The boardroom lay in near-reverent silence, broken only by the low hum of the Valenheim Train hologram glowing above the table like an omen. Checks, contracts, and tablets rested in front of Yue and Adrián—silent witnesses to a destiny being written at one hundred billion euros per line.
Yue laid the blueprints on the table with surgical precision. Her breathing was steady, but beneath her flawless composure ran a tremor: the weight of everything at stake—every employee, every debt, every mistake that could mean bankruptcy. Every fiber of her body was alert, calculating risk, reviewing each clause before finally lifting her eyes to Adrián.
"I'm willing to give you a chance, Mrs. Yue," Adrián said, reclining in his chair like an amused predator. "Everything appears in order—payments, clauses, milestones… Is there anything else I should be concerned about?"
Yue inhaled, tension tightening at the base of her neck. Her mind raced: Had she miscalculated a tolerance? Left an opening he could exploit? Every second mattered, yet she had to appear unshakable.
"Yes, Mr. Valmont," she replied, her voice firm, almost glacial. "There is one special clause that requires my signature. If the project fails due to negligence on my team's part, the intellectual property and all project rights transfer to you automatically."
Adrián arched an eyebrow, entertained—as if she had just performed a magic trick for an audience unable to react. To him, this was not risk. Everything was calculated, insured, and his bank balance only grew with every move.
"You're very confident… in not failing. Don't you think that's a miscalculation?" he murmured.
"It's simply to guarantee your trust," Yue answered, drawing a slow breath to steady her fingers. "Necessary. I guarantee efficiency, compliance, and security. You receive a fully shielded investment. There is no margin for error."
Behind her, Meilan folded her arms and discreetly enforced her own preventive law—a quick pinch at Adrián's side. A subtle reminder: any attempt to overstep the agreed boundaries would have consequences. He noticed, smiled, and continued the game.
Adrián examined the documents with the calm of someone who wins even when everything collapses: the checks, the milestones, the contracts—every number aligned in his favor. The room was a giant chessboard, and he knew every possible move. Yue's tension, meanwhile, was music to his ears. Nothing entertained him more than someone who understood the game and still feared every turn.
"Perfect," Adrián said at last. "Let's sign."
Pens moved across paper with theatrical solemnity. Each signature was a pact; each clause a reminder that no one here surrendered power. Yue kept her back straight, her lips tight, her eyes locked on his. For the first time in a long while, someone looked at her as an equal—and yet she felt that any second could cost her everything. Her hand trembled slightly as she placed the final signature, a small reminder that even the most controlled feel pressure before sealing their fate.
When the last contract was signed, Yue exhaled, releasing the tension she had held in check. She had achieved her objective: her company was secured, her team protected, and the financial shark had taken the bait—but without teeth. For the first time, someone had negotiated with Adrián without pleading, without fear, and walked away intact.
Adrián gathered the checks with the elegance of a man who never loses—he simply plays and wins.
"Good," he said. "Now I'll wait for your results. My audit group will visit from time to time."
Yue offered the faintest smile, holding back the tears threatening to surface. For her, it had all been strategy and control; for Adrián, pure entertainment—a game that always ended in profit. He could treat life as a board where even other people's victories strengthened his position.
For the first time, Yue fully grasped something she had always known in theory: the rich do not lose. Ever. Even when they appear to risk everything, they emerge stronger. The difference lies in how you play your cards—and she had just learned a master-level lesson.
The weeks passed with relentless speed.
The workroom remained silent. The blueprints, the contracts, and Mr. Valmont's signed check lay on the table as if observing my every move. They were not documents. They were verdicts awaiting execution.
Every decision I make now determines whether this project breathes… or dies before its first heartbeat.
Mr. Valmont's advance is not free capital.It is borrowed oxygen.Every cent misused is an error I cannot afford to make.
I cannot afford mistakes.
I divide the advance into blocks with the precision of a strategist arranging troops before a war only I know has already begun.
40% — Extinguish critical fires.Not all debts. Only those capable of halting construction tomorrow. Banks with immediate foreclosure clauses. Suppliers of structural steel, specialized concrete, critical electronics. Overdue payroll for essential engineers.The company does not need to be healthy.It only needs to keep breathing. Survival is enough.
35% — Immediate project launch.There is no margin for delay. We begin this month: final geotechnical validations, advance purchase of materials with price locks, contracting verified local subcontractors.A visible project becomes politically costly to cancel.A project already in motion generates its own inertia.
It must become irreversible.
15% — Technical shielding.My professional insurance. Independent external audits. Double simulation of the seismic damping system. Notarized records of every critical structural decision.If something fails… it must be documented that it was not my negligence.The transfer-of-ownership clause will not activate.Not while I am breathing.
10% — Contingency fund.Regulatory pressure. Opportunistic suppliers. Political or economic interference.That money does not exist… until reality forces us to acknowledge it.
Then I make the decision everyone knew was coming, but no one believed I would execute.
I cut the dead weight without hesitation.
Inherited executives. Relatives without real competence. Old allies of my grandfather who mistook loyalty for immunity.I retain only those who understand that engineering accepts neither excuses nor nostalgia.
Fewer people.Fewer interferences.More control.
I outsource anything that could compromise the technical core: civil works, heavy logistics, industrial safety.I retain structural design, technological integration, quality control, and final validation.
If something fails… it must fail far from me.
Mr. Valmont does not need emotional explanations. His business reputation suggests he values measurable results, not dramatic narratives. So I keep communication strictly professional: executive reports, verifiable metrics, completed milestones.
Nothing more.Nothing less.
Yet there is one additional rule not written into any contract.
I am not just building a train.
I am building a system that depends on me to remain functional. Every technical module integrates under protocols only my team fully masters. Every optimization requires validation through my architecture. Every improvement passes through my algorithms.
If I attempt to fail… I lose everything.If I attempt to excel… I survive.
I contemplate the hologram of the railway route suspended above the table. The city unfolds beneath a perfect artificial light—unreal, almost fragile. Contracts float in layered projections. The check remains motionless, silent, immutable.
Mr. Valmont observes business with the serenity of those who operate at scales where risk is a calculated variable, not an existential threat. For him, every investment is a move on an immense board where even loss can be converted into strategic advantage.
For me…
It is survival.
Everything is planned.Everything measured.Everything documented.
And yet I feel the weight of responsibility coursing through every muscle like a constant current.
If I fail… there will be no net to catch me.If I succeed… I will simply remain standing.
For now, that is enough.
But then came testing day.
The control room was absolute chaos. Screens flashed red; the hum of interrupted electrical systems pounded in my ears like a war drum. My fingers trembled over the keyboard as I reviewed the indicators: transformers offline, tunnel boring machines halted, specialized concrete on the verge of setting uncontrollably.
"What do you mean 'external grid error'?" I shouted at the plant manager. "We had three backups!"
Every second was a void capable of swallowing millions of euros—and all the trust Adrián had placed in me. The advance was not free money. It was borrowed oxygen. If I failed now, there would be no safety net.
Then the automatic doors slid open with a metallic hiss. My heart jolted. Not firefighters. Not even someone coming to help. Just the auditor, notebook and pen in hand, observing every movement, every number. Writing. Recording. Saying nothing. Not intervening. Every error, every improvisation would appear in the report that would land on Adrián's desk by morning.
And then the idiot arrived—Patricio, sweating, wearing the heroic smile of someone who believes he is saving the world.
"Yue! Darling!" he shouted, ignoring the auditor. "I heard about the explosion! This world is cruel, but don't worry—I brought some friends who know about electricity. I'll save you! Forget Valmont's report—we'll fix this!"
The veil dropped. He was not a concerned husband. He was a man who had created the disaster to feel indispensable. Every plan I had crafted, every block of financial oxygen calculated with surgical precision, now endangered by his improvised hero complex.
I drew a slow breath, aligning my thoughts like soldiers in formation.
"Patricio," I said, my voice cold and contained. "This is not the time for heroics or improvisation. Everything you do right now makes the situation worse. Stay back. If you want to help, observe and learn. That is the only way we survive."
The auditor continued writing in silence, indifferent to my words, to the tension, to the chaos. Each stroke of his pen was a reminder that what happened now would carry unavoidable consequences.
As my fingers adjusted simulations, redistributed contracts, and reprogrammed subcontractors, I understood something: I could contain the chaos, neutralize the idiot, and keep the risk under control. Survival did not mean winning without disruption; it meant emerging intact while others believed the disaster gave them power.
And for Yue Zhang, that was enough.