Jili Company. Ground floor.

The air conditioning had turned the lobby into something close to freezing. Two female receptionists at the front desk stole glances sideways at each other, keeping their hands busy with the things in front of them.

Along the right side of the corridor ran a promotional display wall, hung with the company’s projects from recent years and photographs of its leadership at major events.

The man was standing in front of that wall.

He had approached the front desk moments earlier, and both receptionists found they couldn’t stop thinking about him. He was very tall, dressed entirely in black — the fabric of his clothes stiff and structured, as if his whole frame had been carved from something hard and sharp. Paired with those quiet, unreadable eyes, he gave off an air that was difficult to name — strange and uncommon in a way that kept pulling at attention.

And yet they couldn’t stop looking.

A phone rang. One of the receptionists picked up and said softly: “Director Gao… Yes, understood.” She set the phone down and rose from her seat. “Sir, you may go up now. Director Gao is in the meeting room on the sixth floor.”

The man turned from the display wall and walked toward the elevators without a word.

The central air conditioning was turned low — not just the lobby, but the entire building ran with a cold, sterile chill.

Off the elevator, the wide meeting room was directly ahead. The glass door was spotless. Inside: a long, orderly conference table, a ring of leather chairs, and two neatly trimmed plants in a corner — the only warm touch in the room.

Three people were inside. Two standing, one seated. When they became aware of someone at the door, all three looked over. The seated man took only a single glance before returning his attention to the two employees he was addressing, spending another ten-odd minutes wrapping up his instructions before they gathered their notes and left.

When the last of them had gone, Gao Jianhong finally took a sip of tea, looked up, and turned his gaze to the man at the door.

“It’s been a long time, Li Xun.”

*

When Tian Xiuzhu arrived to collect Zhu Yun, he was met with a peculiar scene: two thoroughly drunk women draped across each other on the sofa. Ren Di had her blouse half undone and was practically bare, one arm looped around Zhu Yun’s waist, sleeping soundly.

“True to form for a rock musician,” Tian Xiuzhu observed, with something between admiration and resignation.

Zhu Yun was wedged in against the cushion, Ren Di’s long legs hooked around her. Tian Xiuzhu tried to move Ren Di’s ankle to free Zhu Yun — and was met with a sharp kick from Ren Di mid-sleep.

The kick jolted Zhu Yun awake. Still with a shred of consciousness intact, she struggled upright.

“How did you get in?”

Tian Xiuzhu said patiently: “Good security doesn’t count for much if you leave the door open.”

Zhu Yun was still foggy. “…We left the door open?”

He helped Zhu Yun to her feet. She was unsteady, so he kept one arm around her, and with his free hand picked up a thin jacket lying dust-covered on the floor, tossing it over Ren Di’s legs.

“Quite the gathering you two had.”

He settled Zhu Yun into the car. By the time they were moving, she had come around enough to feel the throbbing in her head. She sat staring out at the passing streets for a long while before asking, in a rough voice: “Where are we going?” Tian Xiuzhu answered: “The studio.”

His studio was something he had purchased many years ago — tucked into a narrow lane beside the art museum, deep and quiet, a small island removed from the noise of the city. Most of his work on home soil was done there.

Zhu Yun remembered the first time she had visited — the space was so full of things it nearly dizzied her. After wandering around for a while, what she retained most clearly wasn’t the sight of the room but the smell of it: a particular scent, layered — wood, canvas, mineral spirits, and something that belonged to Tian Xiuzhu himself.

Tian Xiuzhu returned to the studio and tied on a khaki-colored apron, positioning himself before a large, stretched canvas to mix his colors.

Zhu Yun looked at the under-drawing on the canvas. “You left in the middle of this?”

“Yes.”

“You could have said so — I would have made my own way back.”

Tian Xiuzhu smiled. “Whether you could have found your way out the front door at all was already an open question.”

Zhu Yun sat down at the work desk to sober up, and on impulse began tidying the papers scattered across it. Working her fingers into a gap between a stack of things, she pulled out a worn English-language magazine. On the cover was Tian Xiuzhu’s face.

She flipped to the article spread, and the moment she saw it, she recognized it immediately. This was the piece Liu Sisi had once asked her to translate back in their university days.

A faint, hazy feeling settled over her.

*

Sixth floor.

In the vast meeting room, only two people remained: Gao Jianhong and Li Xun, seated face to face.

Gao Jianhong wore a grey suit and silver-rimmed glasses. He was thinner than before — the angles of his jaw more defined now, more settled. Whether it was the cold palette of the room or the low temperature of the air conditioning, his face carried an unnatural pallor.

“When did you get out?” he asked evenly.

“A few days ago,” Li Xun said.

“Early release?”

“Yes.”

Gao Jianhong nodded. He ran a finger lightly around the rim of his teacup lid, and the soft sound of porcelain on porcelain suited the atmosphere of the room — also cold.

“How have you been?” he asked, offhand.

Li Xun said nothing.

“Now that you’re out,” Gao Jianhong said, “live properly. Don’t make the same mistakes as before.” He glanced at Li Xun. “What are your plans going forward?”

Li Xun still didn’t answer.

Gao Jianhong didn’t seem bothered. He set the lid back on the cup, folded his hands on the table, and adopted the tone of a man briefing his staff.

“I have something to attend to shortly, so let’s not waste each other’s time. Let’s be direct, Li Xun — now that you’re out, live a clean life. Don’t let your thoughts wander where they shouldn’t. You understand what I mean.”

Silence spread slowly through the room.

It must be unfamiliarity, Gao Jianhong thought. Everyone in this building answered him without hesitation. He wasn’t used to this. That had to be why his palms were damp with sweat.

After a long pause, Li Xun finally spoke. This was the first time he had said anything voluntarily all evening. He asked Gao Jianhong: “You got married?”

Gao Jianhong blinked, and followed Li Xun’s line of sight to the ring on his left hand, on his ring finger.

He drew his hand back and settled into his chair.

“Yes. Not long ago.”

Li Xun gave a small nod.

“Congratulations.”

He reached down for his bag and made to leave.

At that moment, someone entered from outside the meeting room — moving quickly, urgency written across his face, already speaking before he’d stepped through the door.

“Gao Jianhong, what is taking you so long? We need to be at Huajiang Grand Hotel by eight for the gathering — are you ready or not?”

The newcomer’s brow was furrowed, his strides long and purposeful. He came straight around the corner and walked directly into Li Xun.

Both of them stopped.

All these years later, Fang Zhijing’s forehead was still broad and prominent. Above the thick brows, the temporal bones had grown more pronounced, jutting at either side of his temples in a way that gave his face a somewhat threatening cast.

Fang Zhijing stared at the man in front of him, stupefied — his eyes wide, his mouth hanging open.

In the silence that followed, Li Xun slowly turned his head. He looked toward Gao Jianhong, still settled in his leather chair — as if confirming something. Their eyes met, though neither could quite read the other’s expression.

Six years. Not long enough to be called a lifetime of change, yet not so short as to pass in the blink of an eye. Time was like the long table between them — solid, unyielding, holding people apart on opposite sides.

Li Xun said nothing. He walked past Fang Zhijing and left.

Long after he had gone, Fang Zhijing was still standing there, jaw slack. Gao Jianhong gave a cold laugh.

“Frightened out of your wits?”

Fang Zhijing snapped back to himself. He turned sharply to Gao Jianhong, staring hard at him.

“When did he get out?”

“A few days ago.”

The sight had rattled Gao Jianhong badly enough that his voice was faintly unsteady.

“Why is he out already?”

“Early release.”

“This soon? How much time was cut?!”

Gao Jianhong looked at him steadily and said: “Six years.”

“But—”

“Fang Zhijing,” Gao Jianhong said, with a faint sneer, “are you really that frightened?”

Fang Zhijing’s left eye was a prosthetic. Most of the time it was undetectable, but in a moment like this, when he was glaring with such force, you could sense that something between the two eyes was not quite the same.

“Don’t you feel even slightly concerned?”

“What would I have to be concerned about?”

Fang Zhijing spoke through clenched teeth: “You know better than anyone what kind of person he is.”

No matter how agitated Fang Zhijing became, Gao Jianhong remained relaxed, still turning the teacup in his hand. “I know what you’re afraid of. But you should also know how fast this industry moves. He’s been inside long enough for everything to have changed completely around him.”

“He can relearn what he’s missed.”

“Well,” Gao Jianhong said, with a show of surprise. “That’s unexpected. You have quite a lot of confidence in your old enemy.”

“I’m not joking with you!” Fang Zhijing’s voice rose. “The company is at the most critical point it’s ever been. We cannot afford a single misstep. Li Xun holds grudges — he will—”

“Then let him come!” Gao Jianhong’s voice suddenly cut upward. He brought the teacup down hard on the table, and water sloshed across the surface.

He rose to his feet and gestured at the space around them.

“Fang Zhijing, look at this place. Look at this building. Look at the people working under you. Look at the resources you command. And then look at him — what does he have right now? Don’t stand there and tell me that even with all of this behind you, you’re still afraid to take him on.”

An employee appeared at the glass door, saw the two senior leaders in the middle of what looked like a heated argument, and hovered there in terrified indecision. Fang Zhijing noticed and barked: “What is it?”

The employee bent at the waist and spoke carefully: “Director Gao, Director Fang — the car has arrived. If we don’t leave now, we’ll be late…”

Fang Zhijing only then remembered the gathering. He told the employee: “We’ll be right down.”

Gao Jianhong turned toward the window and said quietly: “My head is killing me. I’m not going.”

Fang Zhijing drew a steadying breath, straightened his jacket, and walked toward the door. At the threshold, he stopped and turned back.

“Gao Jianhong, spare me the cold condescension. If you were really the upright man you like to think you are, you wouldn’t be working alongside me right now. We’re on the same boat. Half the people in this company are watching for a chance to move against us — this is not the moment to invite more complications. Instead of wasting energy on the past, figure out how to handle what’s coming.”

He left without another word. Gao Jianhong remained alone, standing at the glass wall, looking out over the night.

Below, the city blazed with light — far more brilliant than the starless sky above. And yet, perhaps because of the thick pane of glass between him and the world, Gao Jianhong found it all strangely unreal, the glittering panorama wrapped in a kind of haze. Nothing out there felt as vivid as Li Xun’s face had looked just minutes ago.

He thought of the way Li Xun had turned and looked at him before leaving. His head immediately began to pound. He closed his eyes and pressed his fingers hard against his temples — and held them there for a long, long time, without releasing the pressure.