On the day I got out, two people were waiting at the gate. One was my fiancée, Sophia Kane—the industry's youngest female CEO of a publicly traded company. The other was my sister, Lucy. Five years ago, they personally sent me to prison. Sophia wore a black coat, standing ramrod straight, as if she were here to pick someone up. My sister kept her head down, not daring to even look at me. "Ethan..." Her voice was tight. I ignored her. A black Maybach was parked by the curb. I got straight in. **1** I'd been hearing that sound—the iron gate closing behind me—for five years. Hearing it from inside versus hearing it from outside—it wasn't the same. The sunlight was blinding. I squinted, standing at the prison entrance, taking a deep breath. The air smelled of dust, mixed with greasy smoke drifting from a roadside barbecue stand. Five years. I'd almost forgotten that smell. I carried a clear plastic bag containing the phone, wallet, and stopped watch I'd had on me the day I went in. The phone had long since died. The wallet still held three hundred and twenty dollars, along with a photo of Sophia. I pulled out the photo, glanced at it, and shoved it into a nearby trash can. Then I looked up and saw them. Sophia stood on the opposite sidewalk wearing a black cashmere coat, her hair pulled into a flawless bun, makeup immaculate, feet in stiletto heels. She stood perfectly straight, expression calm, like she was picking up a colleague returning from a business trip. No—even more indifferent than that. Lucy stood beside her. She was thinner than five years ago. Face pale, head down, fingers twisted together, knuckles red. She didn't dare look at me. I had no desire to look at her either. Sophia spoke first. She called out across the street: "Ethan." Her voice wasn't loud, but loud enough for me to hear clearly. It carried a kind of condescending composure. I didn't respond. I was looking at the car parked by the curb. A black Maybach. I didn't recognize the license plate, but I recognized the business card pressed under the windshield. Three words in gold embossing: Sterling Whitmore. The old man had kept his word. "Ethan..." Lucy finally raised her head, voice tight, eyes reddening. She took half a step forward, then stopped. Five years ago in court, she hadn't worn that expression. Back then she'd stood in the witness box, voice clear and composed, systematically nailing her own brother to the defendant's seat sentence by sentence. "I saw with my own eyes that Ethan attacked someone. After the victim fell, he kept kicking." Every word had been a nail. I'd looked at her then. She'd looked back. Her gaze had flickered for one second. Just one second. Then she'd looked away and continued with her rehearsed testimony, sending me to prison. And now she stood at the prison gate, head bowed, saying "Ethan." As I walked past her, I caught the scent of her perfume. Expensive. Five years ago she'd used ninety-nine-cent floral water from the supermarket. Apparently that fifty thousand dollars had served her well. I didn't stop, heading straight for the Maybach. Sophia's expression changed. She hurried across the street, heels clicking urgently on the asphalt. "Ethan, wait." I pulled open the car door. "Ethan! I need to talk to you." I bent down and slid into the back seat. The car had a faint sandalwood scent. The leather seats were warm from the sun. A man in his fifties sat in the passenger seat, salt-and-pepper hair, wearing a dark gray Mandarin-collar suit, back perfectly straight. He turned to look at me and nodded slightly. "Mr. Hayes, my name is George. Mr. Whitmore arranged for me to wait here for you before he passed." He took a black document bag from the glove box and handed it over with both hands. "Everything Mr. Whitmore left for you is here." I took it and unzipped the bag. Inside was a stack of documents. On top was a will with a notary seal still visible. I flipped to the second page and saw a string of numbers. My fingers paused. Then I closed the document bag and looked out the window. Sophia still stood beside the car, bent over, one hand tapping the window, mouth opening and closing. Through the glass, I couldn't hear what she was saying. I didn't need to. "Let's go," I said. George started the engine. The Maybach pulled smoothly away from the curb, gliding past Sophia. In the rearview mirror, her hand hung suspended in midair, body frozen. Lucy chased after us for a few steps, then stopped and crouched by the roadside, hands covering her face. I pulled my gaze back, leaned against the seat, and closed my eyes. Five years. One thousand eight hundred and twenty-six days. Every single day inside, I'd thought about one thing. Not revenge. Accounting. Who owed me what. How much. How to calculate the interest. Now the ledger was open. Time to collect. **2** The Maybach stopped in front of a luxury apartment building in the east district. The elevator went straight to the top floor. When the doors opened, the entire floor was the apartment. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked half the city's skyline. The setting sun turned all the glass facades golden. In the center of the living room sat an unopened bottle of premium liquor, with a letter beside it. The envelope read: *For Ethan*. Sterling Whitmore's handwriting. The strokes were still strong, but the line endings showed slight tremors. He'd written this in his final months. I didn't rush to open the letter. First I sat down and spread the contents of the document bag across the table one by one. George stood beside me, poured me a cup of tea, then began explaining each item. "The overseas trust fund for Summit Holdings. Thirty-five percent equity stake, current market value approximately one hundred twenty billion dollars. This equity is held through a three-tier offshore structure. Mr. Whitmore's biological son, Sebastian, still has no idea this asset exists." I flipped to the next page. "Switzerland, Singapore, and the Cayman Islands. Seventeen accounts total across all three locations. Cash and equivalents totaling approximately thirty-eight billion dollars." Next page. "Prime commercial real estate in eleven locations across major cities. Estimated value approximately twenty-six billion dollars." George finished listing these figures and paused. "Mr. Hayes, your current personal assets are conservatively estimated at over one hundred eighty billion dollars." I picked up the teacup and took a sip. Three years ago, on the metal bunk in prison, he'd coughed so hard his whole body curled into a ball. I'd put my own blanket over him and gone to the infirmary to get him cough medicine. Back then, no one paid him any attention. A seventy-something old man, hair completely white, gaunt, hunched over, voice weak when he spoke. Everyone assumed he was just an ordinary fraud convict. He didn't explain. I didn't ask. I just gave him half my egg at every meal. When he coughed, I got him hot water. When someone gave him trouble, I stood in front of him. No particular reason. I just felt an old man shouldn't be treated that way. Half a year later, one evening, he suddenly spoke to me. "Ethan, why did they send you here?" I told him what had happened. My business partner set me up. My fiancée betrayed me. My sister gave false testimony. He listened in silence for a long time. Then said one sentence: "My son did the same to me." Later I learned that Sterling Whitmore was the founder of Summit Holdings. Self-made. Forty years building a street-corner workshop into a hundred-billion-dollar commercial empire. Then his own son Sebastian, working with board members, forged a psychiatric evaluation, and on grounds of "senile dementia and incompetence," sent him to prison. The charge was embezzlement. All evidence fabricated. Just like mine. We shared that cell for three years. He taught me to read financial reports, analyze business models, speak the language of capital. Three months before he died, he called in his overseas lawyers. One by one, he transferred every hidden asset Sebastian didn't know about into my name. "Ethan, I have no other requests." He lay on the infirmary bed, gripping my hand. His strength was already fading. "Take this money. Live a good life." "As for Sebastian..." He paused. His eyes held no hatred, only weariness. "Help him if you want. Or don't. Either way." The night he died, heavy rain fell outside. I sat by his bed the entire night. That was the first time I cried after going to prison. Also the last. After that, I no longer needed tears. What I needed was patience. The first night after my release, I sat in the living room of this apartment and had George pull up everything about Derek Ford and Sophia from the past five years. Derek Ford. My former business partner. Now CEO of Ford Tech, a company on the verge of going public. Built on the core algorithm I'd written years ago. Sophia Kane. My former fiancée. Married Derek, leveraged the Ford family resources to start her own PR firm, and took it public. "The industry's youngest female CEO"—she loved that title. Five years ago she slapped me, then climbed into Derek's car using my dignity as a stepping stone. Now she had fame and fortune, living a glamorous life. While I'd spent five years eating moldy bread in prison. George handed me a detailed financial analysis report. "Mr. Hayes, Ford Tech's largest client is Summit Cloud Data, a Summit Holdings subsidiary. Annual orders around eight hundred million dollars, representing forty-two percent of Ford's total revenue." Forty-two percent. I smiled slightly. "Tomorrow, set up a dinner meeting with whoever's in charge at Summit Cloud Data." George nodded. "Also," I set down my teacup, "what's the biggest supplier for Sophia's PR firm?" "Stellar Media. Also owned by Summit." "Schedule that meeting too." I stood and walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows. The city's lights spread out below me—dense, scattered, countless points of light. Five years ago when I was ripped from this city, I'd taken nothing with me. Now I was back. With one hundred eighty billion dollars. And a very long bill to collect. **3** Three days after my release. Sophia called me. The number was newly changed. After I'd charged my old phone, her number had come through. "Ethan, let's meet up. There are some things we need to discuss in person." Her tone was flat, even carrying a hint of condescension. I said fine. She chose the location—East Lake Manor, the most expensive private restaurant in the city. When I arrived, two people were already sitting in the private room. Sophia occupied the head seat, wearing a dove-gray suit dress, pearl earrings, perfect lipstick. Derek Ford sat beside her. Five years later, the man had gained a good twenty pounds. His suit stretched tight, a Patek Philippe on his wrist, wedding ring on his left ring finger. Seeing me enter, he didn't stand. Just lifted his chin and pointed to the chair across from him. "Sit." One word. I sat. Sophia spoke first, voice unhurried: "Ethan, you're out. That's good. The past is the past." She pushed a document toward me. "These are your original shares in the company. After you went in, we did an equity restructuring. Your shares were diluted. This document needs your personal signature for confirmation." I opened the document and looked. I'd originally held thirty-five percent of Ford Tech as co-founder. In this document, my shares had become point-three percent. The company was currently valued at five billion dollars. Point-three percent meant fifteen million. Derek spoke up, legs crossed, spinning a pen between his fingers. "Brother, keeping those shares safe for you these five years hasn't been easy. The company has hundreds of people to feed. R&D, marketing, fundraising—everything burns money. Having your thirty-five percent sitting there inactive affected our fundraising valuation." When he said "brother," the corner of his mouth lifted. "This fifteen million—Sophia and I discussed it. Honestly, it's not bad. You get out, take this money, rent a place, open a small shop. You can make it work." Sophia picked up the thread, tone gentle but every word laced with barbs. "Ethan, I know you might feel uncomfortable. But you have to face reality. Your current situation... someone with a criminal record, returning to the workplace—it's difficult. This money will at least help you transition." She even smiled. "Of course, if you need any help, Derek and I can make some introductions through our network." The room fell silent for two seconds. Outside the window, bamboo leaves rustled in the wind. Derek's pen spun rapidly between his fingers, metal glinting reflections on the ceiling. I kept my head down, reading the document, turning page by page. "Where's the pen?" I said. Sophia froze for a moment, then undisguised satisfaction crossed her face. She handed over a Montblanc. "Here, page three and the last page. Signature and date." I took the pen. Derek leaned forward, eyes fixed on my hand. I signed. Name, date, stroke by stroke. Then I put the pen down and stood. "Text me the wire transfer information." I turned and walked out. Behind me came Derek's laughter, voice lowered but loud enough for me to hear. "See? I told you. Five years in the can breaks a man." Sophia didn't laugh. But she didn't stop Derek's laughter either. Silence was consent. I pushed open the door and stepped into the corridor. At the corner, I stopped, pulled out my phone, and dialed. "George." "Mr. Hayes." "Is Summit Cloud Data settled?" "Settled. All of Ford Tech's orders for next quarter have been cancelled. Reason given is strategic direction adjustment. Stellar Media also confirmed they'll stop supplying all media resources to Kane PR starting next week." "Good." I hung up and pocketed my phone. Walking out of the restaurant, night wind hit my face. Cool. Fifteen million. They wanted to buy out my thirty-five percent stake for fifteen million. Buy out five years of imprisonment. Buy out all the rights of a business partner, a fiancé, a brother. Fifteen million. I exhaled softly. Derek was right. It really wasn't bad. Enough for him to regret it for the rest of his life. **4** The next two weeks, I did nothing. More precisely, I didn't personally do anything. Week one, Ford Tech received formal notice from Summit Cloud Data that all next quarter collaborations were terminated. Eight hundred million in orders, gone just like that. Derek blew up the phone of the Summit Cloud Data executive. The response: "Corporate strategic adjustment. Not my decision." Same week, Ford Tech's partner bank suddenly began reviewing loan qualifications. Three loans totaling two hundred million were demanded for early repayment. Reason: "Risk assessment anomaly." Derek panicked. He started reaching out everywhere, calling in favors, treating people to meals. But he discovered something strange—the business contacts who usually called him brother were suddenly all busy. No answer on calls. No reply to messages. Secretaries blocking. Week two was worse. Three of Ford Tech's core technical staff resigned simultaneously. These three managed the company's most critical algorithm architecture—the system I'd written five years ago. Without them, projects ground to a halt. Derek exploded. He smashed a laptop in his office and screamed at the CTO for forty straight minutes. George told me all this. Summit's intelligence network covered every corner of this city's business world. Derek couldn't escape this net. Sophia wasn't doing much better. After Stellar Media cut her off, her PR firm lost sixty percent of its media channels in one stroke. Several major clients' annual PR campaigns couldn't be executed. Penalty fees accumulated to forty million dollars. She scrambled for replacement suppliers, but in this industry, Stellar was the absolute leader. Other firms were either too small to handle the volume or quoted triple the price. Sophia's complexion worsened day by day. One of her employees told George's people over drinks that Ms. Kane had been working until two or three AM every night, temperamental, firing two assistants in a row. I listened to all this while sipping tea. "Did Derek figure anything out?" "He hired a business investigation firm, but all leads point to strategic adjustments within Summit Holdings. No one's pointed at you." "What about Sophia?" "She's more perceptive than Derek. Had lunch with a friend two days ago and mentioned the timing seemed suspicious." "She suspects me?" "For about one second. Then she dismissed it herself. Her exact words were—'He's just some guy who spent five years in prison and signed away fifteen million without a fight. How could he have that kind of pull?'" I laughed. "Continue." George handed me another document. "Mr. Hayes, someone's been buying up Ford Tech shares on the secondary market. At the current pace, in another two weeks the stake will approach the disclosure threshold." "Who's buying?" "The three shell companies you had me set up." "Mm." I flipped to the last page. A line of numbers. Ford Tech's stock price had dropped from thirty-eight dollars per share last month to twenty-nine. Negative news plus major client losses—market confidence collapsed fast. The more it fell, the more I bought. The more I bought, the more Derek panicked. Friday evening of week two, Derek's assistant called me. "Mr. Hayes, Mr. Ford would like to invite you to dinner tomorrow. To catch up." Ten times more polite than two weeks ago. I said: "No thanks. I'm busy." Then hung up. That evening I stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows, holding the seal Sterling had left me. Soapstone. Cool, heavy. Four characters carved on it. *Immovable as Mountains.* Sterling had said that in business, the most important thing isn't acting fast. It's staying calm. I put the seal back in its box and turned off the lights. Outside, ten thousand lights. Among them, one belonged to Derek's home. I guessed he wouldn't sleep tonight. **5** Fourth week after release, Lucy found me. She somehow discovered where I lived. Maybe she'd tracked the Maybach's license plate. Maybe bribed the security guard. Either way, she came. Three PM, George called my intercom: "Mr. Hayes, your sister is in the lobby downstairs. Security's blocking her. She won't leave." I was silent for five seconds. "Let her up." When the doorbell rang, I sat on the living room sofa with a Summit Holdings quarterly report spread before me. The door opened. Lucy stood in the doorway, stunned. Her gaze swept from the marble entryway floor to the crystal chandelier, from the cityscape beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows to the unopened liquor bottle on the coffee table. Her mouth opened, then closed. "Come in and talk." I didn't look up. She entered, standing across from the sofa, both hands clutching her purse strap, knuckles white. "Ethan, um... there's a problem with the house." Of course. Three weeks ago I'd had George arrange for lawyers to file a property rights dispute on that house. That house was left by our parents, with both my and Lucy's names on it. After I went to prison, Sophia used "authorized disposal" to transfer my half of the property rights to Lucy's name—for a price, naturally. The price was that false testimony in court. Now the property rights were disputed. My lawyers filed for a freeze on grounds of "unauthorized action by unauthorized party, invalid agency." Lucy panicked. That house was her only asset in this city. "Ethan, the property rights issue, was that you..." Her voice grew quieter until the last words were nearly inaudible. I set down the report, looked up at her. Five years later, Lucy was much thinner. Sunken eye sockets, prominent cheekbones, no flesh on her face. But she wore a jade bracelet on her wrist and a gold necklace. Poor, but vanity intact. "That's why you came?" "Ethan, that house is what Mom and Dad left for us. You can't..." "Left for us?" I repeated it. "Five years ago in court, what did you say? You said you saw with your own eyes that I deliberately hurt someone. Did you know that person was hired by Derek for twenty thousand dollars to act?" Lucy's face went white. "Do you know that because of your testimony, the judge added two years to my sentence?" Her lips trembled. She couldn't speak. "It should have been three years. Because of the 'eyewitness' supplementary testimony, it became five. Those extra two years were a gift from you." I stood and walked toward her. She backed up a step, lower back hitting the chair. "That fifty thousand—is it spent yet?" At those words, Lucy's tears fell. She crouched on the floor, hands covering her face, shoulders shaking. "Ethan, I know I was wrong... I didn't know then... Sophia told me you'd just be in for a few months... said you'd get out soon... I didn't know the sentence would be so long..." "Didn't know?" I crouched down to her eye level. "Lucy, you didn't not know. You didn't want to know. Fifty thousand plus a house—you thought it was worth it. As for how many years your brother spent inside—that wasn't your concern." She cried harder, snot and tears covering her face. "Ethan, please, that house is all I have... I really don't have anything else..." I stood, stepped back. "Leave." "Ethan!" "I said leave." I turned and walked back to the sofa, picking up the report again. Lucy stood behind me for a long time. Her crying gradually quieted. Finally she wiped her face and walked toward the door on unsteady legs. At the door, she paused. "Ethan, this apartment... where you're living... where did you get the money..." I didn't answer. The door closed. George emerged from the study, glancing at me. "Mr. Hayes, are you all right?" I turned to the next page of the report. "When's the next move?" George checked his watch. "Ford Tech's stock price dropped another four percent today. According to plan, we can issue a takeover bid next Monday." "Change it." "Sir?" "Wait until next month's business summit. Announce it in front of everyone." George paused, then nodded. "Understood."
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