Xueling trudged back home, her bag heavy against her shoulder. It was already 8 p.m., well past their usual dinner hour, yet the Feng house glowed as though it were midday. Light spilled from the living room, accompanied by bursts of laughter that carried down the hallway.
She slowed at the doorway, shoes still on, and looked inside.
The entire room froze for half a beat. Conversations faltered, glasses paused midair. Heads turned in unison toward the figure standing at the threshold — thin, pale, ordinary in her school uniform.
Feng Xueling.
She inclined her head politely. "I'm home."
The silence cracked, smoothed over almost immediately by Mother Feng's airy voice. "Ah, Xueling, you're back. Go wash up. We're entertaining guests."
On the sofa sat Gu Mocheng, posture straight, features sharp as if carved from stone. His parents flanked him, composed and elegant, their words measured, their smiles carrying the weight of authority. Their presence here was no coincidence.
The countdown had begun.
The Robotics and Cybersecurity Expo — the stage where Feng Xueyao was meant to shine — loomed just after final exams. The Gu family had invested heavily in the project. Tonight was not about tea and pleasantries. It was about securing their stake.
Father Feng's voice carried across the room, indulgent yet dismissive. "Xueling, you should head upstairs. Don't disturb us."
But Gu Mocheng's gaze lingered. For a fraction of a second, it softened — not the sharp, appraising look he gave others, but something quieter, almost familiar.
And then it was gone.
"Good evening, Xueling," he said evenly, his voice polite but distant. "It's been a while."
She froze. A hundred memories pressed forward: a hand extended to help her pick up dropped books in the school library; his quiet laugh when she had muttered something sarcastic under her breath; the way he'd once waited in the rain with an umbrella, saying he didn't mind walking slower if it meant she wasn't left behind.
Small things. Things that, strung together, had almost made her believe he saw her — really saw her.
But now, with Xueyao seated beside him like a jewel on display, those moments felt like illusions dissolving in light.
She bowed her head. "Good evening, Young Master Gu."
The formality in her tone made the faintest crease flicker across his brow, but he didn't contradict her. He merely turned back to Xueyao as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Beside him, Xueyao leaned in, her voice syrup-sweet. "Brother Gu, you'll see at the expo. Our program will surpass every competitor. You can be proud of your investment."
Mother Feng clasped her hands, beaming. "Our Yaoyao has worked tirelessly. She'll make headlines, you'll see."
Gu's mother nodded approvingly. "As expected of our future daughter-in-law. The Gu family is fortunate to have such a brilliant young lady."
Xueling's hands tightened on the strap of her bag. The words weren't new, but they carved a deeper cut each time they were spoken.
Years ago, when the Gu family's fortunes wavered, the engagement had been hers. The Fengs' unfavored daughter had been pushed forward as the offering. She had borne the sneers, the whispers, the knowledge that she was nothing more than a bargaining chip.
And yet — in the shadows of that contract, Gu Mocheng had been kind. He had looked at her as though she were not invisible.
But in the last decade, as the Gu family's might surged, all of that had shifted. The contract was rewritten, the jewel exchanged for the shadow. And Gu Mocheng — the boy who once gave her reason to hope — hadn't spoken a word in protest.
Xueling's lips curved faintly, the smallest ghost of a smile. In the face of interests, even kindness fades.
She bowed slightly. "I'll excuse myself."
Her voice was quiet, polite, unremarkable. She turned and padded upstairs, the murmur of conversation resuming behind her. But as she climbed each step, she felt the weight of Gu Mocheng's gaze still on her back — steady, silent, and as unreadable as ever.
In her room, Xueling leaned against the closed door, exhaling softly. The pieces on the board were shifting into place.
She crossed to her desk, the bare space holding nothing but her notebooks and the laptop that carried her true life. Sitting down, she flipped it open. The glow of the screen washed across her face, stark and steady.
Almost immediately, a new message blinked onto the screen. Helios Tech.
Dear XL,Please find attached the project file. Also attached is our partnership contract, drafted with the clauses you requested included. Kindly review and approve. Once signed, we will deposit the first payment immediately. I will be available to liaise with you throughout the project.
Her lips curved, the faintest shadow of a smile.
The contract. Exactly as she had demanded: airtight clauses, full anonymity, no ownership claims on her code. Unlike the Fengs, unlike Gu Mocheng, Helios didn't care about her name — only her skill.
She scrolled once, eyes flicking over the legal language with quick precision. Every line was correct. Every safeguard in place.
Without hesitation, she signed.
But tonight, she didn't stop at Helios.
Opening a second account — one layered in encryption and anonymity — she drafted a new message, this one to a failing mid-sized finance firm in Shanghai. Their struggles had been whispered in market reports for weeks: liquidity drying up, debt piling high, the board on edge.
To the CEO, she wrote:
Chairman Lin,Your company has three months before collapse. You know it. I know it.I have a plan that can not only stabilize your current losses but create a new stream of revenue. If you are willing to meet discreetly, I will lay it out.Call me XL.
Her fingers hovered for a fraction of a second, then she hit send.
Before logging off, she returned to the Olympiad portal. The second round had opened, the problems sharper, more intricate, designed to break even the brightest.
Her eyes swept once across the first set, and her fingers began to fly. Equations, proofs, and simulations collapsed under her logic, solved in record pace. The submission confirmation flashed:Round Two — Completed. Top Score. New Record.
As always.
She sat back, the quiet satisfaction spreading through her chest. Not pride, exactly — but certainty. Each victory was a brick laid in the bridge out of this house, this family, this cage.
Closing her laptop, she slid it shut with deliberate calm.
Three months. That was all it would take.
She switched off the light, lay down on the narrow bed, and let the silence settle around her.
For the first time in years, she went to sleep with a plan, not a prayer.
Chairman Lin sat slumped behind his mahogany desk, a single lamp casting a weak pool of light over stacks of unpaid invoices and legal notices. The rest of the office was dark.
Smoke hung heavy in the air from his third cigarette, curling sluggishly toward the ceiling. Outside, the city glittered with neon and indifference. Inside, everything smelled of paper, ash, and loss.
He stared at the numbers on his screen — red, always red. Three months, maybe less, before the company was beyond saving. Shareholders were already circling like vultures. His own board had stopped returning calls.
He reached into the drawer, fingers brushing the cold metal of the revolver he had hidden there weeks ago. It had become a habit now, touching it whenever the hopelessness grew too loud. Tonight the noise was deafening.
His phone buzzed once, a soft vibration against the wood. Lin ignored it at first, but it buzzed again. With a weary sigh, he dragged it closer.
An email. Sender unknown. Subject line: You don't have to lose everything.
He opened it.
Chairman Lin,Your company has three months before collapse. You know it. I know it.Attached is an outline of a plan that can stabilize your current losses and generate a new revenue stream. If you are willing to meet discreetly, I will explain it in detail.Call me XL.
There was, indeed, an attachment — a slim file labeled Project Proposal v1.0.
For a long moment, he just stared at it. His hand shook as he clicked it open. The document was short, no more than a dozen pages, but precise. Each line cut to the bone of the company's problems: restructuring liabilities, shifting capital toward overlooked sectors, exploiting regulatory gaps. Solutions his own consultants had never dared suggest.
By the time he reached the end, the revolver lay forgotten in the drawer. The heavy knot in his chest loosened, if only a fraction.
Whoever this "XL" was, they weren't bluffing. They had seen through his company's illness like a surgeon with X-ray eyes — and handed him the first real prescription in months.
Lin exhaled, a shaky breath that felt almost like relief. For the first time in weeks, he wasn't thinking about endings.
He was thinking about survival.
Elsewhere in a doctor's office:
The room smelled faintly of antiseptic, too clean, too bright. Mo Shenyu sat rigid in the consultation chair, fists clenched on his knees, sweat beading across his brow. His breaths came uneven, shallow, the sound of a man fighting against an invisible tide.
"Breathe, Shenyu. Count with me," Dr. Chu Jian said quietly, his voice low and practiced. He was one of the few physicians trusted by the Mo family — not an easy position to hold. "Four in, four out. You've done this before."
But Mo Shenyu barely heard him. His vision tunneled, blood pounding in his ears, the beginnings of one of those episodes clawing at the edge of his control. His body, trained and hardened, betrayed him in these moments.
A hand trembled toward his wrist. The thin black hairband there dug into his skin as he twisted it, pulling until the sting cut through the haze. Slowly, painfully, the fog receded. His breathing steadied, not calm but controlled.
Dr. Chu exhaled, watching him settle back. "You rely on that too much."
"It works," Shenyu said flatly, voice hoarse.
The doctor didn't argue. He had seen this before — the aftermath of too many nights, too much violence.
The Mo family was a nest of vipers: business empire on one side, military command on the other, and constant infighting between. Mo Shenyu parents' marriage was a battlefield of its own, cold and loveless. And in the shadows lurked at least two illegitimate siblings, each with their own factions, each waiting for a chance to seize inheritance.
For Shenyu, survival wasn't just about boardrooms or barracks. It was about staying alive.
Although the Chu family, an equally formidable family in the capital had their own problems, Chu Jian was grateful for atleast having parents who loved him and siblings who supported him. That foundation was something Shenyu had never known — and it showed. Speaking of siblings…Dr.Chu's heart twinged with pain as he thought of her.. but he forcibly brought his mind back to the session with Mo Shenyu.
"Tell me about that night," Chu Jian prompted gently.
And just like that, the episode receded, as though Mo Shenyu's mind had latched onto something fiercer and far more powerful than his than his fear. His jaw flexed, his fists loosened slightly.
"The Haicheng attempt," Shenyu said, his voice hoarse. His mind drifted, unbidden, to Haicheng.
The night of the deadliest assassination attempt still clung to him. Rain that fell like knives, bullets splitting the dark. He had been shot — the fire of it burning through his side — and stumbled, half-delirious with fever.
He would have died there, in the filth and storm, if not for her.
A girl's slender arms had hooked beneath his, dragging him through the mud, every step a battle. She hadn't let go, hadn't left him to bleed out. He remembered the grit in her teeth, the way her soaked hair clung to her face, the plum blossom mark her neck, and her scent — clean and fresh, cutting through rain and cordite, elusive as though it had no place in that chaos. That faint trace had sunk into his memory, something his fever-fogged mind refused to release.
Her warmth pressed against him despite the rain. He had been slipping into unconsciousness, fever swallowing him whole, but that stubborn, desperate warmth had kept him tethered.
He had never seen her face clearly. He didn't even know her name.
But in a life where even family affection was poisoned by calculation, that fleeting moment of selfless persistence had branded itself into him.
It was the single most important display of warmth he had ever felt.
And now, greedy as it sounded, Mo Shenyu wanted more.
"There was someone… that night in Haicheng."
Chu Jian set down his pen, attentive.
"She saved me. Carried me through the storm when I should've bled out. I never saw her face clearly, but…" He twisted the hairband on his wrist, the fabric digging into his skin. "…I remember her. I want to find her."
The doctor studied him quietly. "And once you do?"
Shenyu's mouth opened, then closed. No answer came. Wanting was simple; what came after was a void he couldn't name.
Dr. Chu leaned back, eyes narrowing slightly. "You already rely too heavily on that hairband — on what it represents. If you were to find the person behind it… Shenyu, you'd risk binding your entire self to her. You don't know what weight she carries, what life she lives. Chasing a ghost is dangerous."
Shenyu's jaw tightened, but his silence was answer enough.