Days were like steel wire tempered by fire, pulled tighter and tighter, and sharpened more and more.
On the forty-ninth day after Yan Hanxie's departure, the first monthly operations report for the pilot cities of the "Spark Project" was released, with all core indicators soaring far beyond expectations.
In the email's CC list, that long-silent work email belonging to Yan Hanxie lay quietly at the very top.
Zong Yi stared at that name for a few seconds. Her fingertip hovered over the send button.
In the end, it fell steadily.
No reply.
As expected.
Only that late at night, while she was in the apartment study verifying data in front of the computer screen, her personal phone lit up once.
There was no call, only a text message from that unfamiliar southern number.
The message contained only two words:
[Very good.]
No signature. No tone.
Like a stone thrown into a deep pool that was unwilling even to produce ripples.
Zong Yi stared at those two words. The light of the screen reflected on her expressionless face.
After a long time, she turned off the screen and placed the phone face down on the desk.
In the study, only the soft tapping of the keyboard remained, along with the endless background noise of the city outside the window.
The next day, an unexpected change occurred.
First came an extremely routine annual inspection by the tax authorities. For some reason, the focus suddenly shifted toward the accounts of several affiliated companies involved in the early preparation stages of the "Spark Project."
Then two competitors who had always been watching "Spark" closely almost simultaneously "leaked" so-called insider information to the media, hinting that the project had "gray areas" regarding data compliance and user privacy.
Rumors spread through the industry overnight like mold in spring.
Vice President Sun panicked and urgently convened a meeting. His attitude wavered, and between the lines he suggested "whether it might be necessary to temporarily slow things down" and "reassess risks."
Several directors who had originally been observing from the sidelines also began speaking in subtly different tones.
The pressure in the meeting room was suffocatingly low.
The beam of the projector illuminated faces with all kinds of expressions.
Zong Yi sat midway along the long table, her back straight. Spread out before her were not emergency plans, but all the data monitoring logs and compliance documents since the launch of "Spark."
She did not argue.
She did not explain.
When Vice President Sun once again suggested "temporarily cooling things down," she calmly pulled up a set of real-time data.
"This is the user activity and transaction conversion rate of the three core pilot cities of 'Spark' in the past twenty-four hours," she said.
Her voice was not loud, but it clearly cut through the stagnant air in the meeting room.
"At the peak of the negative public opinion surge, not only did the data not decline, it actually increased by three point five percent due to the rise in attention."
She switched the page. It was a detailed legal compliance summary. Beside every clause that might raise doubts, there were red annotations citing the corresponding legal basis and the preventive measures already implemented.
"Regarding the doubts about taxation and privacy, all operations are within the framework of current laws and regulations, and there is a complete documentation chain available for traceability. As for the competitors' so-called 'insider information,' preliminary verification shows the source is suspicious and seriously inconsistent with verifiable facts." She raised her eyes and swept her gaze across everyone present, finally letting it fall on Vice President Sun's ashen face. "I believe that any move to slow down or retreat at this moment would cause the greatest harm to the project and would also send the wrong signal to the market and our partners."
She paused, then added. Her tone remained calm, yet carried a blade-like sharpness.
"Before President Yan left, she entrusted 'Spark' to me completely. Her judgment was that this project deserves investment and must succeed.
I believe in her judgment, and I believe that everything our team has done so far can withstand any scrutiny."
When Yan Hanxie's name was mentioned, there was a faint stir in the meeting room.
Vice President Sun's expression grew even uglier.
In the end, the meeting concluded in a tense compromise: a temporary crisis team would be formed under Zong Yi's leadership to directly respond to the accusations, but the project's progress "must proceed with greater caution."
After the meeting, Zong Yi returned to her office and locked the door.
She did not sit down. Instead, she walked to the window, placing both hands on the cold windowsill as she looked at the streams of cars and people moving like ants below.
Her heart beat heavily and slowly in her chest, carrying a sense of exhaustion after intense excitement.
Every sentence she had spoken in the meeting just now felt like iron blocks pulled from an ice cellar—cold and hard.
She knew she was taking a risk, confronting the acting president, gambling with the trust and authority Yan Hanxie had left her.
But she had no other choice.
'Spark' could not stop. Not only because it was her own effort, but also because… this was the last thing Yan Hanxie most wanted to accomplish.
That almost pleading sentence—help me watch over it—felt like a silent brand burned into her bones.
In the dead of night, that familiar, heavy phantom sensation began troubling the inner side of her left wrist again.
She unconsciously touched the spot, her fingertips meeting a smooth coolness.
She walked to the desk and opened the bottom drawer she rarely touched.
The velvet pouch lay there quietly.
She did not take it out. She only looked at it.
Then she closed the drawer and sat back in front of the computer.
On the screen was the first draft of the counterattack plan the crisis team had worked on overnight.
She forced herself to focus on the dense lines of text and data.
Yet deep in her mind another image flashed uncontrollably: the humid southern seaside, the woman on the phone with a tired, hoarse voice saying "I regret it" and "are you doing well."
Did she know about the trouble "Spark" was facing now?
If she knew, what would she think?
Would she still say… "very good"?
Three days later, the counterattack began.
First, the tax authorities issued a clarification statement confirming that the inspection was a routine procedure and that no major violations had been found among the companies associated with 'Spark.'
Next, the legal team sent strongly worded lawyer's letters to the two competitors who had first spread the false information.
At the same time, Zong Yi personally appeared in interviews with two of the most reputable financial media outlets. She avoided none of the sharp questions and used data and logic to dismantle every accusation thoroughly.
The interview recordings were carefully edited and simultaneously promoted across major platforms.
In the face of ironclad facts and a forceful stance, public opinion began to turn with difficulty.
But the pressure did not lessen.
The competitors' counterattacks became more hidden and vicious, while internal conflicts caused by Vice President Sun's ambiguous attitude also drained the team's energy.
Zong Yi was like a bowstring stretched to its limit. During the day she dealt with attacks from all directions, and at night she reviewed and adjusted strategies. Her sleep was reduced to less than four hours.
Coffee and strong tea became the only fuel keeping her awake.
It was another sleepless dawn.
Outside the window the sky had turned gray-white, and she was the only person left in the office.
She had just finished an overseas conference with the legal team. Her throat felt like it was on fire from dryness, and her temples throbbed with stabbing pain.
Leaning back in her chair with her eyes closed, she tried to let her chaotic mind rest for a moment.
Her phone vibrated on the desk.
Not her work phone—her personal one.
She opened her eyes and looked at the southern number flashing on the screen.
Four in the morning.
This time she did not hesitate long before answering.
"Hello."
There was no sound of waves on the other end.
Only an almost vacuum-like silence.
Then Yan Hanxie's voice came, hoarser than before, and even more… hollow.
As if it were coming from the depths of a well.
"I saw the news," she said, going straight to the point.
Zong Yi tightened her grip on the phone.
"Mm."
"They've targeted you." It was not a question, but a statement.
There was no emotion in her tone.
"As expected," Zong Yi replied calmly.
A brief silence.
The quiet on the other end was almost suffocating.
"You did the right thing," Yan Hanxie suddenly said. Her speech was slow, word by word, as if struggling out from heavy shackles. "You can't retreat. Not even a single step."
Zong Yi's heart felt as though something had struck it lightly.
"I know," she said softly.
"Sun Jingming (Vice President Sun) isn't reliable." A trace of cold ridicule flickered in Yan Hanxie's tone before disappearing. "He only wants to preserve what already exists. He's afraid of responsibility. When necessary, you don't have to pay attention to him. The authorization letter is in your hands."
She was teaching her how to navigate the gaps of power, how to use the weapons she had left behind.
"I understand," Zong Yi said.
Another silence.
But this time the silence was no longer suffocating emptiness. Instead, it felt like a kind of silent support.
"Zong Yi," Yan Hanxie called her name again. Her voice lowered, carrying an almost weary sincerity. "You've worked hard."
That phrase—you've worked hard—was like the earlier very good: brief, direct, without any decoration.
Yet it was like a small needle unexpectedly piercing the protective layer Zong Yi had built with iron will over the past days.
A sudden sting of soreness rose at the tip of her nose.
She bit her lower lip fiercely, forcing that untimely weakness back down.
"It's what I should do," she heard her steady voice reply.
"And also…" Yan Hanxie paused for a long time—so long that Zong Yi thought the signal had cut again. Only then did she speak again, her voice so soft it was almost inaudible. "Don't push yourself too hard. Your body… belongs to you."
She was reminding her to take care of her health.
At such a chaotic moment, at a dawn when she herself was in the center of a storm.
Zong Yi's throat tightened.
She opened her mouth but could not produce any sound.
From the other end came an extremely faint sigh that almost dissolved into the silence.
"I have to hang up," Yan Hanxie said, her voice returning to calm. "You… be careful."
Then, without waiting for Zong Yi to respond, the call ended.
The busy tone sounded.
Zong Yi still held the phone to her ear, listening to the rhythmic beeping echo in the vast, silent office.
Outside the window the sky had brightened a little more.
The gray-white turned into pale dawn light with a faint touch of orange at the edge.
A new day, carrying more challenges and unknowns, was about to surge in.
She lowered the phone. Her palm was cold, yet it seemed to retain some invisible warmth from the other end of the call.
She walked to the window and looked at the brightening morning light on the horizon.
Her heart beat heavily in her chest, but it no longer felt as hollow as before.
Suddenly she remembered the prayer beads in the drawer.
Turning around, she walked back to the desk and opened it.
This time she did not hesitate. She reached out and took the velvet pouch.
She untied the string and poured out the dark brown sandalwood beads.
She held them in her hand. They were heavy and cool, yet seemed to carry a faint, steady warmth that belonged to the wood itself.
Lowering her head, she looked at the beads in her palm.
Then slowly she raised her left hand and wrapped the string of beads—once abandoned, later restrung by her—around her empty wrist, one loop at a time.
The clasp was a little loose, so she adjusted it and fastened it.
The dark wooden beads rested quietly against the pale bone of her wrist.
She raised her wrist toward the gradually brightening sky outside the window and looked at it for a long time.
Then she lowered her hand, tidied the scattered documents on the desk, shut down the computer, and picked up her coat and car keys.
Turning around, she walked toward the door.
On her wrist, the string of prayer beads that did not belong to her swayed lightly with her steps, silently brushing against her pulse.
—
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