Two hundred thousand… Respit2…
Ji Wenze flicked the ash from his cigarette. With a slight buzz clouding his mind, it took him a while to dredge that name up from the dusty corners of his memory.
It really had happened.
He didn’t remember the kid very clearly—what stuck was the “2” in the ID, identical to the one in his own.
A few years back, Valorant still hadn’t been approved for release in China. Execut2 debuted in the EMEA region; even after winning a championship, his reputation back home remained lukewarm—half of it criticism for “going abroad for a better career.”
That only began to change when a content creator named “Respit2” started uploading videos about him.
From hardcore match analyses to fan-edited highlight montages, every video Respit2 made was polished to a remarkable degree, drawing in countless fans and gradually turning public opinion around.
Ji Wenze had never met him. He only knew the kid was young, with a lively voice in his videos—probably someone who smiled a lot.
By now, he was probably already working, right?
“…Don’t tell me you really forgot? You just tossed two hundred thousand like it was nothing, young master? Old master! Why not toss me another two hundred thousand while you’re at it?”
Xue Jian’s noisy voice pulled Ji Wenze out of his thoughts.
“I remember,” Ji Wenze said, leaning forward against the railing, exhaling smoke into the ink-dark night. He let out a short laugh. “What do you mean I ‘gave’ it? That was payment for editing videos.”
“Yeah, right,” Xue Jian scoffed. “As if I don’t know you. The kid had someone sick in the family, needed money—you just made up a ‘salary’ excuse to send it.”
Hearing it laid out like that, fragments of memory surfaced more clearly.
Anyone would lose their composure if two hundred thousand suddenly dropped into their account. The kid’s voice had trembled back then, sniffling as he repeatedly said, “God Ka, when I make money in the future, I’ll pay you back.” Polite, earnest.
What had he replied at the time?
Ji Wenze narrowed his eyes, but couldn’t recall. He let it go with a quiet chuckle and asked casually, “How’s he doing now?”
“Really well,” Xue Jian said. “Big streamer, makes good money from his day job too. Always complaining about his boss on stream—mentally, he seems pretty healthy.”
Through the drifting smoke, Ji Wenze suddenly remembered a stream from years ago.
That usually cheerful voice had sounded subdued:
“Sorry everyone… I might not be able to stream anymore. Someone in my family is sick. I wanted to see if streaming could make money, but I guess I’m not cut out for it. I’ll have to do something else.”
“What kind of work? Um… tutoring? Or part-time jobs, maybe food delivery… anything works. Someone even handed me a business card for magazine modeling before, but that felt kind of scary.”
“…Sell myself?” The boy paused, clearly not understanding, brushing it off with a joke. “A streamer like me wouldn’t even fetch much by weight—probably less than piglets at a farm…”
A gust of wind scattered the smoke. Ji Wenze lowered his gaze, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
“That’s good… as long as he’s doing well.”
“You sound like his parent,” Xue Jian remarked.
“Just… a little gratified. Reminds me of before I became a heartless capitalist.”
Xue Jian burst out laughing, his tone teasing. “If you’re willing to meet him, he’d be doing even better.”
Ji Wenze crossed one leg lazily, smiling without much care. “Meet who? Execut2’s been ‘dead’ for seven years—where am I supposed to find him?”
“Fair point. A first love is best left dead. The way you are now, no one would even dare recognize you,” Xue Jian joked.
Ji Wenze stubbed out the rest of his cigarette in the ashtray, brushed the wrinkles from his coat, and said nothing.
Xue Jian didn’t push further. “I’ll send you his stream link. Check it out if you feel like it—it’s pretty entertaining.”
Ji Wenze had no real intention of watching, but didn’t refuse either. “Mm. Anything else? I’m heading back.”
“It’s pouring outside—you’re still not home? Didn’t drive?” Xue Jian asked, surprised.
“It’s close. Went for a walk, almost got caught in the rain. Ran into a kind driver who gave me a lift…”
Thinking of the young man’s indifferent expression and the car speeding off, Ji Wenze paused, then added:
“…and then kicked me out.”
“Damn—who was it?” Xue Jian choked.
“My new subordinate,” Ji Wenze said with a soft laugh. “Apparently a talented, rather arrogant little handsome guy… got some style, though.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve taken a liking to him,” Xue Jian teased.
“…Are you insane?” Ji Wenze scoffed. “The guy’s just doing his job—getting noticed by the boss would be unlucky, wouldn’t it?”
“Fair enough… my bad,” Xue Jian conceded. Then added, “Oh right, did you bring your dog back? Let me see her sometime.”
“Jiefeng? She’s still in Beijing with my mom,” Ji Wenze said. “She’s getting old. Had surgery last year and hasn’t been the same since… Anything else? I’ve got a meeting.”
Xue Jian sighed dramatically. “Go on then, Mr. Busy CEO. Between us now stands a tragic, impenetrable barrier…”
“Hang up.”
“Wait, wait!” Xue Jian called out. “The celebration banquet Friday night—you coming?”
“Just took office. Probably won’t have time.”
Xue Jian immediately snapped, “Tch, even if you had time, you wouldn’t come!”
Ji Wenze laughed. “You already know that—why ask?”
After tossing out a casual “Transfer the bonus to my account,” he ignored the protests on the other end and hung up, stepping into the elevator.
The elevator opened directly into his apartment. The lights flicked on automatically, illuminating a vast, empty space—so quiet you could hear a pin drop.
A message from his assistant broke the silence: “Headquarters cross-border meeting confirmed to proceed in 30 minutes.”
Ji Wenze clicked his tongue and replied, Got it.
He pressed a hand lightly against his empty stomach. At dinner, he’d been too busy talking and drinking, barely eating anything. The hunger only made itself known now.
Having just moved in, his fridge was empty. He ordered takeout.
Half an hour later, instead of the delivery guy, the property manager personally brought up a discounted 37.1-yuan spicy mix.
“Mr. Ji, I noticed you didn’t order drinks, so I took the liberty of bringing pasteurized milk and fresh orange juice from the clubhouse.”
Dressed in a suit, the manager handed over the food politely, sneaking a glance at the apartment’s owner.
Bluetooth headset hooked over one ear, expression calm—every bit the elite CEO, Ji Wenze nodded in acknowledgment.
Once the door closed, he sat cross-legged on the living room carpet, tablet propped on the coffee table for the meeting. Holding disposable chopsticks in his mouth, he deftly opened the takeout box one-handed, mixing the contents while occasionally replying in English.
The contrast in his demeanor was striking.
He popped a fish ball into his mouth, chewed twice, and his expression dimmed slightly.
Seven years ago, when he returned to China and joined ICG, his first meal in Shanghai had been this very dish, recommended by teammates. After years of bland Western food, it had felt like a revelation.
Now, it didn’t taste nearly as good.
Still, by the end of the meeting, he had finished it all. The milk remained untouched; he drank only half the orange juice.
He tossed the headset aside, cleaned up, then sat back down almost immediately, one leg propped up, leaning back as he idly scrolled through WeChat. He skipped every work-related message, eventually opening the link Xue Jian had sent—Respit2’s profile.
The bio took up half the screen:
A lousy game commentator. Already has a cyber husband ❤️ Please don’t DM unless you’re selling merch of my husband. By the way, have you heard of esports player Execut2? Execut2 was the FMVP of the first VCT Champions, the FMVP of the first VCT Masters—
Ji Wenze narrowed his eyes and scrolled faster.
Further down, the most eye-catching post was a delayed stream notice:
[Picking up the boss, will start streaming later]
Ji Wenze raised an eyebrow.
Doing well… working as a driver?
More likely an assistant or secretary. With his EQ, it made sense he’d do well in the workplace.
Scrolling through the profile, Ji Wenze noticed there were barely any new videos over the years—mostly birthday tribute edits for Execut2. No sign of a “new favorite.”
Apparently, there wasn’t one.
Scrolling back to the top, his thumb paused. Beneath the profile picture was a small tag: [Live Now], titled “Mythic Ranked.”
“Mythic” was the game’s second-tier rank.
Not bad.
With nothing better to do, he tapped into the stream. Instead of using the big TV, he simply propped his phone against the milk carton and let it play out loud.
Respit2 was playing Valorant. Seven years had changed the game so much that everything—agents, abilities, maps—felt unfamiliar, like a top student suddenly reduced to kindergarten level.
Growing impatient, Ji Wenze shifted position and glanced at the top-left corner of the screen, where a small camera feed covered the minimap.
Maybe because of his pro background, he always paid more attention to hands than most.
The camera showed a pair of hands on keyboard and mouse—fair-skinned under the light, long-fingered, with just the right hint of strength.
He watched for a few seconds, about to exit—
when the hand suddenly jerked, flicking the mouse.
The in-game view snapped upward, then collapsed into a death screen.
—Only twenty seconds into the round, and the “skilled streamer” was already gone.
Ji Wenze choked on his orange juice.
The chat exploded:
[LMAOOO]
[I lost my aim just watching this]
[Streamer, you’re so bad]
A tired sigh came through the mic, followed by the young man’s voice, tinged with despair:
“I wasn’t like this before. It’s work that stole my aim…”
“…Heh.”
Ji Wenze lowered his hand from the exit button, pressed his lips together—and laughed.