Meng Han had long heard about fanatical fans harming their idols. A Japanese teen idol, for instance, was slashed 23 times by a male fan and nearly died.

But he never imagined facing this himself.

Outside, three burly men smashed the door. The old wood cracked instantly. Plaster rained from the ceiling. The lock wobbled, about to snap.

At death’s brink, thoughts flooded Meng Han’s mind. Only one remained: I won’t die here! Even if I die, I won’t be scorned forever for these so-called seven deadly sins!

He grabbed his wallet and phone, shoved the window open, and jumped.

The second floor wasn’t high. Grass cushioned the fall. But after half a year streaming indoors, his body was weak. He landed on his knees, rolling in pain, tears streaming down his face.

Seconds later, the men leaned out the window. “He jumped! Chase him downstairs!”

No choice. Meng Han gritted his teeth and ran. Adrenaline surged—he sprinted like an Olympian. He flagged a taxi outside the compound, panting: “Driver, go! They’re trying to kill me!”

The thugs had driven here. Seeing the taxi move, they jumped into their black sedan and followed.

The middle-aged driver sensed trouble. “Kid, did you anger gangsters? Why this chase?”

“No… it’s complicated. Can you call the police?”

“Useless against gangsters. No physical harm yet? Cops’ll just warn them. Then revenge hits harder.” The veteran driver puffed his cigarette. “Best flee far away. Wait till the heat dies down.”

Meng Han, clueless in crisis, nodded. “I’ll follow your advice.”

“Good. Airport it is.”

The driver wasn’t just street-smart—he was skilled. He expertly lost the sedan block by block.

At the airport, he refused payment. “I bought you minutes. Rush in—buy a ticket, clear security. They can’t reach you there.”

“Thank you!” Meng Han bowed deeply and sprinted inside.

First time at an airport, he followed signs blindly. He found an airline counter, gasping: “Ticket! Soonest flight—boarding now! Hurry!”

Staff replied fast despite the odd request. “Flight to Kalinda boarding soon. 3,088 yuan. No passport needed—new tourism pact with Eastern Sea City.”

He didn’t know Kalinda. But it sounded distant. No time—he bought the ticket.

As it printed, three thugs spotted him. “There he is! Chase!”

Meng Han dashed to security. Light luggage sped him through. Guards blocked the thugs outside.

They seethed but feared airport security. Stuck at the checkpoint, they yelled: “Trash streamer! Bastard! I’ll wait here—you can’t hide like a coward forever!”

Trapped, Meng Han steeled himself. He found the gate and boarded the Kalinda flight with the crowd.

Few Chinese filled the cabin. Many dark-skinned passengers wore white turbans.

Pre-takeoff, Meng Han logged into Weibo. From “Streamer Meng Han,” he posted one last statement:

“I’ve been framed and slandered—but I’ll never bow to evil! I’ll reclaim justice!”

Replies flooded in, all insults: “Trash streamer—quit streaming!”

He typed a retort, but a flight attendant signaled to power off. He complied, helpless.

Surrounded by foreigners, unease gripped him. He asked his seatmate cautiously: “Excuse me… do you speak Chinese? Where are we flying?”

The man grinned, white teeth flashing, a thick curry smell wafting. “Welcome to India!”

“What? India?”

The plane engines roared to life.