Hou Ning sent Zhu Yun the recording. While she listened, he remained standing to the side, watching her the whole time, as though waiting to see her expression when she finished.

The supposedly explosive content amounted to just one sentence — apparently something Wu Zhen had let slip without meaning to.

At the time, both she and Li Xun had drunk a fair amount and were slightly tipsy. Wu Zhen was complaining to Li Xun about the hardships of life and how she needed to make plans for her own future. She let something slip, nearly in a murmur:

“Who knows how much longer Lao Gao can hold on with that illness of his?”

She said it very quietly, and you had to listen closely to make it out. Zhu Yun couldn’t be sure she had heard it right. She turned to look at Hou Ning. He was grinning.

Zhu Yun removed the earpiece. “Gao Jianhong is sick?”

Hou Ning: “Looks like it.”

Zhu Yun: “What illness?”

Hou Ning spread his hands. “I only found out today myself. Jili Company hasn’t let a word of it out — they’re clearly keeping it secret on purpose.”

Zhu Yun’s words dried up. Her mind surfaced with images of recent encounters: Gao Jianhong’s gaunt cheeks, his sallow complexion, the way he had quietly pressed his fingers to his temple without seeming to notice he was doing it.

Hou Ning returned to his seat and tapped at his computer, his enthusiasm obvious. “But now that there’s a trail, it’s easy enough. Give me three days and I’ll dig it all up.”

Zhu Yun looked back at Li Xun. When he had come back tonight, he had looked terrible — did that have something to do with this piece of news?

And Li Xun had looked terrible not just tonight. Over the days that followed, his mood worsened day by day. He was sleeping less and less, often sitting alone in his chair smoking — for hours at a stretch.

Hou Ning’s skills were more than adequate. He didn’t even need three days. By the next day, he had already uncovered Gao Jianhong’s diagnosis from Wu Zhen’s phone.

A brain tumor.

When Li Xun found out, he asked a single question: “Benign or malignant?”

Hou Ning: “Unknown.” Wu Zhen’s phone had a photo of Gao Jianhong’s medical report. Hou Ning couldn’t make sense of it, so he handed it to Li Xun. Li Xun read through it in silence, his face completely unreadable.

Zhu Yun went over to look too. Among the dense rows of test data, she found the confirmed diagnosis line.

“Meningioma…” she read aloud quietly. Hou Ning immediately searched the term. “Oh, it’s benign,” he said, with deep disappointment in his tone.

“He hasn’t had surgery yet,” Hou Ning continued. “He’s probably trying to hold out until the company goes public.” He snickered. “Pity — he’s in for a rude awakening. They call that: karma.” He said it, then looked sidelong at the silent Zhu Yun. “Don’t tell me your heart is softening. I’m already planning to go buy a cake tonight to celebrate. This is called — cause and effect, justice served!”

Zhu Yun didn’t say a word. She looked back at Li Xun.

He was sunk in his chair, his back turned to her.

She didn’t dare ask. About any of it. She didn’t dare ask how Li Xun intended to handle this — whether he would stop, or pour more fuel on the fire.

The others at Feiyang treated the whole thing as a minor side note. But Zhu Yun and Li Xun were different from the rest of the Feiyang staff — Gao Jianhong was not just an opponent to them. There was something else between them too.

Zhu Yun’s mood was low for several days in a row. One morning on her way to the office, she ran into Dong Siyang. He had his beaten-up van and was getting ready to head out for a business meeting. When he spotted Zhu Yun, he rolled down the window.

“Political Commissar Zhu!”

Zhu Yun looked at him. “General Manager Dong.”

Dong Siyang teased her: “What are those dark circles under your eyes?”

Zhu Yun had slept terribly after a troubled dream, and had no energy to trade banter with Dong Siyang.

“I’m going up now.”

“Wait.”

Zhu Yun stopped. Dong Siyang rested his elbow on the window frame and said: “Are you thinking of trying to talk Li Xun into backing down?”

Zhu Yun didn’t respond.

Dong Siyang: “Don’t do anything unnecessary. An old saying for you: ‘A compassionate general cannot lead troops; a sentimental person cannot build wealth.'”

Zhu Yun: “I’m not planning to talk him into anything. Whatever the outcome of this, it’s Li Xun’s decision to make.”

Dong Siyang said, cigarette in his mouth: “Good. He’s ruthless when he needs to be.”

And Li Xun did not stop.

After Wu Zhen took the USB drive, he began working through a series of legal procedures.

The USB drive contained all the data and source code for both Invincible Warrior and Playboy. Li Xun knew Fang Zhijing would have no choice but to use it. By handing these materials to Wu Zhen, he had effectively opened Feiyang’s back door for someone to walk through and look around. Once Fang Zhijing copied Playboy, Jili Company’s platform advantage meant Feiyang would have no way to fight back — they would lose their only source of income.

But Li Xun didn’t care.

During those weeks, Li Xun spoke even less than usual. The atmosphere in the office somehow grew heavy too, and even Zhang Fang stopped cracking jokes. There seemed to be a dim collective awareness that the company was likely on the verge of some enormous upheaval.

Li Xun asked Zhu Yun to prepare all materials related to intellectual property infringement lawsuits involving gaming companies. In truth, from the moment Fang Zhijing got hold of the source code to completing revisions of the graphics and core functionality would take at least a month — they had plenty of time to bring in a lawyer. But Li Xun insisted on handling everything himself.

During that period he was impossibly formidable, and Zhu Yun didn’t dare interrupt him. Whatever materials he needed, she threw herself into obtaining. Every day felt like a tightly wound spring. She poured all of her energy into the tasks Li Xun assigned her, forcing herself not to think about anything else. Every ounce of attention went into the work — and in doing so, she failed to notice that his condition was deteriorating.

In the end, before Gao Jianhong’s illness caused any crisis, Li Xun collapsed first from sheer exhaustion.

That day, only Zhu Yun and Zhang Fang were in the office, and neither of them noticed immediately.

He was slumped in his chair, the same as always.

Li Xun sat directly across from Zhu Yun. At first she thought he had his eyes closed because he was working something out in his head. After a while longer, she figured he had fallen asleep. Sleeping during the day was a rare thing for Li Xun — she wanted to let him rest more comfortably, and went to fetch a small blanket to drape over him.

She was as careful as she could be, not wanting to wake him. But she accidentally knocked a pen off his desk. It clattered to the floor, and Zhu Yun tensed, watching him — certain he was about to wake up and have something to say about it.

But Li Xun still didn’t move.

Zhu Yun finally felt something was wrong. Li Xun almost never slept during the day, and even when he did, he slept lightly — the slightest sound would wake him.

She touched him.

“Li Xun…”

No response.

She shook his shoulder. “Li Xun?”

This time he did move — but his balance gave way. His head tilted to one side, and his body slid off the chair and hit the floor heavily.

Zhu Yun’s soul nearly left her body with fright.

Zhang Fang was terrified too, standing frozen in place with no idea what to do. Zhu Yun came to her senses first and said to him: “Call an ambulance!”

Zhu Yun turned Li Xun over and laid him flat on the floor.

Zhang Fang called and then came over: “D-don’t be scared.”

Zhu Yun looked at Li Xun and couldn’t say a word. She was in a complete panic — she needed someone to help, so she called Dong Siyang, but he didn’t pick up. Her eyes were burning red with urgency. Hands trembling, she called Fu Yizhuo next. He listened to her incoherent account of what had happened and said: “Stay calm. Wait for me — I’ll be right there.”

The ambulance and Fu Yizhuo arrived almost simultaneously. Fu Yizhuo helped the medics lift Li Xun onto the stretcher.

At some point in the commotion, Zhu Yun noticed again the threads of white mixed into Li Xun’s hair.

She had noticed them before, actually — at last year’s year-end party. And Tian Xiuzhu had warned her early on that Li Xun’s health wasn’t in good shape. But neither of them had paid it any real attention.

Neither of them had paid enough attention.

Zhu Yun hadn’t been sleeping well for a long time either. The healthy routines that Tian Xiuzhu had helped her establish back in America had been completely undone. But it was only now, in this moment, that she really recognized it.

Tian Xiuzhu came to get her, and Zhu Yun’s first instinct was to say “I’m sorry.”

Tian Xiuzhu held her by the shoulders and said quietly: “Don’t be scared. It’s not serious — he’s probably just overtired.”

Zhu Yun couldn’t take in a single word.

On the stretcher in the ambulance, Li Xun regained a fragment of consciousness. He stirred. Zhu Yun immediately crouched beside him.

He seemed to be in pain — his brow was tightly knitted, his face covered in sweat.

Zhu Yun leaned close and asked softly: “Are you uncomfortable?”

He took a moment to locate the source of the voice. When he realized it was Zhu Yun, he slowly shook his head.

Zhu Yun took hold of his hand and found her own hand trembling lightly. Very soon, Li Xun’s hand turned over — slowly, deliberately — and closed around hers in return. His palm was damp with sweat, but his joints still held strength, and the grip quietly dissolved her anxiety.

When they reached the hospital, Li Xun’s consciousness was drifting again. But he had not let go of her hand the entire time. Even at the door of the CT room, when the medical staff were about to wheel him in for the scan, his hand still held hers.

Zhu Yun leaned close to his ear. “Li Xun, let go.”

No matter what she said, Li Xun would not let go. His eyes were closed, his breathing faster than usual.

“Let go, quickly. You need to go in for the scan,” she said again.

He still held her. His fingers, though, had less strength than before. In truth, Zhu Yun could have broken free easily. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Rationally, she knew she needed to let him go in for the scan — she knew this was just a CT, not a life-or-death separation. And yet she couldn’t make herself pull away.

He was holding onto her. He was leaning on her. He was trying to reassure her.

“Let go,” Tian Xiuzhu said.

She didn’t move.

Tian Xiuzhu looked silently at the man on the stretcher — face drenched in sweat, barely conscious.

In the end it was the medical staff who gently parted their hands. A young nurse said: “Family members wait outside.”

While waiting for the results of the scan, Zhu Yun called Fu Yizhuo. Her voice was shaking badly.

Fu Yizhuo all but flew to the hospital.

When Zhu Yun saw him, she was again overcome with apologies. He had heard nearly a lifetime’s worth of her “I’m sorry”s in a single day. Fu Yizhuo pulled her into a hug and said steadily: “It’s not your fault. He’s going to be fine.”

Fu Yizhuo’s broad hand pressed against Zhu Yun’s back, steadying her.

The day was gloriously sunny — blue skies, not a cloud in sight. A rare beautiful day.

During the time Li Xun was being examined, Zhu Yun sat with all of this turning over in her mind.

Why was it that on a day this peaceful and serene, something like this had happened?