In an era when our innermost thoughts can be coded, collated and shared with the click of a mouse, how we interpret violence – once so heavily tied to physical harm – has taken on unprecedented dimensions. A cursory look at X, TikTok or YouTube reveals a pervasive frustration with institutions once seen as too large or too important to fail: governments, corporations, media conglomerates, tech giants and, of course, our healthcare systems. This is the “open-source” age of morality, where crowd-sourced knowledge coexists with crowd-sourced judgement, and every netizen can now access, share and shape the narrative of almost any event.

Into this volatile environment stepped Luigi Mangione, whose December 2024 arrest for the alleged murder of UnitedHealthcare CEO Brian Thompson became, almost overnight, a captivating fixture in worldwide online discourse. To some, Mangione personified a Robin Hood figure for a cynical generation, a folk hero whose actions – though violent – symbolised rebellion against the tyranny of corporate profiteering. To others, he was a dangerous example of internet-fuelled radicalism, lauded for reasons that did not justify murder.

Yet the discourse around Mangione’s case also reveals how definitions of ‘violence’ have morphed in an age when one man’s death collides with countless non-physical forms of harm – denied insurance claims, skyrocketing premiums and the online lionisation of violent acts. The result is a moral tangle that complicates the lines between justice, vigilantism and social revolt.

Although one might dismiss the Mangione phenomenon as a uniquely American drama, the story of Pakistan’s own social media gangster, Shahid Lund Baloch, offers a fascinating, cross-continental parallel. They illustrate the global recalibration of morality occurring in real-time across our screens.

The Making of a Digital Folk Hero

On a bland winter morning in December 2024, news broke that Brian Thompson, CEO of UnitedHealthcare – an emblem, to many, of systemic health injustices – had been found dead. Early reports claimed Thompson was shot in front of his suburban home. Within hours, social media platforms teemed with unfiltered fury and grim jokes. A suspect was soon announced: Luigi Mangione, 26, an Ivy League graduate and software engineer with a spotless background.

While mainstream outlets raced to confirm details, the internet moved faster. By midday, #FreeLuigi was trending, echoing a collective exasperation of sorts. The black and white mugshot of Mangione, wide-eyed and brooding, quickly became a meme/fangirl poster. The image was reproduced in a thousand aesthetic variations: stylised like street art, with an edgy red and black colour scheme, or merged with high-fashion backdrops and overpriced hoodies.

But how did Mangione’s story metastasise into a veritable online movement?

Part of the answer lies in the note allegedly found on his person. It read, “Frankly, these parasites simply had it coming.” This now-viral snippet indicated the healthcare apparatus for prioritising profit over patient care. Though its authenticity was never confirmed, the sentiment struck a chord with online crowds who bemoaned everything from surging deductibles to byzantine insurance fine print. Suddenly, Mangione shifted from a faceless suspect to the symbol of outrage against corporate harm – the real “violence” inflicted upon American families.

A range of communities – left-wing activists, college debate clubs, anarcho-hackers and disillusioned members of Gen Z – rallied around Mangione. Across TikTok and Instagram, fans and haters produced short documentary-style videos, ballads and comedic sketches. Etsy sellers debuted ‘Free Luigi’ shirts and pins. Late-night TV hosts added to the spectacle, turning Mangione into an object of comedic fodder and fascination. The reaction was equal parts condemnation and celebration, but the fact remained: he was recognised, talked about, and – even if ironically – respected as more than just a standard issue homicide suspect.

The Age of Open-Source Morality

Every piece of online content, from court records to personal blog posts, can be mined to build or destroy a public figure’s online persona. After Mangione’s arrest, users scoured the internet for any trace of Mangione: old Reddit threads, LinkedIn endorsements, retweets and BookTok reviews. Screenshots from his purported Goodreads account revealed an eclectic reading list, spanning Charli XCX lyrics to Ayn Rand. He was a fan of Congresswoman Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez and venture capitalist Peter Thiel – an ideological paradox that only added to his online mystique.

Platforms like X and Reddit turned into makeshift detective agencies. Armchair sleuths parsed, sentence by sentence, the so-called “manifesto” that Mangione might have posted on a fringe forum. Was he an unhinged radical exploiting populist rage? Or a thoughtful whistleblower with good intentions gone awry? As the flurry of data blurred the lines between speculation and fact, digital detectives reinterpreted each revelation to craft their own “definitive narrative.”

Confirmation Bias Gone Viral

This quasi-citizen journalism rarely paused to verify sources. In the swirl of rumours and screenshots, the allure of finding “proof” overrode the need for factual rigour. Mangione’s frustrations with healthcare bureaucracy, posted once on a local activism page, became conflated with serious calls for corporate executives to be harmed. Undoubtedly, many sought the comfort of a narrative that validated their broader worldview: that institutional violence is, in fact, more condemnable than a single act of murder. Mangione’s alleged crime effectively took a backseat to the ever louder argument about the “greater good”.

From Physical Killing To Corporate Harm

As #DownWithCapitalism reached fever pitch, a Catch-22 emerged: our perception of “violence” no longer applies solely to overt brutality; it also encompasses covert harm inflicted by governments, corporations and other institutions. A murder charge is certainly a conventional recognition of violence. But many, online and offline, pointed to UnitedHealthcare’s policies – extortionate drug costs, denied treatments, deadly delays in coverage approvals – as “violence” in its own right; albeit more diffuse, less visible and inflicted upon millions who share no single spotlight.

Although mainstream news outlets tried to disseminate the online frenzy by emphasising the moral taboo of murder, a significant faction insisted that violence perpetrated by powerful institutions demanded equal censure. Therein, Mangione became a stand-in for the powerless underclass – someone who lashed out after being metaphorically suffocated by corporate policy. Justice, they say, is no longer guaranteed by the law or the press. Justice resides in the hands of the morally enraged internet collective.

Jeopardising Due Process

The avalanche of online support triggered apprehension among legal experts. Intense public sympathy – and the hundreds of thousands of dollars flooding Mangione’s defence fund – suggested a real possibility of jury nullification. Prosecutors feared that a potential jury, stewing in #FreeLuigi content, might disregard the core legal question: Did this man intentionally kill another? “Social media is as much a mirror as it is a magnifier,” remarked sociologist Jonathan Haidt. “That mirror reflects widespread resentment against corporate greed, but the magnifying effect may overshadow the moral truth that homicide remains a grave crime, no matter the victim’s corporate affiliations.”

The Pakistani Paradox – Shahid Lund Baloch

To understand that these phenomena transcend borders, one need only consider the curious saga of Shahid Lund Baloch in Pakistan. A self-styled social media gangster, Baloch amassed thousands of followers on TikTok and YouTube, brandishing a rifle in his backyard and railing against governmental and societal injustices. Baloch’s brash defiance and outspokenness earned him an enthusiastic online base in a country long beleaguered by political turbulence. He became a local antihero: part activist, part dacoit, part TikTok celebrity. Once upon a time, a public figure with a lengthy rap sheet and a penchant for broadcasting vigilantism might have been shunned, Baloch found a fervent following. His supporters saw him as a vigilante rebel, calling attention to an entrenched system they deemed corrupt. Baloch was later killed in a sting operation by law enforcement – a scene that was itself shared and dissected online.

TikTok coverage of his funeral was flooded with viewers praying that he be granted mercy in death, showing a genuine outpouring of grief.

The seemingly improbable storyline – an alleged dacoit turned social media star whose death is mourned, albeit briefly, by thousands – offers a jarring reflection of internet-enabled mythmaking, reminiscent of American gangster idolisation in the Prohibition era. But the phenomenon is now supercharged by the global connectivity of digital platforms. Just as American netizens heaped significance upon Mangione’s alleged “act of rebellion,” Pakistani users wrestled with the moral grey areas Baloch’s legend conjured. That Baloch’s funeral footage – featuring tearful prayers for his redemption – resonated with so many underscores a universal pivot: social media’s power to turn outlaws into righteous martyrs, depending on who is weaving the narrative.

The Illusion of Digital Freedom

One of the most intriguing subplots emerging from both cases is the question of social media’s decentralisation. On paper, platforms like TikTok and YouTube appear to enable an even playing field – a space for free expression, unfiltered news and citizen-led discussions. Yet, the experiences of Mangione and Baloch reveal a more complicated reality. Algorithms, corporate policies and moderation rules shape which content goes viral and which gets buried. Indeed, as #FreeLuigi soared on X, critics found themselves shadow-banned for advocating a more measured perspective, and heartfelt tributes to Baloch on TikTok disappeared due to ‘violations’ of community guidelines.

Tech companies, themselves corporate behemoths, become gatekeepers of the discourse. They can decide if memorials for an alleged criminal are worthy content or if such tributes glorify violence. Meanwhile, corporations facing public ire – in the US and Pakistan – can lobby to remove “defamatory” or “inciteful” content. The internet might be ‘open source’ in principle, but it remains heavily swayed by the interests, biases and official policies of tech overlords. This realisation complicates the notion that social media fosters “true democracy”. Yes, the masses can rally behind their champions, but they remain subject to the architecture set by wealthy executives and software engineers. Ultimately, these structural controls can shape moral narratives just as powerfully as any corporate press release or mainstream editorial board. The idea of a decentralised public square thus coexists uneasily with the reality that these gatekeepers can yank the megaphone away at any moment.

The Tangible Consequences of Viral Empathy

The tangible world consequences of Mangione’s internet fame became starkly evident in the weeks following his arrest. Commissary funds at his detention centre poured in from thousands of strangers, enough to provide not just personal luxuries – snacks, phone cards – but to spark envy and unrest among other inmates (including Diddy). His legal defence campaign crowdfunded over $130,000 in just a week, overshadowing more modest, need-based initiatives for indigent defendants.

A similar pattern emerged posthumously with Baloch. His family was showered with symbolic donations, an outpouring from viewers who never met him but felt a personal connection via his TikTok rants and comedic asides. Critically, this digital empathy is unregulated and spontaneous, hinging more on virality than consistent moral or charitable logic. Whether or not these funds were used to sustain a legitimate cause is anyone’s guess.

The Shift in Values – From Pakistan to America

In many ways, it is no longer enough to label a person “criminal”; one must now be a “villain” brazenly exploiting power. Inversely, a suspect can be redeemed online if seen as punishing or protesting that power. Even if the suspect’s methods are lethal, social media users readily point to intangible harm inflicted by institutions on entire populations. Some argue that Mangione’s supporters and Baloch’s mourners are engaging in a form of open-source vigilantism, using the powers of social media to crowd-justify extrajudicial violence. Others see this as a collective awakening, wherein the public finally holds powerful institutions to account in ways the legal system and mainstream media either cannot or will not.

A Catalyst for Conversation

There is no doubt that these stories spur much-needed debate about corporate irresponsibility, entrenched corruption, and the commodification of basic rights like healthcare. By humanising suspects – and thus refusing to see them as mere headlines or mugshots – social media users demand nuance from a justice system that categorises defendants in stark black-and-white terms. The conversation itself, rife with moral complexity, ensures that the harms inflicted by large institutions no longer remain an afterthought. In many respects, the internet is the stage where these moral battles unfold – creating folk heroes, rallying supporters, spawning conspiracies, and sometimes distorting the line between rightful anger and vengeful vigilantism.

A Glimpse Into Our Future

Both Mangione and Baloch show us that 21st-century social media does more than magnify reality: it reconstitutes it. Heroes and villains are decided not just by facts, but by the fervour of online communities. As non-physical violence inflicted by large entities garners more attention, society’s moral compass may well be recalibrated to acknowledge forms of cruelty that do not involve physical force. In this shifting terrain, the digital crowd can be mobilised to legitimise – or delegitimise – just about anything, be it corporate malfeasance or literal homicide. What remains to be seen is whether this open-source approach to morality will yield more accountability or simply replace one form of distorted justice with another. Is the popular rewriting of violence a sign of an invigorated ethical landscape – one that rightly calls out hidden horrors inflicted upon millions? Or is it a cautionary tale, revealing just how easily a polarised and frustrated populace might lionise vigilantes for committing acts once considered beyond moral redemption?

Where Does This Leave Us?

Today, the story of any alleged crime can be immediately dissected, broadcast, and mythologised by millions of strangers. In the case of Mangione, a young Ivy League graduate accused of killing a corporate titan, the internet’s arsenal of memes, fundraising campaigns and pseudo-investigative threads turned a homicide suspect into a modern-day Robin Hood and a scapegoat for deeper systemic issues. Meanwhile, from the rugged backyards of Pakistan, Baloch’s short-lived career as a TikTok dacoit epitomises the same collision of online adulation, sensational commentary and offline brutality. Though half a world away, Baloch’s story stresses an identical dynamic: an outlaw transformed into a symbol of resistance when the adversary is more oppressive.

Ultimately, these stories illuminate an internet culture that is both enthralling and destabilising, a space in which intangible violence competes for recognition with the physical harm once exclusively at the centre of our moral compasses.

As we struggle to grasp this phenomenon, one truth emerges: the lines dividing right and wrong, hero and villain, or legitimate rebellion and egregious crime, are as fluid as the algorithms that feed us the information. In our open-source era, morality can be crowdsourced, re-coded and rewritten instantly.

Where, then, do we stand when a murder suspect is a champion of the public will, or a dacoit is a viral TikTok phenomenon mourned by thousands? Perhaps, as in all paradigm shifts, we stand on uncertain ground. For better or worse, this uncertainty may herald a long-overdue focus on corporate exploitation and systemic violence. Or it might spark a perilous new normal, in which we legitimate personal acts of brutality with the swipe of a screen.

Alifya Sohail is a human rights reporter and researcher.