Working Off a Fake Debt

To afford train tickets home for New Year's Eve, I searched for a part-time job and stumbled into a livestream that was practically throwing money at the chat.

A young woman in a silk robe rested her chin on her hand. Behind her, a villa glowed under expensive lighting that reflected off polished marble floors.

"Being kept in here is suffocating," she said in a voice that mixed boredom with sweetness. "My sponsor gives me more money than I can spend. Help me out. Take some off my hands."

Cash drops flashed across the screen one after another. I tapped as fast as I could, my heart hammering. A few large ones landed in my account. I was close. One more would cover both my ticket and my boyfriend's.

The streamer leaned closer to the camera.

"He keeps saying my tear mole looks like his girlfriend's," she said, her mouth twisting with disgust. "So unlucky. Of all things, I had to match with some broke girl."

My finger slipped.

I had a tear mole under my eye in the same spot.

The live chat flooded with questions.

[How is the sponsor's girlfriend broke?]

The streamer gave a short snort and reapplied her lipstick, as if correcting a minor flaw.

"He's just messing around. He tricked her into 200,000 dollars in debt. She's so stupid she works multiple jobs to help him pay it off."

A chill settled in my chest. My boyfriend also owed 200,000 dollars.

She continued, her tone light, "The funniest part? He slept with me for three days. When he left, I asked if he was giving her a taste of honey."

She smiled cruelly. "He said all he has to do is claim he's going to work a construction site hauling rebar. The idiot will feel guilty and deliver food all night. So he won't need to please her."

Another large cash drop flashed across the screen. The total reached the exact amount I needed.

My phone rang. Benjamin's name lit up the display.

When I answered, his voice sounded worn down, as if it had scraped against concrete.

"Via, we still don't have enough for the tickets," he said. "I hauled rebar and made a little over 40 dollars. I'm heading home now."

It was 1:00 a.m., and I almost dropped my phone.

The "sponsor" in that cash-spraying livestream… was it Benjamin?

When I did not answer, his voice sharpened. "Why aren't you saying anything? Are you feeling sick?"

My throat felt like sandpaper. "Which site? What kind of job keeps you out this late?"

"Just… near the old district." His words came faster, as if speed could carry him past my question. "I'm almost home. I'll transfer the money first."

The call ended. The livestream continued.

"My sponsor just sent another 150,000 dollars and told me to buy the newest set of lingerie."

She clicked her tongue and pouted at the camera. "Men like this have no concept of money. That set is, what,