On the night of the Valentine’s Day, a big scene unfolded at the entrance of our neighborhood when seven luxury cars suddenly lifted off the ground. My brother was yelling at the blown-off manhole cover, “Thanks for the rocket, bro!” The property manager shoved the security footage at me: “Which one of you threw fireworks into the septic tank causing the methane explosion? The repair cost for the Rolls Royce Cullinan is 2.8 million!” At the police station, my mom was in tears, pinching my arm, “Phoebe, just say it was you. Your brother can’t have a blemish on his record!” I glanced at the family group chat filled with messages like “A sister should protect her brother.” I suddenly burst into laughter. This time you can handle it yourself, dear brother—Logan “the Ground King.” 0 My brother Logan, known online as “Logan the Ground King,” is a minor TikTok streamer, often performing awkward antics. He couldn’t have picked a worse day—on Valentine’s Day, he managed to blow up a manhole cover. That’s real talent. “Thanks to our top supporter for the rocket! Thanks, everyone!” His altered voice, sounding like a raspy duck, was giving me a headache through the phone. The camera focused on the dark manhole cover, while colorful comments filled the screen. “Wow, thrilling!” “This city knows how to play; even manhole covers can explode!” “Why isn’t the streamer showing his face this time? Is it really him?” “Folks, today we’re challenging ourselves to blow up a manhole cover! Thanks for the support! Double tap, mwah!” His irritating altered voice came through the phone, making me want to reach through the internet and slap him. In the live stream, I saw him light a string of firecrackers and toss them into the manhole. The comments section erupted. Before I could react, the screen shook violently, followed by a loud “boom.” A flash of white light filled the screen before it returned to normal. In the camera, the manhole cover was gone, replaced by a deep, dark hole. A few brightly colored sports cars suddenly appeared in the frame. The nearest Cullinan had half a firecracker stuck on its starry roof, still smoking. Another flashy Lamborghini had some yellow, unidentified object dangling from its undercarriage, fluttering in the wind. The comments exploded. “Cullinan owner: Thanks a lot!” “Lamborghini: What did I do to deserve this?” Seeing the familiar car logos on the screen, my hand shook, nearly dropping the phone. Were those Mr. Wang and Mr. Li’s cars? And my recently acquired Cullinan client’s car? The phone rang incessantly, displaying “Manager.” I took a deep breath, trying to keep my voice calm: “Manager, happy holidays” “happy holidays my foot! Phoebe! Look at what your wonderful brother did!” “There are seven supercars at the community entrance! All of them got blown up! The Cullinan’s starry roof is gone! Your client’s cars! They’re all your responsibility!” “I… I know, Manager, I’m dealing with it now.” I hung up, my hands shaking. Seven supercars, all my clients, and all with full damage coverage? My mind buzzed, filled with emptiness. My work group chat had over 99+ notifications already. My boss’s voice was cold: “Initial estimate, six million in losses! All have full damage coverage! Phoebe, tell me, who will pay for this?” At this point, the family group chat was in an uproar. My parents’ calls were incessant, so I took a cab home. Upon opening the door, everyone in the family was waiting in the living room. The atmosphere was as heavy as a memorial service. 0
My parents sat in the center of the sofa. My brother Logan stood beside them with his head down, looking like a wilted eggplant. My Aunt Lydia was sitting next to them, vividly recounting something to my mom. When she saw me enter, she immediately switched to a “devastated” expression. “Phoebe, you’re finally back!” Aunt Lydia rushed over first, grabbing my hand with tears in her eyes. My mom joined in, looking distressed: “Phoebe, be honest with your mom. Was this your doing?” Was it me? I quickly realized they wanted me to take the blame again. At 12, Logan set the community’s electric meter box on fire, and my parents had me take the blame, apologize, and get scolded. At 15, Logan threw his classmate’s backpack into water, ruining the latest tablet inside, and I got blamed for not teaching my brother properly. At 17, Logan acted up during a hot pot meal, pouring a whole bottle of industrial alcohol, almost causing a manslaughter case, and my parents made me pull strings and spend a fortune to settle it. I’ve always been Logan’s personal scapegoat, on call 24/7, dealing with emergencies at my own expense. But this time, I didn’t want to be their blood bank anymore. “Mom, what did I do?” I feigned confusion. My dad coughed heavily, pointing at a piece of paper on the coffee table. It was a notice from the police station. “Look for yourself! The police called, saying they need our cooperation for an investigation! The surveillance footage clearly shows someone throwing firecrackers into the manhole!” “Dad, did the footage show who threw it?” I deliberately asked. My mom, realizing I didn’t want to admit to this black pot, immediately cried harder. “Phoebe, your brother needs to take the civil service exam! If he has a criminal record, his life is over!” Aunt Lydia chimed in, “Yes, Phoebe, you’re the older sister, always so mature. Help your brother this time.” “Help him?” I raised an eyebrow, “How?” My parents exchanged a glance. My mom cleared her throat and started babbling: “You see, Logan didn’t show his face. The footage is dark; no one can tell who it is.” “Besides, you’re the sister. Isn’t it your duty to cover for your brother?” My mom said, giving me a look. I almost laughed out loud. This familiar manipulative talk, I’ve heard it all my life, and it’s still the same old song. “Mom, you mean go to the police station and admit it was me who blew up the manhole?” My parents nodded vigorously, and Aunt Lydia chimed in, “Phoebe, just say you were messing around. Young people make mistakes, right? Be polite, and maybe the police will go easy on you.” “Besides, once your brother becomes a civil servant, he’ll be part of the state, unlike you who work a regular job. You need to understand what’s best for our family.” My dad frowned at me. “Exactly, just say it was you. You don’t need to take the civil service exam anyway.” My mom quickly added. Looking at them, a chill ran through my heart. “And what about the repair costs? 2.8 million for the Cullinan, plus the other supercars, it’s over six million, right? Who’s paying?” I asked calmly. My mom hesitated, stammering: “Well… well… doesn’t insurance cover it?” Aunt Lydia’s eyes lit up, scooting over, “Yes, Phoebe, don’t you work at an insurance company? You’re a claims adjuster; you must have a way. Just help out, pull some strings, and have the insurance company cover it.” I couldn’t believe my ears. They wanted me to abuse my position to commit insurance fraud? “Aunt Lydia, what are you saying? Insurance claims follow a process. It’s not up to me to decide. This is clearly human-caused damage. The insurance company won’t cover it.” I said coldly. “Why can’t they cover it? You’re a claims adjuster. Can’t you handle this little thing?” Aunt Lydia looked incredulous. “Yeah, Phoebe, you’re the most accomplished in our family, and you won’t even help with this?” My mom started piling on the guilt. Looking at them, it was both laughable and pathetic. “You want me to take the blame and also fake claims to defraud the insurance company? You really think highly of me.” I retorted sarcastically. “Anyway, the situation is already out. What’s one more blame? If you end up in jail, your brother, once he’s a civil servant, can help you out.” Aunt Lydia said, trying to mediate. “Phoebe, didn’t I buy your brother an accident insurance policy before? He got injured yesterday. You can also have the insurance company pay thirty or fifty thousand for his recovery.” I looked at them coldly, saying nothing, feeling utterly disheartened. 0
Seeing the hard approach wasn’t working, my mom switched to a softer tactic. She took out a bank card, where I’d deposited almost 80% of my salary in the “family account.” My mom actually said my brother planned to use this money to buy me an apartment, hoping I’d be grateful enough to take the blame for Logan? I picked up my phone, walked over to the credit card machine, “Insufficient balance.” I frowned, checking the transaction details, seeing a long list of expenses on the screen. Luxury boutiques, fine dining, bars, karaoke, game top-ups… Thirty-eight thousand, already spent. I wanted to slam the door and never return to this home again. But today, if I didn’t admit to this, it seemed I wouldn’t be able to leave. I came up with a plan. “You want me to take the blame? Fine.” I suddenly laughed, tears almost coming out. “After all, I’m just a useless daughter. Our family is still counting on my brother to bring glory to the family name. For our family’s legacy, I admit it!” I pretended to be tearful, the more broken I appeared, the more easily they’d fall for it. My mom and Aunt Lydia exchanged a satisfied look, thinking they had me where they wanted. “That’s right, we’re family. It’s good you understand.” But today, if I don’t take responsibility for this, it seems I won’t be able to leave the house. A plan started to form in my mind. “You want me to take the blame? Fine.” I suddenly laughed, tears almost spilling over. “After all, I’m just the useless daughter. Our Logan family is still waiting for my brother to bring honor to the family. For the sake of the Logan lineage, I’ll admit it!” I deliberately acted more desperate, knowing the more I played the part, the more likely they were to believe me. My mom and Aunt Lydia exchanged a glance, satisfied smiles on their faces, thinking they had me cornered. “That’s the spirit, we’re family after all. It’s good you understand.” “But, Mom, Aunt Lydia, I’ll take the blame, but I need to know the full story: what explosives were used, and… why did Logan blow up the manhole cover?” I asked, fixing them with a piercing gaze. “Well, it’s nothing much. Logan, that kid, wasn’t he live-streaming, trying to add some excitement? He wanted some explosive effects to attract followers,” Aunt Lydia finally confessed, though she downplayed the situation. Then my mom reluctantly recounted the sequence of events. Just as I suspected, Logan had planned a “Valentine’s Day Extravaganza” for his TikTok stream to draw attention. He bought some fireworks, not realizing there was a septic tank under the manhole cover. “Mom, you’d better be honest with me. Whether I can ‘successfully’ take the blame and ‘pull strings’ with the insurance company depends on it.” I emphasized “take the blame” and “pull strings” to make sure they knew I was “playing the role.” “Alright, actually… it was a little ‘homemade bomb,’ like those kids play with during the New Year, just with a bit more power.” I didn’t plan to probe any further; I already had the gist. Next, I needed to get the explosives report to see what they really used. The next day, I excused myself, saying I needed to check the “details” of the insurance claim, and returned to work. When I saw the words “nitroglycerin” and “glycerin,” I couldn’t help but smirk. Logan, that kid, really had nerve. To become an internet celeb, he dared to possess and use explosives. This wasn’t just a simple public safety matter anymore; it might escalate to a criminal issue. Back home, I acted nonchalant, continuing the charade with them. Logan was in the living room, live-streaming with his “top fan sis,” oblivious to my little actions. I discreetly unlocked his phone, opened the PayPal account, and began reviewing recent transactions. Logan, that kid, bought so many highly dangerous fireworks. What infuriated me was he used my account to buy these dangerous goods, clearly trying to drag me down with him, making me the fall guy. It was clear Logan had planned everything: from buying explosives, orchestrating the stream, to shifting the blame afterward—every step meticulously calculated. Such a schemer! Since that’s the case, there’s no need for me to be polite anymore. “Logan, you brought this on yourself,” I thought coldly to myself.
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