By the time I woke up, the Shanghai skyline had already turned to glass and gold.
Morning light spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Jinyu's apartment, catching on the vinyl player still spinning the same record.
He was standing by the window again—coffee in one hand, still in a white shirt, sleeves half-rolled like he'd been up all night thinking instead of sleeping.
"Morning," I murmured.
He turned, one brow raised. "You slept through two calls, a press update, and a minor existential crisis."
"Yours or mine?"
"Both."
I rubbed my eyes. "You still haven't told me what happened after that whole... cloud-realm thing."
"You'll get the rest later," he said, picking up his keys. "First, food."
"Food? I literally just found out I died for you once. You think I can digest carbs right now?"
"You can," he said evenly. "You complain louder when you're hungry."
"Wow. Romantic."
"Get dressed."
Half an hour later, we were walking through the French Concession, the air still cool, the sycamore leaves dripping from last night's rain. He'd swapped his usual suit for linen and sneakers; it was unnerving seeing him look… normal.
"Where are we going?" I asked.
"You'll see."
He stopped in front of a tiny Shikumen-style café, tucked behind a flower shop. Warm steam fogged the glass. Inside, the owner—a gray-haired Shanghainese woman—lit up at the sight of him.
"Ah, Mr Xu, you've come again !The usual?"
He nodded. "Two xiaolongbao sets and chrysanthemum tea."
I blinked. "You have a usual? Here?"
"Sometimes I need to remember the world isn't all boardrooms. Like what they say on social media you know, we need to touch some grass"
He said it so simply that it hurt a little.
We sat by the window, watching trams slide by and the city pulse awake. The food came; steam rising from bamboo baskets, the broth inside each dumpling glimmering like amber.
"Careful," he said. "They're hotter than they look."
"Yeah, so's the emotional trauma, but here I am."
He actually laughed, quiet but real, and the sound did strange things to my heartbeat.
For a while we just ate in silence, the kind that felt like peace rather than avoidance. Outside, scooters hummed past; somewhere, a radio played an old Teresa Teng song.
"So," I said finally, "what happens now? With YSHT. With us. Are we still fighting Western sanctions, or are we just vibing until they bankrupt us?"
He set his cup down. "We fight. But smarter this time."
"Smarter how?"
"You'll see tomorrow. Rui Ming's setting up something new. And… we'll need you there."
I frowned. "That's ominous."
"It's honesty."
Later, as we left the café, the afternoon sun burned against the glass towers, reflections flickering over the Huangpu. The world felt like it was holding its breath again—before the next wave.
My phone buzzed with a message from Rui Ming:
Press conference confirmed for tomorrow. Bring your armor.
I looked up at Jinyu. "Guess the storm's not over."
He glanced down at me, expression soft but steady. "No. But at least now we know what we're fighting for."
And for the first time since everything began, that felt enough.
By late afternoon, the storm had eased, leaving Shanghai washed clean and glimmering.
Jinyu didn't say where we were going—just told me to grab my coat and follow.
We ended up near the river, at a quiet overlook where the city's hum softened into the sound of water against stone. The sky was a faint bruise of lavender and silver, skyscrapers flickering awake one by one.
"You brought me here to sightsee?" I asked, arching a brow as I leaned against the railing.
He shook his head. "To breathe."
"That's new for you."
"I'm learning," he said, the faintest trace of amusement tugging at his lips.
I smiled, looking at the city reflected on the water. "You know, every time I think I've got you figured out…"
"...I prove you wrong?"
"Exactly."
He didn't argue. The silence that followed wasn't awkward—it was steady. Like two people standing at the edge of something they couldn't quite name yet.
After a while, he spoke again.
"Tomorrow, things will start moving again."
"You mean the media?"
"Among other things." His gaze stayed fixed on the skyline. "Someone inside's been feeding information out."
I blinked. "Feeding—as in leaking?"
"Yes." His tone was quiet, but sharp enough to slice through the soft evening air. "For months. Rui Ming's team traced fragments in the comm logs."
My heart sank. "So there's a mole."
He nodded once.
"Do you know who?"
A pause. "Not yet."
I frowned. "You're lying."
He almost smiled—tired, ironic. "Maybe I'm protecting you."
The wind picked up again, tugging my hair into my face. He reached out—hesitated—then brushed the strand back, his fingers lingering a heartbeat too long.
"You don't have to protect me," I said quietly.
"I know," he murmured. "But I still will."
That shut me up completely. For a moment, it felt like the city didn't exist—just the two of us, the faint sound of the river, and the echo of something that shouldn't have survived lifetimes but somehow did.
Then his phone buzzed once.
He checked the screen. Yixuan.
He didn't answer—just slid it back into his coat pocket.
"You're not picking up?" I asked.
"Not tonight."
By the time we made it back to the apartment, the city was deep in blue hour. The windows shimmered with reflections of passing headlights.
He hung his coat by the door, then glanced at me. "Hungry?"
I shrugged. "Only if you're cooking."
He gave me a look halfway between exasperation and amusement. "Then I suppose we're both starving."
I grinned, padding barefoot toward the kitchen. "Relax, General. I'll order takeout."
As I scrolled through my phone, I caught his reflection in the microwave glass—still watching me, still too quiet, like there were a hundred things he wasn't saying.
And maybe I wasn't ready to hear them yet.
I brought the documents I'd prepared yesterday — printed statements, scripts, and actual evidence showing how YSHT was doing exactly the opposite of what those Western outlets claimed in their so-called "investigations."
Charts, test data, safety reports — the kind of boring stuff no one on the internet ever clicks, but the kind of boring stuff that could save us in front of the press.
When I got to the office, Rui Ming was already there, sleeves rolled up, eyes flicking across three screens at once. "They're already waiting," he said without looking up. "BBC, Bloomberg, SCMP, and—" his lip curled a bit "—Daily Mail."
I sighed. "Of course it's them."
He smirked. "You ready?"
"No," I said. "But that never stopped me before."
They'd turned the Xuhuang headquarters atrium into a war zone of lights, cables, and press tags. The stage was minimal — just a glass podium, the company insignia behind it, and Jinyu's steady presence anchoring the chaos.
He was in black today. No tie, sleeves slightly rolled up — that version of composed that looked effortless but meant he hadn't slept.
As I organized my stack of folders beside Rui Ming, I caught Yixuan across the room, tapping away on her tablet, perfectly polished, as always.
Something about the way she smiled at one of the reporters made the back of my neck prickle.
The conference started exactly at ten.
Jinyu's voice carried easily across the microphones:
"Xuhuang was founded on integrity, science, and truth — values that do not bend to trade politics. Our formulations have passed every safety standard known to the global industry. If others wish to challenge that, they are welcome to transparency, not sabotage."
He gestured lightly, and that was my cue. I stepped forward, heart pounding so loud I swore the mic could pick it up.
"These," I said, holding up the first folder, "are the lab reports from our clinical testing over the last two years. Each cross-verified by third-party auditors, including agencies in France and Japan. If you've read otherwise…" I let my voice sharpen just a bit, "…you've been reading propaganda."
The room shifted.
Some reporters exchanged glances. Cameras clicked faster.
Halfway through the Q&A, a notification blinked across the projection screen behind us. One of the background monitors — the one showing live analytics — flickered.
Then, for just one second, a document flashed onscreen.
Not one of ours.
A draft formula file. Proprietary. Confidential.
Rui Ming froze. "What the hell—"
The tech team scrambled. The screen went black, then rebooted.
Jinyu didn't flinch. "We'll be investigating that breach internally," he said calmly, voice cold enough to silence the entire room. "And to whoever's attempting to play games during a live press event—"
He looked directly at the cameras.
"—you just made it personal."
The conference ended on a knife's edge.
Outside, reporters swarmed like vultures. Rui Ming was barking at the IT division. Yixuan, somehow, was still immaculate — tablet hugged to her chest, expression unreadable.
When she passed me, she said softly, "Rough day, huh?"
Her tone was casual. But her eyes — her eyes lingered on me just a second too long.
That night, back in the apartment, the tension was almost physical.
Jinyu had been silent since the drive home, scrolling through encrypted messages on his phone. His tie was gone, collar open, hair slightly mussed — a look that should've been illegal for someone that composed.
I sat on the couch with a mug of tea that had gone cold an hour ago.
Finally, I said, "You think it was an internal leak."
He didn't look up. "I know it was."
My throat went dry. "Then… who?"
He finally met my eyes. "That's what I intend to find out."
A pause.
Then, quieter — almost like he didn't mean for me to hear it:
"I won't let anyone hurt you again."
Jinyu's words still lingered in the air when I moved to put my mug in the sink. The apartment was quiet — Shanghai glittered outside the windows like it was minding its own business for once.
But then—
My phone buzzed.
A single notification.
From an unknown number.
No text.
Just a link.
I frowned, clicked it…
and a video loaded.
Footage from the press conference.
But not the official stream.
A backstage angle I didn't recognize.
And in the corner — reflected in the dark glass of the control booth —
a woman stood smiling at the exact moment our data was leaked onto the screen.
Not looking panicked.
Not confused.
Smiling.
The footage cut abruptly.
My screen went black.
Then another message appeared:
"You're not ready for what you started."
My blood ran cold.
Behind me, Jinyu's voice was suddenly sharp.
"Jiaxin? What happened?"
I swallowed hard.
"I think…"
My voice trembled.
"I think someone's already watching us."