Chapter 7 Plagiarism (1) His mind raced uncontrollably...

It's more than just similar.

With deliberately chosen framing angles and intentionally adjusted lighting, these two photos are almost identical, as if they were twins.

"Buzz—buzz—" The phone vibrated violently on the smooth tabletop, startling Wen Chen from his blank buzzing. He answered the call almost instinctively, without even having time to put the phone to his ear.

"Teacher Wen! Something terrible has happened!" Xiao Li's voice exploded through the receiver like thunder, "The internet... the internet is all over it! They're saying we plagiarized!"

Wen Chen's throat felt like it was blocked by rough sandpaper, unable to utter a sound. He silently hung up the phone, looking down at his uncontrollably trembling fingertips.

More push notifications and more links from different media outlets, like a vast, all-encompassing net, tightly bind the words "dream-building" and "plagiarism" together.

Under each news story, there was a torrent of malicious comments.

[Building dreams? I think it's stealing dreams! They've lost all shame!]

The designer's image as a talented individual has been shattered.

[And I was so looking forward to 'returning home,' turns out he was a thief.]

[Mosheng Capital misjudged this time and invested in a counterfeit.]

The cold words pierced his eyes, one by one.

He slammed his phone face down on the table with a thud.

This isn't true.

He knew better than anyone that every line and every concept of "Returning Home" was the culmination of countless sleepless nights he had spent over the past eight years. It was the only spiritual home he had built with his own hands after countless revisions and restarts.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and when he opened them again, all the turbulent emotions in his eyes had been forcibly frozen, leaving only calmness. He grabbed his coat and strode out of the office.

The once-empty studio was now packed with people. Young designers, like a flock of fledglings frightened by a storm, were returning to the studio in droves.

The piercing ring of the telephone, like a deadly curse, shrieked incessantly in every corner of the office. Every lit cell phone screen reflected that hateful comparison image, along with the torrent of malicious comments beneath it.

"Teacher Wen... this... this can't be real, right?" A recent graduate intern's voice was trembling with tears.

"Of course it's not true! This is clearly someone setting us up!" Assistant Xiao Li, seeing Wen Chen come out, instantly felt like he had found his pillar of support. He was so angry that he was trembling all over, his face flushed red. From his graduation to "Dream Building," he had practically watched "Homecoming" grow from its initial form to its current state. Several long-time employees who had followed "Dream Building" all the way were also indignant.

“Every detail of ‘returning home’ was meticulously crafted through countless sleepless nights! How dare they make baseless accusations!”

"It's over... What will happen to Mosheng Capital...?"

Wen Chen raised his eyes, his gaze sweeping over every bewildered face behind his glasses. He needed to remain calm and composed, more so than anyone else.

“Old Wang,” he said, looking at the middle-aged project manager, “immediately compile a list of all incoming media and questions.”

“Legal department,” he turned to the young man in the corner, “prepare a lawyer’s letter to all the sources of the false information, to make an example of them.”

Finally, his gaze slowly swept across the entire room, and his voice left no room for doubt: "From now on, everyone is prohibited from responding to this matter on any social media platform."

He turned and strode towards the conference room. "Everyone, assemble in the conference room."

“I know, at first glance, they look very similar.” His voice was calm and without a ripple. “Very similar.”

“However, the design of ‘Homecoming’, from the first concept sketch eight years ago to every line and every arc today, was drawn by my own hands. You have accompanied it as it grows day by day, so we ourselves must have enough confidence.”

“Group A,” he pointed to the core members, “organized all the source files of ‘Homecoming’ from concept to final draft, down to the record of each modification, timestamp and IP address, and encrypted and packaged them all.”

“Group B,” he said, looking at the other team, “is to gather all the information on ‘The Garden of Light’ and its designer, Pierre Dupont, including design concepts, publicly available drawings, and interview videos. Don’t miss anything.”

His instructions were clear and calm, without the slightest hint of panic.

"Since the other side has made a move, they must have come prepared. We are in for a tough battle."

His slender back stood ramrod straight, like a stabilizing pillar firmly planted in the eye of the storm. Those eyes, once brimming with the warmth of spring, had, after eight years of tempering, been honed into a sharp edge capable of confronting the entire world.

“But Ms. Wen…” a recent graduate intern said, her voice trembling with tears, “those comparison photos…they’re so similar…”

Wen Chen's gaze fell on him, his eyes filled with no reproach, only a calm that penetrated to the heart. He spoke calmly: "What the eyes see can deceive. But the time and effort we put in will not."

Outside the window, dark clouds loomed over the city.

The Dream Building Studio was brightly lit, and the air was filled with the acrid smell of instant coffee and the tension of a racing nerve.

Just then, the heavy glass door of the studio was pushed open from the outside, and the abrupt sound made all the designers, whose eyes were red and whose nerves were taut, look up at the same time.

The man at the head of the group wore a well-tailored, sharply defined black suit, his eyes sharp as a hawk's, scanning the room without a trace of warmth.

Behind him followed a team of nearly ten people, both men and women, all with solemn expressions and synchronized steps, exuding a suffocating sense of oppression.

They don't seem to be here to cooperate; they seem to be here to take over the battlefield.

"Excuse me..." Xiao Li subconsciously stood up, but was interrupted before he could finish speaking.

"Chen Qi, head of the legal department at Mosheng Capital." The man spoke concisely, his gaze sweeping over everyone before landing precisely on Wen Chen, who was seated at the head of the table. "President Gu sent us to assist designer Wen in handling this public relations crisis."

Wen Chen's hand, which was under the table, clenched silently.

Chen Qi gave him no room to refuse, gesturing to the side. His public relations team and technical experts immediately filed in, their movements swift, their roles clear, and their efficiency as precise as a war machine.

The studio space, which was originally full of creativity and sensibility, was completely taken over by this group of "regular troops" from the capitalist empire in just a few minutes.

The name Chen Qi might not be familiar to the few recent graduates present, but to the project manager and legal staff, it was like a thunderclap.

The chief lawyer of Mosheng Capital is a "victorious general" on Wall Street. Three years ago, he was involved in the "Blue Ocean Fund hostile takeover case" that shocked China and the world, and the subsequent "Global Antitrust Lawsuit" that can be described as a textbook example. Both of these high-difficulty financial cases became well-known in China.

Rumor has it that he has never lost a case, and the smallest amount involved in any case he has handled is in the hundreds of millions. And now, this legendary figure has appeared at their studio with his invincible "ace team".

At this moment, everyone had only one thought in their minds—Gu Moheng valued this first strategic project he had invested in in China extremely highly.

Professional, efficient, and ruthless.

After a moment of surprise, the studio members buried themselves in their work again. The two groups were clearly separated, yet they tacitly performed their respective duties.

After an unknown amount of time, Chen Qi approached Wen Chen with a document in hand. "Mr. Wen, this is our first draft of the response statement. Please review and sign it."

Wen Chen lowered his eyes and took the document. Every word on it was calm, sharp, and to the point; he couldn't find any room for rebuttal.

He silently picked up the pen and signed his name at the end. This simple action was tantamount to acknowledging Gu Moheng's forceful intervention at this moment, and the "help" he had no choice but to accept.

-

Mosheng Capital Building.

Outside the huge floor-to-ceiling windows, the city lights seem to lie at your feet.

Gu Moheng stood alone by the window, his phone pressed tightly to his ear, his profile hard and cold, his face as gloomy as the cold night outside.

"...Yes, send lawyer's letters to all media outlets that have published related news."

"How's the investigation into the source IP address going?"

"I don't care what methods you use, I want to see the word 'plagiarism' disappear from all the trending topics before dawn."

His voice was low and suppressed, brimming with suppressed rage; each word seemed to be squeezed out from between his teeth. He abruptly hung up the phone, then irritably raised his hand and tugged at his meticulously tied tie, as if only then could he catch his breath.

The entire top-floor office was eerily empty and so quiet that he could hear his own heart pounding erratically in his chest, filled with some kind of anxiety. Wen Chen's face kept flashing uncontrollably through his mind.

What are you doing now?

Is he holding on alone again?

Is my stomach hurting again?

Countless questions, like uncontrolled, wildly growing poisonous vines, tightly coiled around his heart, tightening their grip and causing him sharp pain.

He finally couldn't resist and, almost as if he were giving in, pulled out the number he knew by heart and dialed it.

It's 3 a.m. Mosheng's team is still operating efficiently; the only sound in the office is the crisp clatter of keyboards.

Wen Chen walked alone into her small office, gently closed the door, shutting out all the noise and "aid" from outside.

He collapsed heavily onto the sofa, letting out a soft groan. Only now did the exhaustion that had kept him going all night, almost crushing him completely, surge in like a tidal wave.

He raised his arm, weakly shielding his eyes from the glaring overhead light. A deep, aching weakness permeated his very bones, as if he had just fought a battle that had exhausted all his strength.

"Buzz..."

The phone on the sofa armrest vibrated very slightly, and the screen lit up faintly.

Wen Chen didn't move. But the phone kept vibrating stubbornly, over and over again, the frequency of which was just like someone's style of doing things—domineering, tyrannical, and relentless until the goal was achieved.

Finally, he slowly lowered his stiff arm and reached for the still persistently buzzing phone. A string of unmarked numbers flashed on the screen, yet he knew better than anyone who its owner was.

He swiped to answer the call, put the phone to his ear, and didn't say anything.

There was silence on the other end of the phone.

After a long silence, Gu Moheng's deep, hoarse voice finally came through the receiver, word by word: "Are you alright?"

Wen Chen suddenly felt like laughing. He leaned back on the sofa, looked up at the cold light on the ceiling, and let out a very soft sneer.

The familiar, nagging pain in his stomach, which had plagued him for years, began to spread again. He raised his hand to press his stomach, forced a smile, and said in a voice heavy with weariness and deliberately distant, "Don't worry, Mr. Gu. I won't let your investment go to waste."

These words, like an invisible ice wall that suddenly rose from the ground, carried a sharp chill, completely severing the last remaining, delicate connection between the two, and clearly and cruelly defining their relationship within the cold realm of commercial interests.

There was an even deeper silence on the other end of the phone; even breathing could barely be heard.

Gu Moheng sat in the empty, cold, and lifeless CEO's office, gripping his phone tightly, his jawline taut.

Wen Chen's patience ran out, and she was about to hang up the pointless phone call.

"I have never doubted your abilities." Just as the call was about to end, that deep, hoarse, yet exceptionally clear and firm voice came through again, brooking no refusal, across the distant electrical current.

Wen Chen paused, took the phone away from his ear, and practically tossed it back into the corner of the sofa. He abruptly stood up and flung open the office door.

The scenes outside were starkly contrasting. The employees at Zhumeng Capital all had red eyes and were anxiously working in front of their computers; while the team from Mosheng Capital, like a group of silent "external aid," occupied the other half of the space. Everyone was wearing headphones, and only the sound of keyboards echoed in the silence, their efficiency was breathtaking.

Wen Chen's gaze swept over the group of suited "intruders" without lingering, and went straight to the core area of ​​his team.

"Teacher Wen!" The leader of Group B raised his bloodshot eyes, his voice trembling with excitement, "We've found the key!" He turned the computer screen towards Wen Chen.

"Pierre Dupont, the designer of 'Garden of Light,' posted a sketch from a very similar angle on social media when he won the award three years ago, but deleted it in less than ten minutes! The comparison image circulating online uses this deleted private sketch, not any official public information! This is definitely someone deliberately saving the image just to target us today!"

Wen Chen's fingertips tapped lightly on the cold tabletop. Before he could speak, a calm voice sounded from behind him.

"Found it."

He turned around, and Chen Qi, the legal head of Mosheng, was already standing behind him, handing him a tablet. On the screen, an ID circled in red was particularly eye-catching—"Midnight Aviator".

"A new account registered half a month ago, with an IP address overseas and three layers of virtual proxies. The account was deleted immediately after posting the pictures; the method was very professional."

Wen Chen took the tablet, his fingertip tracing the scarlet ID. He didn't look at Chen Qi; his gaze landed precisely on the lower right corner of the manuscript, a shadowy area almost ignored by everyone.

"Zoom in here."

The technicians acted swiftly. The pixels began to blur after being magnified, but right at the edge of that shadow, an extremely illegible signature, almost blending into the background, stubbornly emerged.

—P.D.

The initials of Pierre Dupont.

“The other party is using a manuscript that has never been formally published and only existed briefly in the private sphere to frame us, in order to create a perfect closed loop that cannot be disproven.” Wen Chen’s voice was as cold as ice. “But without the original document, we cannot directly prove that it has been tampered with.”

He tapped his index finger lightly on the cold table. "However, they miscalculated one thing."

“In this world, besides Pierre DuPont himself…” He paused, his gaze behind his glasses sharp as a knife. “...there’s also me.”

Mo Sheng's team quietly withdrew before dawn, leaving behind a well-organized report and a flawless plan. The employees of Zhu Meng also reached their limit and were forcibly dismissed by Wen Chen to go home and rest. The huge studio returned to silence, with only the solitary lamp in his office stubbornly shining in the darkness before dawn.

On the enormous workbench lay all the original manuscripts from the past eight years of his "return to the nest." From his first doodle, brimming with youthful ambition and budding dreams, to the meticulously detailed construction drawings of today. Some of the papers were yellowed, their edges curled and worn, even bearing dried, blurred coffee stains. This table spread out was not just a collection of drawings, but also eight years of his youth, struggles, and all his hard work.

He was engrossed in the pile of old papers, one hand gripping the digital screen, the other supporting his forehead, his eyes fixed intently on the screen. Two images were displayed side by side on the screen: one was an enlarged manuscript bearing P.D.'s signature; the other was a reconstruction of Pierre DuPont's true brushstrokes and style, painstakingly pieced together from memory and through his expertise.

The subtle differences, which are meaningless to ordinary people, are the only path to the truth for him.

The stomach cramps returned unexpectedly; at first it was just a dull ache, but now it felt like an invisible hand twisting and turning wildly inside his abdomen. His face was deathly pale, and fine beads of cold sweat beaded on his forehead, dampening his temples, but he was oblivious to it all, all his senses stubbornly focused on the two fateful images before him.

The office door was pushed open at that moment, the person entering moving extremely quietly, almost silently, so much so that Wen Chen, immersed in his world of blueprints, didn't notice. Until that familiar scent, a mixture of crisp cedar and faint tobacco lingering in the air behind him, abruptly invaded the space that had once belonged to him. The voice Wen Chen least wanted to hear at that moment sounded deep behind him: "You need to rest."

His fingertips, moving across the digital screen, paused almost imperceptibly for a moment before returning to their smooth motion. Without turning his head, his gaze remained fixed on the screen, and his voice seemed to be directed at the air in front of him: "No need for Mr. Gu to trouble himself."

Gu Moheng's brows furrowed tightly. His gaze lingered greedily and painfully on Wen Chen's bloodless profile and the heavy, indistinct dark shadows under her eyes, a dull ache shooting through his heart.

He didn't try to persuade her with words anymore. He silently stepped forward and gently placed the insulated food container he had been carrying into the only empty space beside Wen Chen that wasn't occupied by the blueprints. The food container made a soft "tap" sound as it touched the wooden tabletop.

"Eat something first." Gu Moheng's voice softened slightly, attempting to peel away the cold, hard shell of that business tycoon.

The warm, sweet aroma of rice porridge gently wafts into the nostrils. It's a bowl of perfectly cooked yam and millet porridge, golden and soft, garnished with a few bright red goji berries.

Wen Chen didn't even look up, her voice as cold as the air outside at three in the morning. "Take it away."

A note from the author:

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