Chapter 4

After packing my things, I opened my phone. It was flooded with hate comments and criticisms.

#Lewis Get Out Of Music# topped the trending list, with over 300 million views.

The top Ins post was from a music critic with a million followers:

"A judge like Lewis, utterly unprofessional, is a disgrace to the entire industry."

"Maliciously interrupting a performer to grab headlines, ruining a child prodigy's future."

"I recommend all concert halls, agencies, and conservatories to collectively boycott him."

The comments below were all in agreement.

[This kind of person dares to be a judge? How well-connected is he?]

[I heard he has no background, just slept his way to the top.]

[I always thought his competitions were rigged.]

[Support Andrew! Support Dean Molina!]

My agency released a statement.

Not supporting me, but "suspending all collaboration with Mr. Lewis, pending investigation results."

Polite but unambiguous – they had dropped me.

Collins didn't answer my call, only replied with a WhatsApp message:

"I'm sorry, I can't do anything."

My mentor, Professor Johnson, sent a message through someone:

"Lewis, don't be impulsive. Just apologize and it will blow over. You're still young."

I didn't reply.

I found a video Andrew had posted last night.

He sat at the piano, his eyes red and swollen, his voice choked:

"I don't blame Judge Lewis. Maybe he was just tired, or misheard. My mom told me to learn to be forgiving."

"That piece truly is my own, the fruit of two years of painstaking effort. It makes me sad that someone claims it's not mine, but I will prove myself with more compositions."

The comments flooded in:

[Don't cry, Andrew! We believe you!]

[Kind boys have the most power!]

[The Osmond family has such exemplary upbringing!]

I almost laughed out loud.

Two years of painstaking effort? That was my dad's fifteen years of tireless work.

I turned off my phone. Tomorrow, it was time to settle the score.

The next day, Seattle Grand Hotel, third-floor banquet hall.

By 2:30 PM, the entrance was swarming with reporters.

Wearing a hat and mask, I entered through the staff entrance and found a seat in a corner.

Exactly 3 PM, the Osmond family walked onto the stage.

Molina was in a business suit, a solemn expression on her face.

Osmond wore a dark suit, his eyes slightly red.

Andrew, in a white shirt, hung his head, looking like a fragile white flower battered by the storm.

Molina spoke first.

She stood at the microphone, silent for five seconds, then bowed deeply.

"First, I want to apologize to everyone concerned about this matter."

"It was my excessive trust in this industry that led to Andrew suffering undeserved hardship."

Someone in the audience shouted, "Dean Molina, you did nothing wrong!"

She raised her hand, gesturing for silence, her voice low:

"Andrew has loved music since he was a child. He started learning piano at four, performed on stage at eight, and composed his first piece at twelve."

"This piece, 'Autumn Night Variations,' he painstakingly refined for two whole years."

"Every note, a piece of his soul. Every modulation, a spark of inspiration from his late-night practice sessions."

"As a mother, I am proud of him."

Her eyes welled up as she said this.

Applause broke out in the audience.

Osmond took the microphone, his voice carrying a hint of anger:

"I am just a father. My son was humiliated in front of a national audience; it pains me deeply."

"Lewis is also a man; he will have children someday. How would he feel if his children were treated this way?"

"I ask for nothing else but justice."

He turned to Andrew, and the father and son put their arms around each other, patting each other's backs in a show of mutual support.

Andrew sighed, then managed a strained, bitter smile. "I don't hate Judge Lewis. I just hope everyone stops criticizing him. He might truly have his own difficulties."

Someone in the audience shouted:

"Andrew, you're too kind!"

"The Osmond family truly has an exemplary upbringing!"

I sat in the corner, watching the three perform on stage.

Every expression, every line, every pause was precise, as if rehearsed countless times.

They weren't holding a press conference; they were filming a movie.

And I was the mere pawn, cast as the villain.

The host stepped onto the stage:

"Next, a representative from the Musicians' Association will announce the decision regarding Lewis."

A middle-aged man with glasses stood up, unfolding a piece of paper:

"After deliberation by the Musicians' Association Review Committee, it has been decided to revoke Lewis's qualification as an international piano competition judge."

"His 'Annual Outstanding Young Musician' title is rescinded, and all music conservatories and performing arts organizations are advised to suspend cooperation with him."

"Additionally, the Association calls on Mr. Lewis to acknowledge his errors, publicly apologize, and restore public trust."

A wave of sustained applause.

Everyone stood up, except for me.

I slowly removed my hat and mask, then stood up. "Wait a moment."

My voice wasn't loud, but the banquet hall's sound system carried my every word throughout the hall.

The entire hall fell into a stunned silence. Hundreds of eyes turned to me.

On stage, Molina's pupils constricted sharply.

Osmond's tears instantly dried.

Andrew's smile froze.

I faced all the cameras, walking step by step toward the stage.

"Didn't you say you wanted justice?"

"I'll give it to you."