Jack Griffin's livestream, pulled up my transaction history for the past six months. Balance: $0.63. He immediately pressed my phone down, though his voice remained gentle. "Brielle, I'm here today because I want to help you." As he said it, the camera was pointed straight at my face. The comments flew by like startled flies in a marketplace. "Look at that pathetic face. She doesn't look sorry at all." "Her brother is seriously pitiful. He saves $3,000 from his paycheck every month to support an ungrateful brat." "$18,000? I don't even make that much in living expenses." Jack glanced at the comments. The corners of his mouth almost curled upward, but his professional instincts forced them back down. I was just about to speak when my counselor, Zara Snow, pushed through the crowd. She first told the students gathered around to disperse, then turned to Jack. "This is the school entrance. Turn off the camera immediately." Jack immediately turned the camera toward Ms. Snow. "Ma'am, I don't want to make this a bigger deal either. But Brielle is having some psychological problems right now. As her brother, I can't just stand by and watch her go down the wrong path over two cents, can I?" The way he said it, you would have thought I hadn't asked for a two-cent refund but had embezzled money from the United Nations. Before Ms. Snow could respond, my phone rang. A message had come through the college student affairs group. The Student Affairs Office wanted me to come in that afternoon to explain the alleged malicious refund and withdrawal of a charitable donation. Until the investigation was complete, my work-study shifts were temporarily suspended. I stared at the words "temporarily suspended," and my palms slowly went cold. My work-study job paid $900 a month. That was my actual living money. Not a single cent of the $18,000 Jack had invented would ever reach me, but the $900 I depended on to survive was gone because of his livestream. When he saw my face turn pale, he let out a satisfied sigh. "Brielle, listen to me. Apologize to everyone and admit you made a foolish mistake. I won't hold it against you." He handed me an apology statement he had prepared in advance. It began: "Because of my family's excessive spoiling, I developed a selfish, vain personality and a habit of taking advantage of others over trivial amounts of money." At twenty years old, I was learning for the first time that even $200 a month counted as being spoiled. "You said you give me $3,000 every month, right?" "Of course." "Which account do you transfer it to?" Jack paused for a moment. "Brielle, are you seriously suspicious of me now?" I looked at him. "Whether I'm suspicious or not isn't important. What matters is whether the money actually arrived." The comments went silent for two seconds. Jack immediately ended the livestream. The screen went black, and the pain on his face clocked out right along with it. "Brielle, do you have to humiliate me?" "Weren't you the one who told me to clear my name?" "I was giving you a way out!" He lowered his voice and grabbed my wrist. "Video-call Mom and Dad tonight and read the statement exactly as written. I'll do another livestream tomorrow, and you can smooth everything over. Otherwise, I'll post everything about how you stole money and lied when you were little." I had never stolen money. When I was ten, Jack took $50 to an arcade. When he got caught, he said I had taken it. Dad locked me out on the balcony for the entire night. The next day, Jack secretly slipped me a piece of fruit candy. I remembered that candy for years, but somehow forgot who had helped Dad shut the balcony door. When he saw Ms. Snow approaching, he put on his goody-two-shoes expression again. "Brielle, don't let the whole family down." His shoes gleamed painfully bright in the sunlight. I lowered my eyes to my own old canvas sneakers. The toe had come unglued, and I'd patched it up with a tube of $1 glue the week before. Suddenly, I really wanted to know. Who had actually paid for his shoes? Chapter 2 When I got back to the dorm, there was a bag of bread on my bed. Mia Wilson sat cross-legged on her chair. "What Jack is doing isn't livestreaming. It's selling something. And that something is you." I said nothing. I tore off a piece of bread and stuffed it into my mouth. It was close to its expiration date. The moment I swallowed it, my stomach cramped sharply, and I bent over, bracing myself against the corner of the desk. Mia was startled and dragged me to the campus clinic. The doctor pressed on my stomach, then glanced at my age on the registration form, his expression complicated. "You have chronic gastritis, and you've also been having low blood sugar lately. Go pay at the front desk, then pick up your preion." The medication cost $18. I stared at the payment screen for half a minute before closing it. The moment I stepped out of the exam room, Dad called. The first thing he asked was why I hadn't accepted Jack's apology statement. "Jack took time off work and came all the way to your school, and he did it for you. You embarrassed him in front of all those people. Do you have no conscience?" I leaned against the wall in the hospital corridor as black spots flickered across my vision. "Dad, Jack said you give me $5,000 every month. Where are the transfer records?" There was a second of silence on the other end. Then his volume doubled. "I've raised you for twenty years, and now you need me to give you a receipt?" I could practically picture him slamming his hand on the table. Even the cups at home knew that whenever his voice rose, it was time to find somewhere safe. "I'm just asking where the money was transferred." "Your mom gives you $10,000, I give you $5,000, and Jack gives you $3,000. Didn't all of it go toward you? What more do you want?" "I only receive $200 a month." Dad gave a cold laugh. "I save the rest for you. When a girl has too much money in her hands, she starts getting ideas. Look at you now. You've only been in college for two years, and you already dare to interrogate your own father." I had heard that logic for years. Not giving me money was for my own good. Not letting me see the accounts was because they didn't want to burden me. Making me live like I was fleeing a famine was supposed to build character. They weren't withholding money from me. They were giving me an immersive hardship education. And they never charged tuition, only living expenses. Dad's tone softened slightly, as if he were preparing to grant me a special favor. "Venmo Jack $200 right now to thank him for coming to school to teach you a lesson. Then record a video apologizing. Once you do that, this whole thing will be over." I glanced at my account balance. "I don't have any money." "Didn't I just transfer $200 to you last month? What did you buy? Send me the transaction details." Ever since I was little, I had to photograph every receipt for everything I spent. For an $8 bottle of laundry detergent, he asked why I couldn't just use my roommate's. For $15 worth of menstrual pads, he said they were cheaper if bought wholesale online. The most ridiculous time, I sent him a $2 bus fare receipt, and he asked why I hadn't walked. "Brielle?" Dad said impatiently. "Speak!" "I'm not sending it." There was a full three seconds of silence on the other end. Then he went from calling me immature to saying I had no humanity, and finally announced that he was cutting off my living expenses. I looked at my balance and, strangely enough, felt relieved. Going from $200 to zero wasn't much of a loss. The announcement, however, was impressively grand. The moment the call ended, Mom video-called me. She was still in her work clothes, with her employer's spacious, brightly lit kitchen behind her. When she saw me, she sighed first. "Brielle, how did you become like this?" My throat tightened. "Mom, how much money do you actually give me every month?" "$10,000," she answered without hesitation. "On the fifth of every month. I've never missed one. Your dad always says it isn't enough because he's worried you'll have a hard time at school." I sent her a screenshot of my transaction history. "But I never received it." Mom stared at the image for several seconds, and her expression slowly changed. "What do you mean? Are you saying I'm lying to you?" "I'm not the recipient." "If I transfer it to your dad, isn't that the same as transferring it to you? Why are you making such a distinction when we're family?" She pulled up her transfer records and sent them to me. Every month, there was a $10,000 transfer, and the note did indeed say "Brielle's living expenses." But the recipient account belonged to Dad. For six months, not a single cent had gone directly to me. Mom continued complaining over the phone about how hard it was taking care of a new mother, how exhausting it was to prepare bottles in the middle of the night. Then she said I was ungrateful. Jack's livestream might have gone too far, but he was only trying to pull me back onto the right path. I remembered that I'd always had a weak stomach as a child. When Mom was still home, whenever my stomach hurt, she would make me a bowl of Cream of Wheat. We didn't have a programmable cooker back then, so she'd stand by the stove, chopping vegetables and stirring the pot. That bowl of Cream of Wheat wasn't worth much money, but it was one of the few things she had ever truly put into my hands. Later, she moved away for work and left my care to bank transfers. She probably really believed that as long as the money went out on time, she had done everything a mother was supposed to do. Suddenly, my eyes caught on one of the screenshots. The day Dad received the $10,000, he had replied: "$2,000 to Jack. I'll save the rest for Brielle." Jack transferred $200 to me every month. The missing $1,800 fit perfectly in between. I looked up at Mia's saved screenshot from Jack's livestream. So it was true. Jack really had been giving me $3,000 every month. The money was just terribly shy. It had never come to meet me. Chapter 3 The bank printer hummed as it spat out page after page documenting my poverty. Six months. $200 every month, without fail. The consistency was almost reassuring. My tuition was covered by student loans, and my housing fees were deducted from my scholarship. To save money, I never went out for group meals and never bought new clothes. Breakfast was almost always a cup of hot water and a slice of bread. I had never experienced life on $18,000 a month, but I had gotten an early taste of the accusations that came with it. I organized my transaction history into a spreadsheet and sent it to Jack. He quickly replied with a voice message. "Stop making trouble. The family manages the money collectively. What difference does it make whether the money reaches your hands?" The difference was simple. When the money reached his hands, it became sneakers. When it reached mine, it became food. I asked him where the money he was supposedly investing for me had gone. Half an hour later, he sent me a screenshot of an investment account with a balance of more than $20,000. The note said, "Brielle's Personal Investment." Mia enlarged the image and pointed to the bottom-right corner. "He didn't even crop out the AI watermark." I didn't have the energy to keep going through every one of Jack's spending records. The sneakers were enough. The timing lined up perfectly with Dad's transfers. It was enough to prove Jack was lying. The other perfume purchases and restaurant bills would only prove that he spent money. I didn't need to prove that he spent money. I needed to prove that he had spent my money while packaging it as his own sacrifice. Dad also posted a screenshot of a savings account in the family group. "Didn't you insist on seeing it? I've been saving it all for you!" The screenshot showed a fixed-term balance of $48,000. I stared at the image for several seconds and noticed that the account holder's name had been cropped out. I asked him for the complete electronic receipt. Dad immediately deleted the screenshot. Then he kicked me out of the family group. When I called Mom, she sounded annoyed. She said she was at work and didn't have time to entertain my nonsense. "I already sent you everything. What else don't you believe?" "You cropped out the account holder's name." "That was to protect privacy." "I'm his daughter, not some overseas scam operation." Mom was momentarily speechless, then switched to criticizing me for being rude. It wasn't until I brought up my freshman year, when I won first prize in a scholarship competition, that she went quiet. The day the scholarship money arrived, Dad had specifically taken the high-speed train to my school and said he would help me put it into a high-interest fixed deposit. He took my bank card and even stood with me outside the school gates for a photo. In the picture, he was holding my scholarship certificate and smiling even more brightly than I was. After that, he never mentioned the money again. Mom was silent for a moment before finally agreeing to look for it when she got home. At eleven that night, she video-called me. She pulled some collection notices out from the back of a drawer. I thought those notices were the final page. But when she kept digging through the drawer, she pulled out a transparent document folder from the very bottom. Inside was a bank receipt from three years earlier for $5,200. The note said: "Birthday gift for Brielle." I stared at the date on the receipt, and my fingertips slowly went cold. That day, Jack had given me a $20 pen. Mom had smiled on the video call and said, "Jack spent so long picking it out for you." I had hugged the pen and sincerely thanked him. It turned out Mom's birthday gift to me had already been collected by Jack on my behalf. At the very bottom of the folder was also one of Dad's repayment notices. The money Dad had supposedly saved for me hadn't disappeared. The birthday gift Mom had given me hadn't disappeared either. They had simply changed names along the way. One was called "One More Round." The other was called "Jack Deserves Better." Chapter 4 Every month, Mom transferred $10,000. Dad gave $2,000 to Jack, leaving $8,000. The numbers matched perfectly, like a production line that had been laid out long ago. Everyone in the family had their assigned role. I was the only product dissatisfied with its treatment off the assembly line. Mom video-called me that night. She kept her voice low, probably afraid of waking her employer. "Brielle, don't send those documents anywhere yet. Your dad was just being foolish. Men have business pressures. Playing a few rounds once in a while is normal." "$8,000 a month for six months, and you call that once in a while?" "He's still your father." I asked her, "Then what about the $1,800 Jack took?" Mom paused. "Jack has a girlfriend. He needs money. When he gets married and buys a house, which of those things won't cost money? You have financial aid at school. You can get by if you spend less. "And besides, the family will have to rely on Jack to support us when we're old." I understood. Jack's future was the family's flagship project. It needed investment. I was a disposable asset. I would get married sooner or later, and depreciation wouldn't affect the family's bottom line. "Mom, when you send me $10,000 every month, is it because you want to make sure I have enough to eat, or because you want everyone to know you can afford to support a college student?" Her breathing caught. Then the tears came instantly. She wiped her eyes and talked about how hard she worked away from home, how everything she had done in her life was for me and Jack. Whenever she cried in the past, I would immediately apologize, as if all the suffering she had endured ultimately had to be settled on my account. Only after she had cried herself out did I say, "The money you sent was real, but I never received any of it. You weren't unaware. You just didn't want to look into it." Her crying stopped instantly. "Brielle, don't be so cruel. Jack is doing a clarification livestream tomorrow night, and his company executives will be watching. Just admit you were wrong. Say the family treated you well and you were the one who wasted the money. Once this blows over, I will make it up to you with another $200." "What if I don't go?" Her voice turned completely cold. "Are you really going to ruin Jack's job?" I looked at the woman on my screen, the one I had missed for so many years. When I was little, and she went away for work, she always brought Jack sneakers and me hair clips. She used to say girls should look pretty. Later, she was also the one who took me to get my hair cut short because hair clips couldn't be eaten or used to pay for textbooks. "He's the one who put me on that livestream. He didn't leave himself a way out." After hanging up, I opened my phone and revoked my access to the family-linked account. Finally, I deleted every payment QR code Dad had been sending me. After I finished the series of actions, I suddenly realized my hands had been shaking the entire time. My phone buzzed. Jack had sent me the apology statement for tomorrow night's livestream, with one final line: "Cooperate. If the numbers on this stream are good, the company will make me a full-time streamer." I stared at the message and suddenly laughed. So while he was stepping on my face to climb upward, he still thought I wasn't lying flat enough. I replied: "Okay. Tomorrow night, I'll explain exactly where every dollar went, one transaction at a time." He sent back a thumbs-up. Clearly, he hadn't understood. Then again, someone who used his sister as a stepping stone usually wouldn't think to look down and check whether the stepping stone had grown teeth. Early the next morning, Ms. Snow pulled the cafeteria security footage. In the complete video, a small dish of leftover food from the student ahead of me had touched my tray, causing the scale system to overcharge me by two cents. I had merely said, "Ma'am, this isn't mine. Could you refund the two cents?" The secretly recorded video had been edited to cut out everything before and after, leaving only the words, "Refund the two cents." The cafeteria manager agreed to provide a written statement explaining what had happened. The charity platform also found the supposed $10 refund. That day, I saw a classmate from my year hospitalized with an illness and wanted to donate $10. My card balance was too low, so the payment failed. Later, I used cash I'd earned from tutoring and asked a classmate to donate $20 on my behalf. But the campus forum changed the story, claiming I had made a donation and then requested a refund. After reviewing the materials, Ms. Snow's face looked grim. "Your work-study position will be reinstated. The campus forum has to delete the video and issue a public correction." I nodded and copied the recording of Jack's livestream onto a USB drive. Ms. Snow hesitated. "The school can only deal with your reputation on campus and your work-study position. When it comes to the money at home, you need to preserve the evidence yourself."