The silence in the Executive War Room was absolute, broken only by the whirring of the holographic display cooling down. Chen Ming was gone, physically and digitally erased from the premises, leaving behind a faint stain on the high-gloss floor that no amount of filtering could remove. The scent of ozone and triumph hung heavy in the air.
Lu Wei stood over the wreckage, his custom shirt slightly torn at the shoulder from the brief, brutal physical confrontation. His eyes were not fixed on the receding chaos, but on Xu Ling. He watched her as she powered down the main terminal, her movements precise, methodical, entirely detached from the adrenaline-soaked drama. She was exhausted, yet composed—a perfect machine of intellect that had just saved his billion-dollar empire.
He recognized the shift. The forced proximity of the past hours had rendered the formalities—the contract, the threats, the gilded cage—obsolete. They were now bound by a shared, near-catastrophic survival.
"Sun Xing," Lu Wei commanded, his voice returning to its normal low, surgical baritone. "Initiate the Obsidian Clean-Up Team. Xu Ling is the lead analyst. Give her full authority over all data retrieval and forensics related to the Consortium's financial operations."
Sun Xing, pale but efficient, snapped a salute. He looked at Xu Ling with a new, profound respect, acknowledging her true rank not in the corporate hierarchy, but in the hierarchy of necessity. "Understood, Mr. Lu. I will mobilize the team and set up her command center immediately."
Lu Wei shook his head. "No. The 88th floor is compromised. The core premise of the betrayal was familiarity and location. We operate on the principle of maximum security and minimum predictability."
He walked toward Xu Ling, his shadow falling over her. "The War Room is secure, but the residential tower is not. Chen Ming knew your apartment number. He knew my routine. That cannot happen again."
Xu Ling finally looked up, meeting his intense gaze. "My analytical station is on the 88th floor. I need that configuration, and I need the isolation."
"You need security," Lu Wei countered, his voice brooking no argument. "The 88th floor is now an archive. You will be relocated to a separate, undisclosed penthouse residence tonight. It's a completely secure system, personally maintained by my chief of staff. You will have a dedicated, military-grade analytical environment, and absolute isolation from all staff."
She felt a flicker of furious frustration. The 88th floor had been her first real solitude, her first intellectual sanctuary in years. Now, he was taking it away, replacing it with another layer of his control.
"You are forcing me to abandon my space and my routine. That is counterproductive to my optimization," she argued, clinging to the only language he understood.
"I am eliminating the flaw in the logic," Lu Wei corrected, his eyes hard. "Your routine became predictable. Your new residence will be The Citadel—a penthouse owned by a shell company in the old Financial District. No one in the company, not even Sun Xing, knows the exact location. You will operate under a new security protocol every forty-eight hours."
He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a near-whisper that was far more intimidating than a shout. "Your life is now a high-value asset, Xu Ling. I will not have it sitting in a predictable location where a petty traitor can send his thugs after it."
She knew arguing was pointless. His decision was rooted in the same unassailable logic that had saved them both. She nodded once, her defeat masked by grim acceptance. "When do we move?"
"Now. You will retrieve nothing but your laptop and the jade pendant. Everything else will be secured and moved by my staff."
By midday, Xu Ling was installed in The Citadel. It was utterly unlike the sleek, cold modernism of the Lu Tower. This penthouse was vast, built in a pre-war art deco style, possessing a heavy, intimidating grandeur. The walls were thick, the windows were narrow, and the interior was designed for privacy, not display.
Her analytical station was a self-contained unit built into the former library—dark wood, secure lines, and multiple high-powered screens. It was a space designed for secret war, not corporate oversight.
But the rest of the apartment—the dining room, the vast master suite, the state-of-the-art kitchen—felt oppressive. It was beautiful, but it lacked the simple, essential life force of the Workshop. She was alone, isolated by wealth and security.
That evening, the unexpected routine began.
Lu Wei arrived at 8:00 PM. He did not use the main lift, but a secure, private access point built into the service elevator. He was still in his business attire, exhausted but still commanding.
He walked into the kitchen, where Xu Ling was, predictably, failing. She was staring at a half-cooked bag of expensive, imported rice and a complex instruction manual she couldn't parse. The air was thick with the scent of scorching starch.
Lu Wei sighed, a rare, profound expression of exasperation. "The logical asset is failing basic operational requirements."
"It is not a logical function," she defended, slamming the instruction manual onto the pristine marble counter. "It is an intuitive, inefficient process that defies standardization. I cannot cook."
Lu Wei simply shook his head. "This is unacceptable. A sharp mind requires proper fuel."
He immediately pulled out his encrypted phone. "Chef Lin," he ordered into the device. "Cancel all evening plans. You are on immediate, exclusive contract to the Citadel. You will prepare two meals daily, adhering to the highest standards of nutritional and flavor complexity. The palate is sophisticated; do not fail."
He ended the call, looking at Xu Ling with a level of control that surpassed even the Obsidian File crisis. "This is now an operational mandate. We will dine together, here, every evening. The chef will prepare and leave the meals. You will eat them. We will use the time to review the day's forensics on the Obsidian Clean-Up."
Xu Ling was stunned. He was imposing a shared, mandatory domestic ritual—a dinner date dictated by corporate security.
"You are forcing a social interaction," she pointed out, her voice incredulous.
"I am eliminating variables," Lu Wei corrected, walking toward the library. "A shared space is a controlled space. It is easier to assess your mental status over food than over encrypted data. And it eliminates the risk of you being alone when the Consortium inevitably tries a counter-attack."
He paused at the library entrance, turning back. "Dinner is at nine. Be ready to brief me on the financial links between Chen Ming's offshore accounts and the Consortium's known leadership. And for God's sake, stay away from the stove."
The chef arrived thirty minutes later—a small, terrified man who immediately set to work. By nine, a sophisticated, aromatic meal of slow-cooked lamb and seasonal vegetables was laid out on the massive dining table.
Lu Wei was seated at the head, his jacket now off, his shirt still crisp. He gestured for Xu Ling to sit. The dinner was silent save for the methodical click of cutlery and the rapid-fire exchange of classified intelligence.
Xu Ling ate, acknowledging the fuel and the perfect flavor, while Lu Wei drilled her on the next phase of the investigation. The forced, elegant domesticity was a bizarre, intense extension of the War Room—and it created an undeniable, strange intimacy, binding their two isolated lives into one singular focus.