While specific plot details vary by developer, episodes with this numbering typically feature:
The rain had thinned to a stubborn drizzle by the time I reached the low, boxy apartment building where my mother lived. Neon from the convenience store across the street bled into puddles; the world looked like it was trying to forget its colors. I checked my phone for the third time. No new messages from Yuna.
Inside, the hallway smelled like fried food and laundry detergent. Mrs. Kaito in 302 was talking loudly to her cat; Mr. Han in 207 had left his shoes in the stairwell again. I climbed three flights and paused on my mother’s landing, taking a breath that felt too small for the anger and worry lodged in my chest.
She opened the door before I knocked. Her face was brighter than I expected—too bright. The smile she offered was practiced, the kind that waited for a cue. Behind her, the living room looked rearranged: cushions stacked differently, magazines gone, our familiar clutter smoothed away like evidence.
“Hey,” she said. “You’re home early.”
“For school?” I said, and my voice hit that brittle edge it always found when I tried to keep calm. “What did you do today?”
Her eyes flicked to the hallway behind me as if measuring whether the world outside agreed with whatever she’d planned. “Oh, the usual. I met someone from work. A new client—very persuasive. She… she mentioned some opportunities. We talked about managing money. You know how I worry about the bills.”
My jaw tightened. I had questions and they all had the same name threaded through them: Mina. The girl who’d been harassing me at school for months—taunting texts, shoved lockers, the rumor mill she fed until I felt raw and exposed. Once, when Mina had cornered me by the gym, she’d smiled like a cat and said, “If you were smart, you’d get your mom on board. She has a lot of sway.” I’d thought it was an empty threat. Now it hummed at the edges of the room.
“Client?” I asked. “What client?”
Mom put a hand to her chest. “She was so polite, dear. Very reasonable. She suggested some—well—ways to help me with outreach at the center. Fundraising ideas, partnerships. It sounded promising.”
“You’re talking about Mina?” The name burst out before I could stop it.
She blinked. “Mina who?”
I could see, for a heartbeat, the honest confusion on her face—the real Mom who loved community workshops and neighborhood potlucks, who would never willingly ally with someone who hurt her child. Then she looked down at her hands and the practiced brightness slipped back on. “Mina Saito,” I said slowly. “From my school. She’s been… she’s been bullying me.”
Mom’s face folded in a way that felt both painful and sudden. “That Mina?” she asked. “She seemed different in person. Very… invested in helping. She said she knows people who can help the center get noticed. She gave me her card.”
“You gave her our info?” I asked. Panic sharpened. “Did you tell her about the community outreach list? About the donors?”
Mom hesitated. “I—no. I told her only general things. I didn’t give her personal donors. Why are you—”
“Because she’s the one who’s been sending those pictures to my classmates.” I swallowed hard. “Because she’s the one who—” The memories spilled: the whispered laughter in the cafeteria, the screenshots passed around, the account that showed up overnight with edited photos and cruel captions. “She’s been trying to make me miserable. She lied about me. She framed me with things I never did.”
Mom’s hand trembled. “I’m so sorry. I should have asked more questions.”
“You should have listened to me when I said she was trouble.” My words were quiet now, close and burning. “This isn’t just school stuff. She’s trying to use you—she told me she wanted to ‘infiltrate’ people who could help her social climb. You’re not a tool for her.”
Silence pressed into the room. Rain pronounced itself again on the pavement, steady as a metronome. Finally Mom pushed open the door wider, a gesture that included me as if she hadn’t realized how far apart we’d drifted in the last few months. my bully tries to corrupt my mother yuna ep3 upd
“We’ll fix it,” she said. It was not a promise flavored with empty hope; it was the same steady, hands-on resolve that had patched scraped knees and sat through my math tests. “Tell me everything. Names, messages, dates. Show me the screenshots. If she’s involved with the center, I’ll be careful. I’ll confront her—calmly. And if she refuses to be honest, I’ll invite her to meet with the committee.”
I nodded. I handed over my phone. My thumb hovered over the thread with Mina’s most recent messages—friendly, warm, toxic in a way that made my stomach knot. I watched my mother read, watched her face shift from concern to anger to a kind of practical fury that made me think of her younger self: the woman who’d organized rooftop protests in college, who’d once volunteered for a battered women’s shelter.
“She’s been lying to people,” Mom said after a long moment. “She told me she volunteers at a youth center. She used that to impress me.” She looked up. “If she’s been trying to manipulate people at the center to get at you, that’s—” Her jaw tightened. “That’s more than bullying.”
“Can you stop her?” I asked. “Can you make her stop?”
Mom’s shoulders rose and fell once. “I’ll try. I’ll be careful. But you should also—” She searched for the right words. “We’ll put things in place. I’ll speak to the center board. I’ll tell them about your situation, so any interactions with young people who have conflicts will be managed. And we’ll document everything. If she’s crossed a line, we’ll have to involve the school.”
I felt a mix of relief and unease. Relief because Mom was taking it seriously; unease because confronting Mina might make things worse for me at school. The bully’s power came from the crowd, from the way rumors grew and took on lives of their own. But I couldn’t just stand by and watch my mother become a pawn.
Later that night, as Mom typed an email to the center coordinator, I thought of Mina’s face—pale, rehearsed, always a beat too composed. People like Mina operated on momentum: once they’d convinced someone to trust them, they leaned on that trust until it broke the other person’s defenses. That was how they got what they wanted.
“You know,” Mom said quietly, without looking up, “I used to be good at spotting people who were playing others. I forgot what it felt like, being on the other side of it.” She smiled then, a small, real thing. “Thank you for telling me. I don’t want you to handle this alone.”
A plan started to take shape between us—small, pragmatic things. We would talk to the center board first, explain Mina’s connection and the potential conflict. We would prepare copies of the messages and screenshots and timeline. We would ask the school to put anti-harassment measures in place and to monitor Mina’s interactions. If needed, we would consult a lawyer to send a cease-and-desist, or escalate to the police if threats or doxxing surfaced.
“This might stir things up,” I said. “It might make her push harder.”
“Then we’ll be ready to push back,” Mom replied. “Together.”
That night, I wrote down everything I could remember: dates, times, what was said in the corridors, who had seen what. Writing it made the mess feel more like a thing with edges I could handle. It also made me realize how much Mina’s campaign had relied on secrecy—half-truths, anonymous posts, lies told to the right people at the right time. Revealing the strands would weaken her.
A week later, the center invited Mom to an official meeting to discuss partnerships. Mina was there—arrived early, every movement controlled, her smile precise. She greeted Mom with the same honeyed tone she used on classmates, then launched into a presentation of ambitious community projects and potential sponsors. Mom listened, taking notes, then set down her pen and said simply, “Before we go further, I need to say something about consent and safety when involving young people and community members. There’s a conflict I need to disclose.”
Mina’s expression flickered—something like surprise, then annoyance masked as composure. “Conflict?” she asked.
“Yes,” Mom said steadily. “I’ve been told that Mina and my child are involved in a dispute at school. I want to make sure the center has transparent processes so no one uses their position to affect a student’s wellbeing. I’ve brought documentation.” She slid my timeline and screenshots across the table.
Heads turned. Conversation that had been warm and speculative suddenly cooled; the board members exchanged looks that said they preferred their community tidy and uncomplicated. Mina’s smile thinned. For a moment, she seemed to reach for the script she’d used at school—the one that turned accuser into victim and back again—but the room’s attention kept her from finishing.
The board agreed to pause discussions and refer the matter to their conduct committee. Mina left the meeting with the same steps she’d entered with, but something about her gait had shifted—less confident, more contained.
Afterward, a woman from the center pulled Mom aside. “We appreciate your honesty,” she said. “We didn’t know about any of this. We’ll institute stricter vetting for volunteers and make sure youth-facing roles are monitored.”
Back home, Mom and I shared a quiet dinner. The city outside glittered like an audience that could still be persuaded. I wanted to believe this would be the end—that Mina’s power would evaporate when exposed to daylight. But the truth was harder; I could feel the ripple already. At school, some kids whispered with new ammunition; others watched me with pity or suspicion. While specific plot details vary by developer, episodes
A week later, an anonymous account posted new doctored images—worse than before. The messages were nastier, targeted at Mom this time: insinuations about her motives, accusations that she’d used my situation to gain sympathy at the center. The board called an emergency meeting.
It was the first time I saw Mina outside the usual arenas—no students clustered around her, no smirking cohorts. She walked up to the center’s front desk to complain about “harassment” and “smears.” When people asked for proof, she produced messages that had been subtly edited. The committee, having seen our originals, asked for clarification; Mina’s edits unraveled under scrutiny.
Still, the pressure didn’t stop. The anonymous account kept posting, as if whoever ran it—Mina or someone else—was determined to keep the story breathing. The harassment turned from targeted rumors to a smear campaign against Mom’s integrity.
That night, Mom sat at the table with a stack of printed messages and an expression that felt like thunder: quiet, inevitable, and ready. “If this goes to the police,” she said, “they’ll need everything. Proof. Timelines. IP traces. I don’t want it to get there unless we have to, but if it does, it will be decisive.”
I thought about telling the school counselor everything—the fear, the humiliation, how safe I felt only when I kept my head down. But the counselor’s office felt too official, too full of forms. Instead, I told my friend Hana, who’d stood with me once in the cafeteria when Mina started a rumor and then walked away. Hana’s face was furious when I showed her the latest posts. “We’ll collect witnesses,” she said. “We’ll make a lot of noise—real noise.”
We did. Small groups of students, friends who weren’t friends with Mina, started posting their own timelines and counter-evidence. A few of Mina’s closest allies went quiet. A couple of teachers who’d only seen the surface reached out to help document incidents. Momentum shifted in a way I hadn’t dared expect: exposure didn’t stop the attacks, but it made them harder to sustain.
Then, one rainy afternoon—the same kind of rain that had met me at Mom’s building—Mina found me in the stairwell. She was alone. My heart thudded against my ribs. For a moment I thought she’d try to hurt me. Instead she held out a folded scrap of paper.
“You’re making this worse for your mom,” she said. Her voice was low, not cruel, but dangerous in its calm. “You should back off.”
I didn’t take the paper. “Why are you doing this?” I asked. It was the question that had burned through every encounter, the simple, small demand for a reason.
She shrugged. “Because I can. Because it’s useful.” She smiled then—an unguarded flash—and there it was: the truth I’d suspected. Power for its own sake. A hunger for attention that devoured people quietly and without remorse.
“You’ll get caught,” I said. It sounded feebler than I wanted.
“No,” she said. “I won’t. Not if I’m careful.”
She left. The stairwell felt like a cage. But I wasn’t alone. Mom called later that night with news: the police were opening an inquiry into the anonymous posts after the center’s IT team and the school provided logs. The center had suspended Mina from any volunteer activity pending the investigation. The school had placed Mina on interim restrictions from leadership roles and social media outreach.
The legal path wasn’t clean or immediate—these things never are. But it was a path, and it had weight. Mina’s campaign relied on invisibility and plausible deniability; when institutions lent their weight against her, her choices narrowed.
One afternoon, Mina’s mother called the center demanding a meeting. The conversation was ugly and perfumed with recrimination, but in the end the other mother asked her daughter to take a step back. Maybe she’d been proud; maybe ashamed. I don’t know. I only know that for the first time in months, the volume of harassment dropped.
It didn’t disappear entirely. There were lingering looks in the hallway, a viral repost now and then that required takedown requests. But the worst of it—the coordinated edits, the anonymous drops, the attempt to pull my mom into the center of manipulation—had been interrupted by sunlight and paperwork and people who refused to look away.
On a late spring evening, Mom and I walked to the little park behind our building. Fireflies were starting their clumsy illuminations. We sat on the bench and didn’t speak for a long time. When she finally did, it was with the kind of tired honesty that felt purified by the hard work behind it.
“You were brave,” she said. “Not because you fought the loudest, but because you kept going when it would’ve been easier to hide.”
“You were brave too,” I said. “You didn’t let her use you.” ⚠️ If you’re a minor and feel unsafe,
She squeezed my hand. “We did it together.”
I thought about how fragile trust could be—how easily it could be weaponized—and also how resilient communities could be when people named the truth. Mina had tried to corrupt a relationship, to convert kindness into leverage. She’d been clever and cruel and persistent. But she’d misjudged the stubbornness of the people who cared for us: the center’s staff who wanted safety, the friends who’d stood up for me, and my mother who refused to let herself become a bargaining chip.
As the fireflies blinked their slow applause, the city around us exhaled. The hard part wasn’t entirely over—there would be follow-up hearings and a slow healing—but the momentum had shifted. Our lives were no longer under Mina’s thumb.
Later, that night, I typed in my notes: “Ep. 3 — Upd: Exposure and Response.” I saved it with a small, private smile. The story wasn’t finished. But for the first time in a long time, it felt like it might have a better ending.
—
Episode 3: The Plot Thickens
The tension between me and my bully, Yuna, has been escalating over the past few weeks. Ever since I found out that she's been trying to get close to my mother, I've been on high alert. I know it sounds ridiculous - why would my bully be interested in my mom? But I've seen the way Yuna looks at her, with a calculating gaze that makes my skin crawl.
In this episode, things take a darker turn. I discovered that Yuna has been spreading rumors about my mom around school, trying to tarnish her reputation. Apparently, Yuna has been telling people that my mom is "easy" and "lenient," and that I'm "spoiled" because of it. I don't know what her endgame is, but I know I need to stop her.
I confronted Yuna about the rumors, but she just smiled sweetly and denied everything. Like I expected her to. But then, she dropped a bombshell: she's been talking to my mom, and they're apparently going to meet up for coffee soon.
I'm not sure what's more infuriating - the fact that Yuna is trying to corrupt my mom, or that my mom is oblivious to Yuna's true intentions. I've tried warning my mom about Yuna, but she just thinks I'm being paranoid.
As I watched Yuna walk away, I felt a surge of anger and helplessness. What can I do to stop her? And what does Yuna really want from my mom?
Cliffhanger: Just as I was about to leave the school courtyard, I overheard Yuna on the phone with someone. She was talking about "the plan," and how it's going to "change everything." I don't know what she's planning, but I have a bad feeling about it.
To be continued...
Based on the title structure you provided, this refers to a specific installment of an adult-oriented visual novel or webcomic series, likely found on platforms like Patreon, Subscribestar, or dedicated indie game sites.
Here is an informative breakdown of what this title signifies within the context of the genre:
Title: What to Do When Someone Is Trying to Turn Your Parent Against You
Useful steps:
⚠️ If you’re a minor and feel unsafe, reach out to a trusted adult or child helpline (e.g., Childhelp at 1-800-422-4453 in the US).
The highlight of this update is undoubtedly Yuna. In past episodes, she was often seen through the lens of the protagonist’s fear. Here, we see her strength, but also her vulnerability. The update explores her desire to see the best in people, a trait the bully is ruthlessly exploiting.
The visual direction (for those reading the visual novel/comic format) has also improved. The subtle shifts in Yuna's expressions—going from polite warmth to a furrowed brow of uncertainty—add a layer of depth to the corruption arc that is often missing in similar genres.