After rebirth, I slapped the genius comic artist

I quit drawing and moved to the countryside to live with Grandma, raising chickens and ducks.

Then, out of the blue, my childhood friend’s dream girl called, accusing me of not continuing my work.

In my past life, the comic I’d painstakingly created for months was reported for plagiarism as soon as I published it.

Everyone online called me shameless, a copycat, even attacking my pen name.

I checked out the work they said I copied.

It was identical to my comic.

But the dream girl’s comic had been online for six months, starting right when I drew my first panel.

I tried to talk to her about it, but she turned around and posted online that I was harassing her after plagiarizing her work.

I was cyberbullied relentlessly, with the attacks getting personal. They doxxed me, showed up at my house, and trashed the place.

When I tried to fight back and call the police, they threw me off my 16th-floor balcony.

When I opened my eyes again, I was back to the day before I published my comic.

I stared at the half-finished line art on my computer, slowly realizing I’d been reborn.

Last night, in my past life, I’d stayed up late finishing the comic I’d been working on for six months and excitedly uploaded it.

Only to wake up to a torrent of hate.

“Totally shameless, stealing someone else’s work and not even changing the pen name.”

“Never seen such blatant plagiarism in my life.”

“Die, plagiarist! Leave our precious Sarah alone!”

The cyberbullying was overwhelming. People threw eggs at me, put a mock tombstone outside my door; I became a pariah.

The feeling of falling from the 16th floor still haunted me.

I grabbed my phone, opened Twitter, and searched for “Sarah_Angel,” her online handle.

In my past life, she was the supposed victim, the internet’s darling, the genius comic artist.

Cute, and this comic had made her a social media star with millions of followers.

Her latest tweet, posted an hour ago, read: “Pulling an all-nighter to finish the finale. Get hyped, guys!”

The attached photo showed her at her desk, stylus in hand, working on her digital drawing tablet.

After the plagiarism accusations, I had tried to talk to Sarah Miller.

My work was entirely my own. I couldn’t believe two people with no connection could create identical comics.

But before I could get to the bottom of it, her brainless fans threw me off that balcony.

Now, given a second chance, I had to uncover the truth.

I shut down my tablet and computer. Clearly, I couldn’t continue working until I figured things out. I refused to let someone else take credit again.

The next morning, I anxiously checked Sarah’s Twitter. As expected, she hadn’t updated her comic.

Instead, she’d posted in the early hours: “These characters aren’t just drawings; they feel real, like they’ve been with me for the past six months. Saying goodbye is tough. Sorry, no finale yet. Please understand.”

The comments were full of supportive messages. Everyone understood; they were just as attached to the story.

I stared at the screen, convinced she was copying me. How could it be such a coincidence?

I didn’t draw, she didn’t update.

I grabbed my tablet and laptop and headed out.

I suspected my devices had been tampered with.

I took them to a repair shop and had them thoroughly checked.

Nothing.

I tried a second shop, still nothing.

Now I was confused. Was it all a coincidence? Could Sarah really produce the same artwork, use the same pen name, even have the same ideas for the story?

I couldn’t figure it out, so I called Mark, my childhood friend. I always turned to him when I had problems.

After I explained everything, Mark thought for a moment and said, “Amy, you’re overthinking it. These things happen. Sometimes people have the same ideas.”

“It’s not just the ideas,” I insisted. “The artwork is identical, down to the placement of the signature.”

“So you’re saying she copied you? Do you have any proof?”

I went silent. I didn’t.

“Amy, you can’t just throw around accusations of plagiarism. There are legal consequences. You’re just stressed. Finish your comic, post it, and let people decide.”

“No, I can’t post it…”

If I posted it, everyone would think I was the copycat, just like before. I couldn’t relive that nightmare.

But Mark hung up before I could finish.

Staring at the blank screen, I felt a pang of disappointment.

Mark had been distant for the past six months. He’d met a girl, his “goddess,” his “dream girl.” He gushed about her constantly, making her sound perfect.

It always stung, but I couldn’t show it.

My feelings for him were my secret.

With no real help from Mark, I started doubting myself again. Was it really just a coincidence?

I borrowed a new tablet from a friend and decided to try again.

I’d always been a gifted artist. Characters came to life in my hands.

I drew for three hours straight, finally finishing the comic.

A wave of relief washed over me as I put down the stylus.

I took a deep breath and opened Sarah’s Twitter. I froze, feeling like I’d been struck by lightning.

A minute ago, Sarah had updated her comic.

“Finale is up! Come check it out!”

My hands trembled as I clicked. It was identical to what I’d just drawn.

Even the small change I’d made to a character’s shirt was there.

With the comic finished, its popularity exploded. Several media companies were vying for the rights, and Sarah sold them for a whopping $1 million.

She was trending everywhere, praised as a beautiful and talented genius, an instant success with a limitless future.

“Sarah_Angel is amazing! This comic is my favorite of the year.”

“Beautiful, talented… what didn’t God give her?”

“I’m officially a lifelong fan! #Sarah_Angel forever!”

The internet was flooded with praise.

I was filled with a burning injustice.

It felt like someone had stolen my child, raised and nurtured by me, and was now parading it around while I watched helplessly.

I wandered the streets in a daze, trying to understand how Sarah was getting my work.

Lost in thought, I bumped into someone.

“Sorry, sorry…”

I looked up and froze. It was Sarah, and standing next to her, arm possessively draped around her shoulders, was Mark.

Mark greeted me first. “Amy, fancy seeing you here!”

I stared at them, speechless.

Sarah spoke, her voice laced with a subtle triumph and a hint of challenge. “So you’re Mark’s childhood friend! What a coincidence. We’re about to grab dinner. Want to join us?”

Her tone rubbed me the wrong way.

I knew I should refuse. Dinner with my crush and the person stealing my work? It was a recipe for disaster.

But my resentment pushed me to agree.

Mark’s expression changed slightly when I nodded. He looked at Sarah.

“Sarah…”

She gave him a playful wink. “It’s fine. The more the merrier!”

We followed them to a restaurant. Mark fussed over Sarah, pulling out her chair, pouring her water, acting like… well, a simp.

My eyes were glued to Sarah’s bag.

She had her drawing tablet with her. If I could just see it, maybe I could figure out how my work was being stolen.

Halfway through the meal, my chance came. Sarah excused herself to the restroom, Mark trailing behind like a loyal puppy.

As soon as they were out of sight, my heart pounding, I reached into Sarah’s bag and pulled out her tablet. I quickly turned it on.

And froze.

It was empty.

Just a few random scribbles.

Didn’t she use this tablet to draw?

Before I could process it, Sarah rushed back.

Our eyes met. I felt caught red-handed.

She snatched the tablet. “Amy, were you trying to steal my stuff?”

“No,” I stammered. “I’m a big fan of your comics. I was just curious about your equipment.”

Then I asked, “As a genius comic artist, why is your tablet so empty? Do you delete your work after you’re done?”

Sarah’s eyes flickered. She shoved the tablet back in her bag. “That’s none of your business. I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

A suspicion formed in my mind. Sarah couldn’t draw. That’s why her tablet was empty.

“Would I have the honor of seeing you sketch something?”

Sarah coughed. “I usually only create at night, when it’s quiet.”

“One more question. What does your pen name, AM, stand for?”

AM, the initials of my name, Amy Miller.

“Just something…”

Before she could finish, Mark cut in. “AM stands for our middle names, Andrew and Marie.”

With Mark speaking up, Sarah put on a pouty, wronged expression.

“Mark, what’s with your little friend? She’s been hostile since we got here, and now she’s trying to steal my things.”

I tried to explain to Mark.

He cut me off impatiently. “Amy, I know you like me, and you’re jealous of Sarah. If you have a problem, take it up with me, not her.”

Mark’s words stung. So he knew about my feelings.

And now he’d humiliated me by announcing it in public.

My face burned. I wanted to disappear.

Embarrassment, shame, and sadness washed over me.

I stumbled out of the restaurant. Mark was dead to me.

I also decided to quit drawing. If I couldn’t figure out how Sarah was getting my work, I wouldn’t draw anymore.

Let’s see how she copies me then.

But Sarah wasn’t going to let me go. She posted online, accusing someone of copying her comic.

The internet, as always, donned its armor of self-righteousness.

“Someone’s trying to ride Sarah’s coattails. Pathetic.”

“Plagiarists are disgusting. Report them all.”

“We’ve been following Sarah’s comic from the beginning. How dare this person try to steal her work?”

“If I find out who this plagiarist is, they’ll be sorry.”

“Death to plagiarists!”

Everyone rallied behind Sarah.

Then she tweeted again.

“Thanks for your support, everyone. Let’s fight plagiarism together and support original creators. Originality will prevail!”

Memories of the cyberbullying that killed me flooded back. I knew how vicious it could be.

But today had given me an idea. The same weapon that could destroy could also be used to build.

This time, I was going to make Sarah confess her plagiarism and experience the full force of the internet’s wrath herself.