Ding Zhitong wasn’t sure if Gan Yang had noticed her, but her heart rate was the only one that showed abnormalities on the large screen.
Unable to sow discord successfully, Ding Zhitong instructed Li Jiaxin to arrange another meeting with the CEO of “Training Box” and, if possible, include a representative from LT Capital. She maintained her usual perspective: everyone’s behavior and stance were ultimately motivated by money. Therefore, everything was negotiable, and any demands could be discussed face-to-face.
Li Jiaxin accepted the task and left.
After checking in and clearing security, Ding Zhitong bought some gifts for her colleagues at the terminal. With her hands full of bags containing seaweed, dried fruit, and squid jerky, she had just exited the store when she saw Wilson approaching.
Recalling the morning’s events, Ding Zhitong felt slightly embarrassed about discussing young singles’ sex lives so openly in public. However, before she could speak, Wilson smiled and explained, “What a coincidence! I’m also on tonight’s flight back to Singapore.”
His statement was somewhat redundant, but it broke the ice. They compared boarding passes and, finding their gates close together decided to chat while waiting.
Wilson’s Chinese pronunciation was quite good, though he had some Singaporean habits. When exchanging his remaining Thai baht, he referred to ten thousand as “ten thousand” instead of “one myriad.”
Ding Zhitong joked that the last time she heard someone speak like that was in the TV drama “Jing Ke’s Assassination Attempt on the First Emperor of Qin.”
“What’s ‘Jing Ke’s Assassination Attempt on the First Emperor of Qin’?” Wilson predictably asked.
Ding Zhitong explained that it was an assassin’s story from “Strategies of the Warring States.” Jing Ke crossed the Yi River to assassinate the First Emperor of Qin but failed and died in Xianyang Palace. Foreigners usually enjoyed this story. She had mastered Song Mingmei’s technique and was using it with increasing proficiency.
As she finished the story, the flight to Hong Kong began boarding.
Ding Zhitong bid farewell to Wilson, but he suddenly asked, “There’s a CrossFit challenge. Are you interested?”
“How did you know I do CrossFit?” Ding Zhitong was surprised.
Wilson, equally delighted, replied, “I didn’t! We just need a female teammate, and I thought you’d be perfect.”
Ding Zhitong smiled, realizing that the past week’s training had inevitably included some physical activities, leaving visible traces of her fitness.
Sensing an opportunity, Wilson continued his pitch. He explained that it was a competition organized by M Bank and a sports charity foundation, held in Shanghai to raise funds for sports equipment and curriculum support in rural schools in remote and underdeveloped areas.
Thinking he had forgotten, Ding Zhitong reminded him, “I’m not in Shanghai.”
Wilson quickly clarified, “I remember, I remember. You’re in Hong Kong, but I still want to invite you.”
With few passengers on the Hong Kong flight, Ding Zhitong glanced at the waiting gate and ambiguously replied, “Send me the date and location. I’ll see if I have time.”
Satisfied, Wilson said goodbye.
On the plane, Ding Zhitong wrapped herself in a blanket to sleep, as usual reviewing their conversation before drifting off. The techniques Qin Chang had taught her for idling had become an unconscious habit.
Wilson belonged to the Philanthropy Management department, a unique entity within the investment bank. To Ding Zhitong, it seemed as fantastical as the “Ministry of Magic” in Harry Potter. In essence, their primary mission was to plan how wealthy individuals should donate money—which projects to support, when to donate, or how to distribute large sums over several years under specific conditions. Although a key purpose was tax avoidance, it still seemed nobler than her mercenary pursuit of other people’s money.
Probably due to the abundance of wealthy individuals in Southeast Asia, Wilson was based in Singapore. Before this training, Ding Zhitong hadn’t interacted with him but had seen him several times in company promotional videos. Unsurprisingly, he had an excellent image—very tall, likely over 1.90 meters, with chestnut hair and eyes, always smiling, resembling a gentle giant.
Half-asleep, that smile reappeared in her mind. Ding Zhitong suddenly realized that Song Mingmei’s earlier description of “the fifth from the right in the third row” probably referred to him.
Three hours later, the plane landed in Hong Kong.
As soon as Ding Zhitong turned on her phone, she received a call from Li Jiaxin with some bad news: “The situation with LT Capital is complicated. I managed to arrange a meeting with the fund manager, but they explicitly said there’s likely no room for negotiation. The opposing vote on this project came from one of their LPs.”
LP, or limited partner, only provides capital and receives profits without participating in fund management.
“That ‘unicorn’ wearing Burberry?” Ding Zhitong asked curiously, listening to the call while pulling her suitcase off the plane.
“Yes, that’s right,” Li Jiaxin confirmed, also finding it somewhat amusing.
“Send me his business card. I’ll try talking to him,” Ding Zhitong said, confident in her abilities.
But Li Jiaxin replied, “There’s no business card. We only know his surname is Gan, his English name is Forrest, and he’s on the board of directors at LT Group…”
Ding Zhitong couldn’t hear the rest. She only snapped back to reality when a flight attendant urged her to keep moving. She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt this way, but she recalled it was on that day in January 2009 when she received Gan Yang’s final phone call.
Upon further reflection, she found it ironic.
Back then, as he was about to graduate without a job, she had worried on his behalf and imagined a similar path—his wealthy father might find him a VC or PE firm raising funds and let him play at being an LP. She hadn’t expected her guess to come true. Ding Zhitong, the gambling genius.
“… ‘Training Box’s’ decision to pursue the next round of financing is an investment committee matter. How can an LP have a say in this?” Li Jiaxin was still rambling on the other end.
Ding Zhitong interrupted, “LT’s fund documents must include a dissent mechanism. If he holds enough seats in the partners’ meeting, he can voice his opinion.”
Though her words seemed unsurprised, she couldn’t help feeling discontented—how could this person be so wealthy?! Suddenly, life seemed meaningless. After eleven years of hard work, she was still just a grunt. She no longer wanted to try, only to crawl back into her den, draw the blackout curtains, and curl up in bed waiting for death.
“So what’s our next move?” Li Jiaxin asked.
Ding Zhitong considered for a moment, suddenly finding her will to live renewed. She forwarded Wilson’s invitation email, which had just arrived in her inbox, to Li Jiaxin. “Ask LT Capital to participate, especially that ‘unicorn.’ Let’s have an informal chat first to understand why he disagrees.”
“Will they even come?” Li Jiaxin sounded skeptical.
Unable to explain fully, Ding Zhitong simply said, “He’s sort of my schoolmate.”
“What? Do you know each other? It’s not just someone with the same name, is it?”
“Let’s give it a try. Attach my business card to the invitation.”
She knew she wasn’t mistaken, but she was uncertain how Gan Yang would react to seeing her name. If he agreed, it would present an opportunity. If he refused, that would be the end of it, and she could move on. She should have hoped for the former, but the latter seemed to offer more relief.
She waited two days for a response, almost giving up hope, when she finally received an email from Li Jiaxin in Shanghai saying they had agreed.
Ding Zhitong arrived in Shanghai the night before the challenge. The city still felt like summer, with a bright moon overhead and humid heat in the air.
Leaving the airport, she hailed a taxi. When the driver asked where she was going, she replied, “Madang Road.”
She didn’t want to return to the East Mansion apartment. After being unoccupied for a while, furniture, fabrics, and even copper rust in the pipes would accumulate a particular smell in the closed space, especially during summer. Whenever she smelled it, she would self-deprecatingly think it was like her loneliness. If loneliness had a scent, it would probably be something like that. But this time, she didn’t isolate herself in some remote location. Li Jiaxin was staying at the Langham in Xintiandi, so she decided to meet him there, conveniently close to Luwan Stadium where the competition would be held the next day.
As it was a team event with three men and one woman per team, her teammates included Li Jiaxin, a fitness trainer from M Bank’s Shanghai branch employee gym (which seemed a bit like cheating), and Wilson. Both Li Jiaxin and the trainer were under 30 and regularly exercised, so an amateur-level CrossFit challenge wouldn’t be too difficult for them. Wilson, in his thirties, claimed to have played rugby in college and participated in triathlons, suggesting he was a formidable athlete.
At the stadium, the four of them stored their belongings and changed. Ding Zhitong emerged from the women’s locker room wearing simple black workout clothes, including her training shoes. Her shoulder-length straight hair was tied back in a neat low ponytail.
CrossFit was popular among foreigners, and many international companies had entered teams, giving the venue a United Nations-like atmosphere.
A European-accented foreigner spotted her from afar and called out, “Hey! Ninja girl!”
She pretended not to hear and turned away expressionless. However, the man started walking towards her, seemingly intent on continuing the conversation. She always disliked this approach and wondered if such people misread reactions and overestimated their charm in their home countries, or if it was a habit they developed in the Far East.
Fortunately, Wilson had also emerged and, noticing the situation, smoothly positioned himself between Ding Zhitong and the approaching man.
Grateful, Ding Zhitong noticed Wilson’s worn T-shirt with a large yellow letter M on a navy background. She asked, “University of Michigan?”
“Go Blue!” Wilson nodded, smiling as he recited the Michigan football team’s slogan.
They chatted about their respective schools. As a one-year master’s student, Ding Zhitong usually felt uncomfortable mentioning she was from Cornell, but today, meeting Wilson gave her a sense of participating in an inter-school sports event, as if her youth had returned.
As the time approached, everyone checked in and entered the inner area, receiving competition instructions and heart rate monitors.
That year, Luwan Stadium had just hosted a world-class CrossFit competition, and they were likely using the equipment left from that event. The indoor basketball court was divided into about ten lanes, fully equipped with Smith machines, treadmills, rowing machines, and barbells, giving it a professional appearance.
The competition rules followed authentic CrossFit practices. Participants wouldn’t know the challenge contents until the day of the event, making prior practice impossible.
However, the organizers had considered the participants’ skill levels. Most competitors were employees from various financial institutions and related organizations, so the movements were relatively simple, and the difficulty level was significantly reduced. The warm-up consisted of a 1000-meter run on a treadmill, followed by three sets of non-stop movements in the relay. The first team to complete all sets would win.
Ding Zhitong reviewed the specific requirements for each event, noting they were roughly equivalent to entry-level daily training intensity. Women weren’t required to do pull-ups, could do knee push-ups, and the deadlift and kettlebell weights were only half of the men’s.
She felt confident, but the fitness trainer, out of professional habit, reminded them, especially her: “Don’t underestimate these few movements. Doing a full set non-stop will take 40 minutes to an hour and is very intense. Make sure to warm up properly and stretch for at least 10 minutes afterward…”
Li Jiaxin, habitually trying to support her, interjected: “You’re underestimating Tammy. She…”
Ding Zhitong silenced him with a look.
Wilson, however, listened attentively with his hands on his hips, nodding in agreement. He fist-bumped each of them, and when he reached Ding Zhitong, he enthusiastically shouted, “Go big red go!”
This was the Cornell ice hockey team’s slogan.
Ding Zhitong smiled, her impression of him improving further.
With lanes assigned, the teams took their positions.
M Bank’s four-person team stood at the starting point. The referee instructed them to secure their heart rate monitors, explaining that they would be monitored throughout the event with data displayed on the large screen by the stands. If the heart rate exceeded 180 beats per minute, a red light would flash, requiring the participant to pause and adjust.
Ding Zhitong fastened the strap around her chest as instructed. Li Jiaxin joked beside her, “They’re probably afraid we’ll drop dead, right?”
Her box on the screen had already turned red, showing her heart rate suddenly spiking to 198, then fluctuating wildly.
“Tammy, is your monitor broken? Hey, referee, is the monitor faulty? We haven’t even started yet…” Li Jiaxin called out to the referee.
The referee came over to check and said, “That’s impossible. We just inspected them.”
“No, it’s fine…” Ding Zhitong had already removed the strap, hoping to end the discussion before attracting more attention.
“But you…” Li Jiaxin still felt something was amiss.
“It’s okay,” Ding Zhitong assured him. She took a moment to calm herself before putting the monitor back on, and her heartbeat gradually steadied.
She had just spotted a familiar face. Despite years apart, she had thought she’d forgotten what he looked like, but seeing him now made everything feel like yesterday. She hadn’t forgotten a single detail.
Three lanes away stood Gan Yang, wearing a simple black workout outfit, including his training shoes.
Ding Zhitong didn’t know if he had seen her, but on that large screen, hers was the only heart rate that had shown an anomaly.