I hit the $8.8 million jackpot, but the lottery center refused to pay out. “Fake!” I was completely floored. “No way! I just bought it yesterday. How can it be fake?” The clerk looked annoyed. “Still putting on a show? Don’t you know it’s fake yourself? Trying to scam money from the lottery center, you must be crazy for cash.” A bad feeling started to creep in, and my heart hammered faster. “If you can’t pay out, then give it back to me.” The clerk scoffed. “Give it back to you so you can go scam another place? Dream on. We’re confiscating this fake ticket. Cause any more trouble and I’ll call the police!” With that, she signaled a security guard to escort me out. I was furious, but also strangely thrilled! She didn’t know I had severe paranoid personality disorder. This exact scenario? I’d rehearsed it in my head at least three hundred times. Before the security guard’s hand even touched my shoulder, I gracefully collapsed to the floor. The floor was cold, a welcome chill against my burning forehead. My name is Caleb Stone. Naturally cautious, with a severe case of paranoid personality disorder. Before leaving home, I check the gas valve three times. Crossing the street, even on a green light, I scan left and right four times for any out-of-control vehicles. The moment I found out I won the jackpot last night, I locked myself in the bathroom and created a new file on my laptop: “Risk Assessment and Response Plan for an $8.8 Million Jackpot Win.” Branch One: Relatives asking for money and not paying it back. Branch Two: Car accident on the way to collect the prize. Branch Three: Lottery center refusing to pay out. Branch Four: Kidnapped and held for ransom. … Branch Eighteen: Lottery ticket confiscated on the spot. Right now, the plot was precisely at Branch Eighteen. “Ow! Help! The lottery center security guard is assaulting me!” I lay on the floor, my cries agonizingly shrill. There were quite a few people around, waiting to buy tickets or collect small winnings. At the sound of the commotion, even those who didn’t want to get involved craned their necks instinctively. The uniformed security guard was a big guy, his hand still suspended in mid-air, looking completely baffled. He hadn’t even used any force; I’d just gone limp and collapsed. “You’re lying! I didn’t even touch you!” the guard protested, flustered. Cora, the female clerk behind the counter, stood up and pointed at me, shouting: “Don’t believe him, everyone! This guy brought a fake lottery ticket to scam money, and when I exposed him, he started throwing a tantrum! Scammers these days will do anything for money, they have no shame!” I clutched my chest, gasping for air. “I’m not scamming anyone… that ticket… I bought it yesterday at the store on Construction Road… I have the receipt… I have the transaction record…” Gasping, I fumbled for my phone in my pocket, my hands trembling like someone with Parkinson’s. “If you’re not going to pay out… just give me back the ticket… it’s my ticket…” The crowd began to murmur. “Even if it’s fake, they shouldn’t push someone down, should they?” “Yeah, just give the ticket back. What’s with confiscating it?” “This young man looks honest, not like a scammer.” “Are lottery centers really this shady now?” Cora hadn’t expected me to pull this stunt, and her face darkened. She probably thought I’d be like a greenhorn, arguing loudly or getting scared off by the security guard. She underestimated the execution power of a paranoid individual. To avoid being easily removed, I had deliberately worn a faded old T-shirt and worn-out sneakers, cultivating the image of an honest, downtrodden person. “You… you stop playing dead!” Cora started to panic. “A fake ticket is a fake ticket! According to regulations, we have the right to confiscate it!” “Which regulation?” I suddenly stopped gasping and looked up, asking the question softly, but clearly. Cora froze. “Which law states that a merchant can unilaterally deem a customer’s item fake and confiscate it? Do you have judicial appraisal qualifications? Are you a law enforcement agency?” My words came out in a rapid-fire torrent; I’d memorized this script all night. A few elderly individuals in the crowd, who seemed to know a bit about law, immediately chimed in: “Exactly, even fake money has to be handled by the bank. What right do you have to confiscate his lottery ticket?” The tables had turned. Cora bit her lip, glaring fiercely at me. She knew that the security guard alone wouldn’t be enough to get rid of me now. “Fine, you won’t leave, will you?” She grabbed the desk phone receiver. “I’m calling the manager right now. He’ll deal with you! You won’t believe it until it’s staring you in the face!”
The manager arrived quickly. Less than five minutes later, a middle-aged man in a suit with slicked-back hair emerged from the inner office. His name was Robert Davies. I’d researched this lottery station’s information last night. While he wasn’t the legal representative or the actual controlling owner, he’d been the manager here for five years and supposedly had connections. “What’s going on? What’s all this shouting about? This is unacceptable!” Robert first reprimanded Cora, then smiled, reaching out to help me up. “Sir, the floor is cold. Let’s stand up and talk. We are a legitimate establishment; we would never bully anyone.” A master move. This was a true pro. Calming the public’s anger, establishing an image of reasonableness. I took the opportunity to stand up, dusting off my pants. “You’re the manager?” “I am.” Robert nodded, still smiling. “I heard you brought a lottery ticket to claim a prize, but my colleague said it was fake?” “It’s not fake, it’s real.” I stared into his eyes. “$8.8 million, the grand prize.” When I mentioned “$8.8 million,” I noticed a subtle twitch in Robert’s eye. Very faint. “Whether it’s real or fake isn’t just about what you say.” Robert sighed, putting on a professional air. “The ticket? Let me see it.” Cora handed the lottery ticket to Robert. Robert took it, held it up to the light, then felt the texture of the paper. “Sir.” Robert placed the ticket on the counter, tapping the surface lightly with his finger. “This ticket, it really does have issues.” “What issues?” “The paper quality is wrong.” Robert looked at me with a regretful expression. “This thermal paper isn’t from the same batch we use at the center. And this anti-counterfeit code, while it looks similar, a professional can spot the flaw instantly. And… ” He paused, raising his voice slightly. “And, the serial number on this ticket doesn’t show up in our system at all. That means this ticket has no record of being issued.” A collective gasp went through the crowd. “No record? Is it a private lottery?” “Oh, that young man looked so honest, turns out he really was trying to pull a fast one.” “Almost got tricked by him, these people are the worst!” The elderly folks who had just been on my side instantly turned against me. That’s how easily people are swayed; they believe whoever sounds loudest or looks most authoritative. Robert was clearly pleased with the effect. His eyes held a hint of disdain, as if to say: *Kid, trying to mess with me? You’re still too green.* “Since it’s a fake ticket, we’ll have to deal with it according to regulations.” Robert said, casually tucking the ticket, supposedly worth $8.8 million, into his pocket. “Hold on.” I spoke up. “You said it’s not in the system?” I pulled out my phone and opened a video. “This is a video I took when I bought the ticket yesterday. From me paying, to the machine printing it out, to me holding the ticket in my hand—it’s an uncut, single-shot video. It even shows the time on the ticket machine and your store’s identification number.” I held the phone screen up to Robert. The video clearly showed the lottery ticket being dispensed from their machine. Robert’s smile froze. He hadn’t expected me to record it. Who records buying a lottery ticket? But he was an old hand; he only paused for a second before regaining his composure. “Videos can be doctored, or shot with tricky angles.” Robert sneered. “Current AI face-swapping technology can do anything. Making a fake video is nothing. Besides, how do you prove that the ticket in this video is the same one you brought here now?” Shameless. Utterly shameless. This was exactly why I suffered from paranoid personality disorder. In this world, bad people don’t need logic to do evil; they only need power, or a thick skin. “So, what do you want?” I asked. “Nothing much.” Robert shrugged. “To prevent you from scamming other places, we must destroy this fake ticket.” “You wouldn’t dare!” I roared, taking a step forward. The security guard immediately blocked me, pushing me back. “What are you doing? Are you trying to rob us?” Cora shrieked. The scene instantly spiraled out of control.
“Call the police! I want to call the police!” I yelled, my voice hoarse, as the security guard pushed me stumbling backward. “No need for you to call, I already did!” Robert was quicker than me, waving his phone. “This kind of fraud needs to be handled by the police!” He wanted to strike first, using the authority of the police to definitively label this incident. If the police determined it was a dispute or fraud and took me away, then that $8.8 million really would have nothing to do with me. The people around me looked at me like I was an idiot. In their eyes, a manager who dared to call the police must have nothing to hide, while my shouting and yelling was a sign of a guilty conscience. While waiting for the police, the entire lobby became eerily quiet. I leaned against a wall, taking big gulps of water. My hands were still trembling, but I forced myself to count the patterns on the floor tiles to calm my breathing. Ten minutes later, two police officers walked in. “Who called the police?” “I did!” Robert greeted them, putting on his best innocent act. “Officer, we have someone here attempting fraud with a forged lottery ticket, a huge amount—$8.8 million! When we exposed him, he started causing trouble.” The lead officer, about forty years old, had a strong, no-nonsense jawline and seemed very composed. He looked at Robert, then at me, huddled in the corner. “Is that you?” The officer asked me. I straightened up and handed over the documents I’d prepared. “I’m here to claim my prize. This is my ID, this is the video of me buying the lottery ticket, this is the transaction record, this is the recording of my conversation with the clerk…” Like an announcer, I presented each piece of evidence one by one. The officer took my phone, watched the video, and his brow furrowed. The video was very clear; it was indeed from this store’s machine. “Sir, how do you explain this video?” The officer turned the phone to show Robert. Robert didn’t even glance at it, just waved his hand. “Officer, this video is edited! You know how advanced technology is these days. And even if he bought a lottery ticket here, it doesn’t mean the one he brought in is the real ticket! He could easily buy a real one, then go home and have a master forger create a high-quality replica to claim the prize, keeping the real one hidden to collect two payouts!” That logical loop was perfect. As long as he insisted the “ticket was swapped” or “it’s a high-quality replica,” I would be speechless. Because the lottery ticket itself was the sole physical proof. The officer also looked a bit troubled. This kind of economic dispute, especially one involving technical authentication, was difficult to judge on the spot. “How about this, let’s get the ticket and we’ll take it back for appraisal,” the officer said. “Sure, no problem. Cooperating with law enforcement is what we should do,” Robert said, pulling the lottery ticket from his pocket. Just as he pulled it out, his wrist suddenly flicked. *Rip!* The $8.8 million lottery ticket snapped into two pieces in his hand. The entire hall fell silent. Even the police officer was stunned. “Oops!” Robert exclaimed dramatically, his hand loosening, and the two halves of the ticket fell to the floor. “My apologies, my apologies, my hand slipped, this paper is so brittle! Officer, you see, this fake ticket quality is just terrible, it rips so easily.” He said, pretending to pick it up, his foot “accidentally” stepping on one of the halves, grinding it hard. It was over. Completely over. Even if it could be pieced together, this level of damage would absolutely prevent it from being cashed. “What are you doing!” The officer reacted, pushing Robert away, but he had already succeeded. That ticket was now a pile of waste paper. Robert looked innocently at the officer: “Officer, I truly didn’t mean it. Besides, it’s just a fake ticket, tearing it up is fine. It just saves it from circulating and harming others.” A murmur of regret and satisfaction went through the crowd. I was completely dumbfounded. Angry? No. The feeling I had now… was relief. It was like the long-awaited shoe had finally dropped. They really did it. Just like in my mental rehearsal, Scenario Eighteen, Branch C – “Violent Destruction of Evidence.” A strange thrill coursed through my entire body.
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