A Race Against Time and Plagiarism

Three days later, in a quiet corner of the library.

“Done!”

Zhou Yi turned her laptop screen towards the other two, revealing the complete first draft of their ‘Campus Part-time Rights Protection Platform Business Plan’.

This was precisely the ‘Part-time Work Rights Protection System’ project they had initially decided to undertake.

For these three days, they had practically taken root in the library.

Every day, the moment the class bell rang, they would gather there punctually. Their table became a fortress of reference books and printed materials.

Amidst these, tell-tale coffee cups and instant noodle bowls bore witness to their relentless efforts.

Zhou Yi took the lead on the overall framework and business model, spending two days meticulously outlining the service processes.

Li Yanze, meanwhile, handled all the technical architecture and data research.

Jiang Chen diligently compiled an analysis of the part-time work situation across more than ten universities, even leveraging his personal connections to complete two rounds of user interviews.

Jiang Chen took the laptop, quickly scanning through the document. “The framework is solid, the logic clear… but isn’t the title a bit too conventional?” he mused.

“Conventional?” Zhou Yi raised an eyebrow. “It’s certainly better than someone’s initial crude ‘Part-time Work Rights Protection System’, wouldn’t you agree?”

Li Yanze quickly raised a hand, attempting to defuse the tension. “I think it’s great! It has a real sense of justice! And… and it feels incredibly youthful!”

Jiang Chen lifted his gaze to glance at him. “Thank you for your contribution to team harmony,” he stated dryly.

“Oh, you’re welcome…” Li Yanze began, but before he could finish, he found himself bubbling with excitement once more.

Pointing at the technical architecture diagram on the screen, he added, “But seriously, the smart matching algorithm I optimized last night scored 82%! I even built an AI early warning model for part-time job scams!”

“Nice work, tech guy,” Jiang Chen said, patting his shoulder. “If it really runs smoothly, this system could directly qualify for an incubation fund.”

Li Yanze, his face slightly flushed from the praise, scratched his head. “Oh, it’s nothing… just something I casually whipped up…”

Zhou Yi glanced at the time; it was already nine in the evening. The library would close in another hour.

She deftly saved the document, then stretched her somewhat stiff shoulders.

“To achieve this much in just three days is remarkable. If we submit this smoothly tomorrow, we’ll likely be the first project group in the entire school to do so. Let’s head back, take a hot shower to relax, and then gather online at ten-thirty to run through the entire process one last time.”

“That’s a very humane plan,” Jiang Chen agreed, nodding as he gathered his materials into his backpack. “While other groups are still pulling all-nighters, we’ll rest up and then finalize everything.”

Li Yanze closed his laptop with a sigh of relief. “Perfect! I was worried I’d spontaneously combust in the library if I stared at that screen any longer!”

The three exchanged glances, needing no further words. With unspoken understanding, they gathered the papers, coffee cups, sticky notes, and printed data from the table into neat piles and carried them away.

On their way back to the dormitory, they remained immersed in the exhilaration of their creation.

“Later, I’ll run through the user-side process first!”

“I’ll double-check the research section again, just in case any data was missed!”

“Jiang Chen, polish up that market pain point section. Don’t write it like one of your overly dramatic social media posts!”

“…?”

That night, the desk lamps in all three dorm rooms burned almost until dawn.

It wasn’t until the sky outside the window turned to a pale, fish-belly white that they finally pressed the last confirmation button.

For this single project, they had compressed three days of relentless effort into an extreme, all-night sprint.

Yet, the overwhelming sense of accomplishment burgeoning within their chests had long eclipsed all fatigue and dark circles under their eyes.

****

Ten o’clock in the morning, in the Counselor’s office.

As a star student of particular interest to the college, Zhou Yi’s submitted project proposal was automatically flagged by the system as soon as it passed review, immediately appearing on the Counselor’s desk.

However, as the mouse scroll wheel moved, the Counselor’s brow furrowed ever deeper.

Half an hour later, an urgent notification summoned all members of Zhou Yi’s team to the office.

Soon after, Zhou Yi, accompanied by Jiang Chen and Li Yanze, pushed open the office door, their faces alight with anticipation.

“Hello, Counselor!” Their synchronized greeting instantly invigorated the stale air of the office.

The Counselor lifted his head from the screen, his gaze slowly sweeping across their faces before finally settling on Zhou Yi.

“Zhou Yi, the project you submitted this time is… the ‘Campus Part-time Rights Protection Platform’?”

Zhou Yi nodded, smiling. “Yes, Counselor. Our team worked tirelessly for three days and three nights on this; it’s an absolutely original proposal.”

The Counselor offered no reply. Instead, he silently turned his laptop towards them, tapping lightly on the keyboard.

“Then, take a look at this,” he said, opening another file with an almost identical name.

“…Last night, another group of students submitted a project with the same name as yours, and highly similar core content.”

The air instantly solidified.

The smile vanished abruptly from Jiang Chen’s lips, his eyes turning cold.

Zhou Yi froze in place. “H-how is that possible?”

The Counselor displayed both files side-by-side, his gaze behind his glasses scrutinizing them. “The titles are the same, the frameworks similar, and even the development logic for the core modules is identical. Did you… perhaps discuss your ideas with another group beforehand? The overlap in content is simply too high.”

Zhou Yi’s throat felt parched, each word seeming to be forced out. “We… we didn’t collaborate with anyone. That proposal… was written by the three of us from beginning to end.”

“Counselor, would it be convenient for us to see the other party’s specific content?” Jiang Chen stepped half a pace forward.

The Counselor considered this for a moment, then nodded.

Jiang Chen took the mouse and clicked open the ‘duplicate’ file.

As he delved deeper into the document, his expression grew increasingly grim.

Not only were the font type, font size, and line spacing identical, but even minute formatting details like the headers and footers matched perfectly.

When he reached the final page, his fingertips finally clenched the mouse, a grip born of utter disbelief.

There, emblazoned on the page, was the project vision statement they had debated for half an hour, revising it repeatedly before finally settling on it last night: ‘To ensure every worker is respected.’

Jiang Chen’s throat felt as though it were completely constricted.

“Counselor, from the page margins to the title font, every single formatting detail is identical. This cannot be a coincidence.”

Zhou Yi’s hand trembled uncontrollably as she pointed at the screen. “Even the repeated character in ‘respect’—a typo I made when my hand slipped—was copied verbatim into their document…”

It was a mistake she had typed late the night before, her eyes blurry with exhaustion.

“Counselor,” Jiang Chen said, after a moment of thought, “can we retrieve the creation time of their project?”

The Counselor hesitated for a moment, but then brought up the timestamp.

The moment the timestamp revealed that the other group had submitted their project three hours earlier than them, the last vestige of color drained from Li Yanze’s face.

‘It couldn’t be…’

‘Could it?’

The Counselor remained silent for a long while before finally speaking, his voice heavy. “If you insist on accusing the other party of plagiarism, you can formally lodge a complaint and request that a plagiarism investigation procedure be initiated. However, as your teacher, I must make the situation clear to you…”

Every word the Counselor uttered next felt like a bucket of cold water doused over their flickering hope.

“A complaint requires time for investigation and evidence collection. The organizing committee will need to compare code versions, editing records, and server logs, a process that will take at least three to five days.”

He lifted his hand, glanced at his watch, and sighed.

“And now, only three days remain until the final submission deadline.”