Zhu Yun nearly fled.

On the way back, she kept turning over a single question: when she’d left, had she shown weakness in front of Fang Zhijing? Had he been able to tell she was running away?

It was a pointless thing to fixate on, and she knew it — but she couldn’t stop herself, which only made her more agitated.

It had been so many years. And still she couldn’t overcome herself. She didn’t even need to see him — just hearing his voice was enough to send a chill radiating outward from somewhere deep inside her.

Like some kind of curse.

The more she thought about it, the more she felt she should have said something cutting before she left. Not just walked away like that. The realization drove her in circles — her head full of Fang Zhijing’s words, his self-satisfied expression, the articles defaming Zhao Guowei, the banner hanging in the mall.

Zhu Yun got out of the car and ducked into a convenience store, bought five cans of hard lemonade, went to the stairwell of the office building, and sat down to drink. Somewhere into the third can, tears fell without warning.

She had a dim recollection of the competition from years ago. The situation now was nearly identical to that one.

Fang Zhijing disgusted her. But she disgusted herself more for being so useless.

The alcohol made her emotions raw and jagged. The last thread of clarity still functioning told her she had to go back to work soon. She pressed a hand to her forehead and took more than ten slow deep breaths. The only result was that she felt light-headed from lack of oxygen, and her mood was completely unchanged.

Just then, as if the universe had a poor sense of timing, Li Xun, Zhao Teng, and Zhang Fang came trooping into the stairwell together for a smoke.

Zhang Fang led the way, swaggering. He nearly collided with someone sitting on the stairs and startled badly.

“Whoa, what the—” He clutched his chest, then recognized the back of Zhu Yun’s head. “Team leader, what are you doing here?”

Zhang Fang quickly registered the smell of alcohol and wrinkled his nose.

“Have you been drinking?”

Say what you would about Zhang Fang on a normal day — he was about as useful as a wet noodle, all flattery and no substance. But in a genuine moment, he turned out to have a decent heart. He set his cigarette down, moved toward Zhu Yun with concern, saw her wet face, and went rigid. He whipped around at the two men behind him and mouthed silently:

She’s. Crying.

Zhao Teng glanced at Li Xun. Li Xun stood very still, looking at the figure on the stairs.

The woman who was normally unflappable and formidable was sitting alone in a stairwell crying. Zhang Fang was rattled by the sight, and instinctively softened his voice.

“Was it the pressure at work? Or did Director Dong yell at you?”

He was already inching forward, clearly trying to assume the role of supportive friend — but Zhao Teng grabbed him by the back of the collar.

“We’re leaving,” Zhao Teng said quietly.

“What?”

No explanation. Zhao Teng dragged Zhang Fang toward the exit, pulled the door shut behind them, and left Li Xun alone inside.

The silence didn’t last long. Li Xun asked calmly: “What’s wrong?”

His voice had a quality that cut through every barrier and reached somewhere far back in time with perfect clarity. For a moment, Zhu Yun felt as though she were standing at the edge of that stone bridge from years ago — dark water swaying below, willows whispering in the night breeze, and behind her, the figure who had once pulled her out of the depths.

“Why are you crying?” Li Xun asked.

Zhu Yun came back to herself a little. She wiped her eyes and said quietly: “I ran into Fang Zhijing at the mall just now.”

“And?” Li Xun said.

“They made a new game…”

He made a low sound of acknowledgement.

Talking to Li Xun was always simple. You said one thing, and he understood everything else.

Zhu Yun sat on the step with her back to him, speaking in a low voice. Perhaps because she was a little drunk, her tone wasn’t bitter or full of resentment — it was more like the kind of complaint you’d make to a close friend.

“Gao Jianhong’s wife was there too — she was doing promotional appearances for their game. The whole thing is ripped straight from ours, even the promotional artwork looks the same. And the thing about Professor Zhao… Fang Zhijing said that whole campaign was Gao Jianhong’s doing — he said our game has reputation but no revenue, and all they have to do is put in a little effort on reputation and they’ll completely surpass us. Damn them all.” She buried her head in her arms at the end. “And I didn’t even say a single thing to him. I just walked away.”

A brief silence. Then Li Xun said: “You’re afraid of him.”

Zhu Yun’s fingers trembled slightly. She admitted it with difficulty. “You’re right. I am. I’m useless.”

Li Xun gave a quiet laugh. “Your definition of ‘useless’ is truly unique.”

“I’ve hated him for over a decade and I can’t do anything about it. Back then, when he went after Xiaobei, I could only watch. Later, when he went after you — I still could only watch…”

She stopped mid-sentence.

“No, wait — it wasn’t him. It was me.” The realization surfaced, and her head came up. “It was because of me that you ever had anything to do with him. If I hadn’t insisted on dragging you into that competition, you never would have crossed paths with someone like that. And then your sister wouldn’t have… and you wouldn’t have gone to prison, and we wouldn’t be here now—”

“Zhu Yun.”

He cut off her spiraling words.

“Come here.”

Zhu Yun sat stiffly where she was.

Li Xun said it again.

“Come here.”

His voice dropped slightly, and almost without deciding to, she moved.

Li Xun was leaning against the wall by the window. Zhu Yun came to stand before him. Against the sound of her quiet, uneven breathing, she looked like a child who had done something wrong and was waiting to be scolded. Li Xun looked at her without speaking. The late afternoon light fell across her tear-stained face, making her look achingly beautiful, and achingly fragile.

He understood her fear of Fang Zhijing. She was afraid of losing. And afraid that he might blame her for it.

She didn’t need to carry that.

Li Xun’s expression was quiet.

By the world’s measure, his life had accumulated no shortage of things worth regretting. But by his own measure, he had yet to act in a way that was untrue to himself.

Li Xun pointed at the large bag Zhu Yun was holding. “What’s that?”

Zhu Yun answered through a sniffle: “For Teacher Lin. I’m going to visit him.”

“Today?”

“Yes.”

He was quiet for a moment, then asked: “You had a talk with Zhao Teng?”

“Yes.”

“Did it go well?”

“Yes.”

He smiled a little. “Who says you’re useless? You’ve been quite useful.”

Li Xun flicked his cigarette downward, watching the ash drift and scatter on the ground.

He leaned back against the windowsill, relaxed.

“It’s fine to be afraid of Fang Zhijing,” he said. His one hand held the cigarette, his other braced against the window frame. “Everyone’s got something that left a mark when they were young.”

Zhu Yun said nothing. Li Xun tilted his head, a contemptuous smile on his lips. “Don’t worry. Whatever you feel toward him — he feels ten times more of it toward me.”

Zhu Yun was slow to catch on. “What?”

Li Xun helpfully laid it out.

“You’re afraid of him. He’s afraid of me. It evens out.” He was, for once, patient and unhurried — almost gentle — as he explained: “Have you seen any wildlife documentaries? Only prey behaves that way — nervous, watching every shift in the air. You’re afraid of him, so you’ve been keeping track of his movements for years. He’s afraid of me, so the moment I was out, he had his eyes on me. You don’t need to worry about him copying our work. If he’d just gone off and done his own thing, I’d honestly have a harder time finding leverage against him in the short term. But he can’t stop watching me — he’s desperate to stomp me out before I can get back on my feet. That’s exactly what gives us an opening.”

Zhu Yun listened, and then, for no particular reason, asked: “Who are you afraid of?”

I’m afraid of him, he’s afraid of you — so who are you afraid of?

Li Xun looked at her steadily.

Because of the backlight, she couldn’t quite read his gaze — only sensed it, a shadow that pulled at something in her, dark and magnetic. After a long moment, that shadow moved. She felt warmth near her ear, and then a voice, low and close:

“I’m not afraid of anyone.”

The words carried something indefinable — they climbed her spine and left a trail of faint electricity.

That single phrase, spoken with such ease, swept through her like a clean wind and left her mind clear.

Li Xun straightened. “Steady your project — you don’t need to go head-to-head with him. I looked at their game. It’s a shell, nothing inside. Three months at most on the strength of their events.”

Zhu Yun: “Yes.”

Li Xun: “I’ll handle your leave. Go home and rest today.”

He was about to go when Zhu Yun remembered something. “Oh — I got some information, though I’m not sure how reliable it is.”

Li Xun stopped. “What?”

“An IT company I previously worked with was recently acquired by them. A senior manager there told me that Fang Zhijing might be planning to take Ji Li public through a backdoor listing.”

Li Xun laughed out loud. “Interesting. Can’t even stand up straight and already wants to run. Is he in a hurry to die?”

“If it’s true, they could be filing the paperwork as early as early next year.”

Li Xun’s expression didn’t shift. He looked at Zhu Yun. “I’ll say this plainly — if I let him make it to a successful listing, I’ll drop the ‘Li’ from my name and go be his son.”

And with that, he left.

Zhu Yun only laughed after he was gone. She stood alone by the window, and the view that filled her eyes was full of a strange, unblemished beauty.

She went home and slept deeply. The next morning she woke in a soft haze, still half-dreaming, feeling as though she had passed through a long, vivid dream. Washing her face and brushing her teeth, fragments drifted back in pieces, and she smiled at her reflection in the mirror.

She put on a new outfit, held her head high, and went to work.

Zhao Teng was sorted. That left Dong Siyang — and as much as he was difficult to communicate with, he was the head of the company, the one who made decisions. She had to come clean with him.

So in the days that followed, Zhu Yun looked for any chance to get Dong Siyang alone. This proved nearly impossible.

Over the time she’d worked there, the most consistent impression she had of this Director Dong was that she and he seemed to exist in entirely different worlds. When Li Xun pushed back on her, at least he was doing so on the premise that she was a capable person — his mouth was harsh, but there was always something contradictory underneath. This Dong Siyang, on the other hand…

Zhu Yun didn’t know whether he had been wounded by a woman in the past, or whether he was just constitutionally convinced of male supremacy — unable to stand the idea of a woman who was competent. Some of his attitudes seemed to belong to a different century. Not even last century — you’d have to go back further, past the Qing dynasty, all the way to the Ming, to the era of great households where women couldn’t sit at the dining table with men.

Zhu Yun steeled herself extensively before going to confess everything to Dong Siyang.

Dong Siyang didn’t bother looking up from the document in his hand, no matter how many times she said his name. Finally Zhu Yun craned her neck to get a look and said: “Interesting that such a short financial report is keeping Director Dong this busy.”

Dong Siyang’s voice went flat. “Have I been too lenient with you people lately?”

Seeing his expression darken, Zhu Yun reined herself in quickly. “Director Dong, there’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”

“Go make tea,” Dong Siyang said.

“…”

Zhu Yun swallowed what she’d been about to say, went to make the tea, brought it over, and waited while Dong Siyang spent a long while blowing on it to cool it down, then finally took a sip. Zhu Yun seized the moment. “Director Dong, I have something to tell you.”

Dong Siyang looked at her grave expression and gave a small, dismissive laugh. “Is this about the Ji Li business?”

The surprise was written all over Zhu Yun’s face.

Dong Siyang set down his teacup and pointed at her. “This is exactly the problem with women — narrow vision, hesitating at every turn, fussing over every little detail.”

Zhu Yun was completely thrown.

“If you’re going to use my company as a stepping stone,” Dong Siyang continued, “then step. Use it, squeeze out what you need, and when you’re done, pack up and move on to the next one. What’s the point of explaining all the history?”

Zhu Yun absorbed this — and then found herself caught by the second half of what he’d said.

That had been her original plan, in truth. Let Li Xun find his footing here, and then move on. She had even thought of herself, at the time, as something of a breezy, self-sufficient operative, showing up and disappearing at will. But as the project moved forward piece by piece, she had slipped — without quite noticing — into belonging here. Into treating these unreliable people in this unreliable place as her partners.

Zhu Yun was briefly somewhere else entirely. Dong Siyang had been watching her throughout.

He had seen this face do many things — brisk, decisive, unrelenting. But right now, Zhu Yun’s expression was something entirely different — still and transparent, clear to the point that she looked exactly like what Li Xun had once said about her:

Naïvely honest.