?Chapter 556:


    On the other end, Natasha’s lips curled into a slow, knowing smile.


    “Mr. Hond,” she purred, “I knew you were a smart man.”


    That evening, the middle-aged couple from Pree City sat under the harsh studio lights, their weary faces broadcast live across local television screens.


    Time had not been kind to them.


    Grief had hollowed their eyes, streaked their hair with gray, and carved deep lines into their faces—marks of an unrelenting battle that had stretched on for five long years.


    The reporter leaned in, microphone poised.


    “This is your fifth year fighting for this. If justice still eludes you, will you keep going?”


    The woman hesitated. Then, with quiet steel in her voice, she answered,


    “Yes. I will keep fighting for my daughter. Justice wille. Everything has consequences.”


    The reporter pressed on.


    “But the school punished the perpetrator years ago. Why are you still pursuing this?”


    The woman reached into her pocket, her movements deliberate, and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. Despite the years, it remained crisp, the ink unfaded.


    “Because I trust my daughter more than I trust the school,” she said, unfolding it with care.


    “This is herst letter. It names the ones who tormented her. And it was not Jolene Sampson.”


    The reporter captured the faint yellowing of the paper, the sharp rity of the daughter’s handwriting.


    He studied it, then asked,


    “If it was the roommates, why did the school let Jolene take the me?”


    The father, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke. His voice carried the weight of years of bitterness.


    “Because the real culprit was well-connected. Their family donated a library to the school. Jolene? She was an orphan. No power. No protection. Easy to sacrifice.”


    He exhaled sharply, his lip curling.


    “And so, they made her the scapegoat. Meanwhile, the one truly responsible not only walked free but went on to study abroad. Money makes the world go round, does it not?”


    The reporter did not look away.


    “After all these years, what keeps you going? What do you want now?”


    The woman’s eyes burned with resolve.


    “We do not want money. We want justice.”


    Her voice rose, each word striking with precision.


    “I want those responsible to answer for what they have done. I want the school held ountable under thew. We believe in our government, in our justice system. And we will not let this be buried.”


    Her words cut through the room like a de—sharp and undeniable.


    The broadcast ignited a storm.


    Local authorities took notice.


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