Lin Wanwan was awakened by knocking again.
She squinted as she got up, her hair a mess like a bird’s nest, still wearing the same old, pilled T-shirt she’d slept in. Walking to the door, she peered through the peephole.
Xu Jia stood outside, holding two cups of soy milk and a bag of fried dough sticks.
Lin Wanwan opened the door, staring blankly at her. “How did you get up here?”
“The main door downstairs wasn’t locked.” Xu Jia walked in and placed the breakfast on the table. “You’ve slept for ten hours. That’s enough. Get up and eat.”
Lin Wanwan glanced at her phone. It was only seven in the morning.
Last night, she and Xu Jia had talked late into the night, discussing many things. When Xu Jia left, Lin Wanwan thought they wouldn’t meet again until the afternoon at the earliest.
“Aren’t you tired?” she asked.
Xu Jia sat on the plastic stool, opened a cup of soy milk, and took a sip.
“I’ve waited ten years for this day,” she said. “Tired? Not a chance.”
Lin Wanwan looked at her, suddenly feeling a bit dazed.
Ten years ago, this woman was a top-tier agent in the industry, managing three A-list stars and earning over a hundred million a year. Now, she sat in a cluttered storage room filled with cardboard boxes, drinking three-yuan soy milk, yet her eyes shone as brightly as a twenty-year-old’s.
“What are you looking at?” Xu Jia asked.
Lin Wanwan smiled. “You look like a madwoman.”
Xu Jia smiled back. “Likewise.”
Lin Wanwan went to freshen up. When she returned, Xu Jia had already unwrapped the fried dough sticks, inserted straws into the soy milk, and neatly arranged everything on the table.
She sat down, took a bite of the fried dough stick, and mumbled, “Coming so early—is something up?”
Xu Jia pulled a document from her bag and placed it in front of Lin Wanwan.
“Zhao Tai’s itinerary.”
Lin Wanwan paused, put down the fried dough stick, and opened it.
The document wasn’t thick, just over ten pages, densely filled with handwritten notes. The handwriting was neat, but some parts had been crossed out and rewritten, as if revised many times.
March 1st, 2:00 PM, Taihe Capital Headquarters board meeting.
March 2nd, 7:00 PM, Yunding Club dinner.
March 3rd, Tianlu Golf Club.
March 4th, flight to Hong Kong.
March 7th, return from Hong Kong.
…
Lin Wanwan looked up. “How did you get this?”
Xu Jia smiled, a cold smile.
“I’ve waited ten years for this itinerary.”
She pointed to one line. “March 2nd, 7:00 PM, Yunding Club. Zhao Tai’s private territory, not open to the public. Only people from his circle go there.”
“Ten years ago, that’s where he ‘invited’ me for tea.”
Lin Wanwan stared at the line, silent for a few seconds.
“What do you plan to do? Storm in and confront him?”
Xu Jia shook her head. “It’s not the right time yet. He has over a dozen bodyguards around him. We can’t get in. And…”
She paused, her gaze at Lin Wanwan growing complicated. “It’s not just Zhao Tai I’m after.”
Lin Wanwan looked at her, waiting for her to continue.
Xu Jia took a deep breath.
“Ten years ago, it wasn’t just Zhao Tai who ruined me,” she said. “There was someone else.”
“Jiang Man.”
Lin Wanwan’s brow twitched.
Of course, she remembered that name. Jiang Man, senior vice president of Xingyao Media, in her early forties, always dressed in a suit, always wearing impeccable makeup, and always speaking in a soft, gentle tone.
The woman who had told her backstage, “The game has only just begun.”
The woman who had sent people to “warn” her.
“What’s the relationship between Jiang Man and Zhao Tai?” she asked.
Xu Jia sneered.
“Jiang Man is Zhao Tai’s person.”
“Ten years ago, she was still my assistant.”
She paused, her voice flattening as if reading a file unrelated to herself:
“I brought her into the industry, taught her the ropes, treated her like a younger sister. I helped her find her apartment, bought her first formal suit, and gave her the first artist I was supposed to manage.”
“And then she sold me out to Zhao Tai.”
Lin Wanwan remained silent.
Xu Jia continued:
“Zhao Tai wanted me to arrange artists for his dinner parties, and I refused. On the surface, he said nothing, but behind the scenes, he started targeting me. First, my artists were poached, then my resources were cut off, and finally, no company dared to hire me.”
“At the time, I didn’t know that all of this was Jiang Man helping him. She was the person I trusted most, and she knew all my cards. She told Zhao Tai every detail of my past, every weakness.”
She looked up at Lin Wanwan.
“Do you know what the most ridiculous part is?”
Lin Wanwan shook her head.
“After I was blacklisted, she took my place. She became the vice president of Xingyao Media, Zhao Tai’s most capable subordinate. Ten years have passed—she’s basked in glory, while I’ve hidden in the shadows. She thought I was already dead.”
Xu Jia smiled, but the smile looked uglier than tears.
“But she doesn’t know—I’ve waited ten years, just for today.”
Lin Wanwan looked at her, her mind stirring as she activated the Eye of Truth.
Xu Jia’s information appeared:
[Emotions: Calm 71%, Anger 65%, Determination 98%, Inner Thought: “She truly waited ten years for this day”]
[Hidden Information: Jiang Man, Female, 42 years old, Senior Vice President of Xingyao Media, Core Subordinate of Zhao Tai, Responsible for Handling “Sensitive Matters”]
[Connection: Participated in the acquisition of Lin Wanwan’s former company three years ago. During the original host’s period of being shelved, she visited Xingyao Media at least six times.]
Lin Wanwan was taken aback.
Three years ago? When the original host was shelved, Jiang Man had visited?
She had never heard of this.
“Sister Xu Jia,” she asked, “did Jiang Man visit Xingyao Media three years ago?”
Xu Jia was startled: “How did you know?”
“She came?”
“She did,” Xu Jia nodded. “At the time, Xingyao had just acquired several small companies, and she went to inspect them. I saw news photos online—she was standing outside Xingyao’s building, with Li Jianguo beside her.”
“Did she meet me?”
Xu Jia thought for a moment and shook her head: “I don’t know about that. Why are you asking?”
Lin Wanwan fell silent for a few seconds.
“Because I think she might have known me long ago.”
The room grew quiet for a while.
Outside the window, the streets began to grow lively. Vendors below were hawking vegetables, the sounds of electric bike horns rose and fell, and someone was talking loudly on the phone. This storage room, piled high with cardboard boxes, felt like a small island floating in the noisy sounds of the city.
Xu Jia looked at Lin Wanwan, her gaze carrying a hint of scrutiny.
“During the three years you were shelved, Jiang Man visited Xingyao six times,” she said. “I’ve checked.”
“Each time, she specifically asked to see you. But every time, Li Jianguo stopped her.”
Lin Wanwan frowned: “Li Jianguo stopped her?”
“Li Jianguo wanted to use you as a pawn,” Xu Jia said. “He thought that as long as he kept you in his grasp, he could negotiate with Jiang Man and gain more leverage in front of Zhao Tai. But he didn’t know…”
She paused, her tone growing heavier:
“What Jiang Man wants isn’t you as a person. She wants you dead.”
Lin Wanwan said nothing.
She recalled the text message: “The game has just begun, don’t die too soon.” She thought of the mysterious “Capital Bane,” who had provided evidence before deleting the account. She remembered how quickly and precisely the Jiangcheng Tax Bureau had arrived.
She had always believed her opponent was Li Jianguo, but now it seemed Li Jianguo was merely a minor player.
The real opponent was lurking in an even darker place.
“So our enemy is the same person?” she asked.
Xu Jia nodded.
“Zhao Tai is the source, Jiang Man is the blade.”
“Bringing down Zhao Tai will take time. But Jiang Man…”
Her eyes turned cold as she said, “We can start with her.”
Lin Wanwan looked at her. “Do you have a plan?”
Xu Jia smiled.
That smile was completely different from before—not bitter, not cold, but the kind of smile a hunter wears when spotting prey.
“I’ve waited ten years. Did you think I was just waiting to die?”
She pulled another document from her bag, thicker than the last one.
“This is everything about Jiang Man over the years.”
“What she’s done for Zhao Tai, how much kickback she’s taken, who she’s screwed over…”
“It’s all here.”
Lin Wanwan took it and opened it.
Inside were densely packed records—dates, numbers, names. Some were handwritten, some printed, and a few pages were photocopies torn from some document.
The last page was a photograph.
In the photo, Jiang Man stood beside a man, smiling brightly.
The man was in his fifties, dressed in a suit, well-maintained.
Lin Wanwan stared at the face for a few seconds.
“Zhao Tai,” she said.
Xu Jia nodded.
Lin Wanwan closed the file and looked at Xu Jia.
“Why did you choose me?” she asked. “You’ve waited ten years. You couldn’t have had only me as an option.”
Xu Jia was silent for a few seconds.
“Over these ten years, I’ve met many people,” she said. “Artists Zhao Tai cheated, small business owners he ruined, partners he worked with and then discarded. Everyone hates him. Everyone wants revenge.”
“But no one dares to actually act.”
She looked at Lin Wanwan.
“You’re different.”
“When you said in court, ‘The company made me sleep on the floor,’ I thought to myself, is this person truly fearless, or just foolish?”
“Later, when you received the white chrysanthemums and sang a song on the spot, I realized you weren’t foolish. You were truly fearless.”
“I don’t need someone clever,” Xu Jia said. “I need someone who isn’t afraid to die.”
Lin Wanwan didn’t respond.
She stood up, walked to the window, and turned her back to Xu Jia.
Outside were rows of gray buildings, their countless windows like countless eyes.
Knock, knock, knock.
Suddenly, knocking sounded at the door.
Both turned to look at the entrance simultaneously.
It wasn’t ordinary knocking—three knocks in a set, two seconds apart, neither hurried nor slow, exactly like the way Xu Jia had knocked earlier.
Lin Wanwan and Xu Jia exchanged a glance.
Xu Jia silently stood up, walked to the door, and peered through the peephole. Then she took a step back, her expression turning strange.
“Who is it?” Lin Wanwan asked.
“A delivery person,” Xu Jia said.
Lin Wanwan walked to the door and looked through the peephole.
Outside stood a delivery worker in gray overalls, holding a small box and looking down at his phone. Nothing seemed unusual.
She opened the door.
“Ms. Lin Wanwan? Please sign for this.” The delivery person handed her the box and a pen.
Lin Wanwan took the box and glanced at it.
An ordinary express box, palm-sized, not heavy. The recipient information on the shipping label was handwritten, and the sender field was left blank.
“Who sent it?” she asked.
The courier shook his head. “Don’t know, it’s not written on the label. There’s just a note written on the box.”
Lin Wanwan looked down.
On the side of the box was a line of handwritten text in black marker, the handwriting somewhat messy: Before you open it, think carefully—do you really want to know the answer?
She signed for it, and the courier left.
Lin Wanwan stood at the doorway holding the box. Xu Jia walked over, and the two of them stared at the line of text together.
“Open it?” Xu Jia asked.
Lin Wanwan didn’t say a word and tore open the box.
Inside was a USB drive and a letter. The letter contained only one sentence: What was Jiang Man doing on the day you were blacklisted three years ago?
Lin Wanwan stared at the line of text, silent for a few seconds. Then she turned and walked to the bedside, reaching under the bed to pull out an old laptop.
This computer was one she bought herself after being blacklisted three years ago—a secondhand laptop with a crack in the lower right corner of the screen and a few keys on the keyboard that weren’t very responsive, but it still worked.
She powered it on, plugged in the USB drive, and opened it. Inside was only one video file, named: 2019.6.18 Xingyao Media · Internal Surveillance Footage.
Lin Wanwan’s finger hovered over the mouse.
June 18, 2019—that was the first day she was blacklisted.
That morning, she went to the company as usual and was called into a meeting room. Li Jianguo sat inside, smiling as he said the company had decided to let her take a break for a while. Her contract would remain unchanged, and her salary would continue to be paid—she should just treat it as a long vacation.
She said okay.
When she walked out, everyone she encountered in the hallway avoided her gaze as if she were invisible.
She packed her things and left, never returning after that.
Lin Wanwan clicked on the video.
The footage was black-and-white surveillance video with a timestamp. The upper right corner read: Xingyao Media · 8th Floor Hallway.
The 8th floor was the executive office area of Xingyao Media.
In the footage, the hallway was empty, with only a door closed at the far end.
The time ticked by: 09:23, 09:24, 09:25.
At 09:27, the door opened, and a person walked out.
Lin Wanwan stared at the screen.
It was a woman, around forty years old, wearing a dark-colored suit, her long hair tied up in a bun. She walked at a steady pace, her high heels clicking against the floor.
Jiang Man.
She emerged from the meeting room and stood in the hallway for a few seconds, looking down at her phone as if waiting for something.
Two minutes later, the elevator doors opened, and another woman stepped out.
She looked younger, dressed in professional attire, holding a folder in her hand. She walked up to Jiang Man and said a few words.
Jiang Man took the folder, flipped through a few pages, and nodded. Then she looked up and glanced at the camera.
She looked directly at the camera, as if she knew someone was filming, as if she knew someone would see this footage ten years later.
Lin Wanwan pressed pause, freezing the frame at the moment Jiang Man looked up.
Xu Jia stood beside her, staring at the screen, her face pale.
“This is…” Her voice was hoarse.
Lin Wanwan didn’t speak and continued playing the video.
Jiang Man exchanged a few words with the younger woman, then they walked together toward the other end of the hallway, disappearing from the frame. The video ended there.
Lin Wanwan dragged the progress bar back, watching it again, and then once more.
On the third viewing, Xu Jia suddenly said, “Wait.”
Lin Wanwan paused.
“Here.” Xu Jia pointed to a corner of the screen. “The folder in that young woman’s hand.”
Lin Wanwan zoomed in on the image. It was a bit blurry, but she could make out a sticky note attached to the folder with a few words written on it: Lin Wanwan Materials.
The room fell silent.
Lin Wanwan stared at those blurry words on the screen for a long time.
Xu Jia stood beside her, not saying a word.
The distant cries of vegetable vendors drifted up from downstairs, sounding far, far away.
“So that day,” Lin Wanwan finally spoke, her voice flat, “before I was called into the meeting room, she was already up there.”
Xu Jia remained silent.
“Li Jianguo said the company had decided to put me on leave. While I was downstairs signing the papers, she was upstairs reviewing my materials.”
“By the time I packed my things and left, she was already gone.”
Lin Wanwan closed the video, pulled out the USB drive, and held it in her hand.
The USB drive was small, light, almost weightless.
“Who sent this?” she asked.
Xu Jia shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“He knows things I don’t.”
“Right.”
“He doesn’t want me to remain in the dark.”
“Right.”
“He…”
Lin Wanwan trailed off, not finishing her sentence.
She thought of that text message, the mysterious “Capital Bane,” and the tax audit that had come too quickly.
Someone had been watching her all along. Someone was helping her. Someone didn’t want her to die.
But that person never showed their face, never left a name—only handed her a knife when she needed it.
Lin Wanwan slipped the USB drive into her pocket.
“Sister Xu Jia,” she said.
“Hmm?”
“You’ve waited ten years for this day.”
“So have I.”
She looked at Xu Jia, smiled faintly, and said, “Now, let’s go face our common enemy together.”