Bottom Line
Chen Xu's concerns were not groundless. The undercurrent had not subsided with the passage of time, but instead had accelerated invisibly, finally evolving into an open storm.
Local news headlines were dominated by "Boyue Future" and "Lingxi Technology." Preliminary investigation results confirmed rumors of major construction defects and serious safety risks in the intelligent system. The developer's apology and the tech company's technical specifications were weak and ineffective, unable to stem the tide of public opinion. The stock price plummeted, homeowners launched panicked legal action, and executives were detained to assist in the investigation. A series of chain reactions unfolded with alarming speed.
Chen Xu's friend at Lingxi Technology ultimately wasn't spared. As a programmer who contributed to the core code but failed to uphold principles, he was placed on the list of those held accountable. Even if he wasn't the primary culprit, his career was essentially over. After hearing the news, Chen Xu sat in Ye Shu's apartment for an entire afternoon, his face drooping, muttering over and over, "If I hadn't told anyone... wouldn't this have happened..."
Ye Shu didn't respond to this pointless assumption. He simply brewed a stronger cup of tea than usual and placed it within Chen Xu's reach. Cause and effect had already been woven; retracing the cause and effect was futile.
However, the downward spiral didn't stop there. Perhaps to divert attention, or perhaps simply to vent irrational panic, an undercurrent began to emerge online, pointing the finger at so-called "rumor mongers," accusing them of exaggeration, creating panic, and even suggesting ulterior motives. Blurred, edited chat logs began to circulate in certain corners.
Although Chen Xu's name was not directly mentioned, the industry and interpersonal circle he was in were being outlined bit by bit. Like a frog in boiling water, the danger was slowly but surely approaching.
Chen Xu himself was still unaware of the situation, immersed in self-blame and guilt towards his friend. But Ye Shu saw it.
He doesn't use a smartphone or social media, but he has a more direct way of perceiving the world's "mood." He stands by the window, watching the occasional "passerby" downstairs, behaving erratically—they linger a little longer, their gazes deliberately scanning the apartment windows. He watches the strange envelopes in his mailbox, with no sender information (he doesn't open them). He can even sense a subtle, increasing frequency of surveillance targeting this floor of the building.
A cold, sticky malice, like sewage in a gutter, began to overflow towards Chen Xu.
For the first time, Ye Shu's usually empty eyes formed a subtle expression, akin to scrutiny and assessment. He remained silent, but the nature of his silence had changed. It was no longer a detached tranquility, but the stagnant low pressure before a storm.
That evening, not long after Chen Xu dragged his heavy feet away, Ye Shu was about to put away the teacup he had drunk from, but suddenly stopped.
His eyes fell on the rim of the cup. Chen Xu had drunk too quickly, and a tiny, almost invisible amount of food had unconsciously left its mark between his lips and teeth, sticking to the rough ceramic wall.
Ye Shu's gaze lingered on the insignificant trace for a full three seconds.
Then, he reached out and, instead of using a rag, used his fingertips to wipe away the residue extremely gently and precisely. His movements remained steady, but the temperature of his fingertips seemed lower than usual.
He washed the cup, wiped it dry, and put it back in its place, each step still precise and without any redundancy.
But after doing all this, he did not go back to the window or sit down as usual, but stood there.
Outside the window, night completely enveloped the city, neon lights flickering, outlining the contours of desire and crisis. In the distance, the faint sound of sirens drifted to an unknown destination.
The apartment was so quiet that I could hear my own heartbeat.
Ye Shu slowly raised his hand and looked at the fingertips he had just wiped away the residue. Those fingertips were clean and slender, as if they had never been stained by any worldly stains.
However, something invisible had crossed the line of "non-contention" that he had always adhered to.
It wasn't a grand, righteous choice. It wasn't even motivated by a deep friendship for Chen Xu—his feelings for Chen Xu were more like a habitual tolerance for an overly ardent, overly persistent light, and a faint warmth that he himself hadn't even fully grasped.
It's more like an instinctive correction of an "imbalance".
Chen Xu's noise was a causal relationship of his own choosing. The filthy online malice was a causal relationship chosen by those who unleashed it. However, those who attempted to transform this invisible malice into a tangible threat, those who attempted to intrude upon this realm of "silence" he had defaulted to, disrupted a certain invisible balance.
Just as the breeze should not be imprisoned, dust should not be forced to bear the mission of a blade.
He tolerates noise, but not poisoned daggers.
He lowered his arms, turned, and walked toward the bedroom. Without turning on the light, he opened the wooden box in the darkness. He didn't take anything out, but simply hovered his fingers over the cold stones, withered branches, and the rice paper strip with the word "Thank You" written on it.
His fingertips trembled slightly.
Then he closed the box.
Walking back to the living room, he stood in front of the huge floor-to-ceiling window, like a night watchman, gazing at the jungle below where light and shadow were intertwined.
His eyes remained indifferent, but deep within, a power that had been dormant for too long, like an ancient sword buried deep underground, sensed the untimely restlessness and emitted an almost inaudible hum.
The bottom line has been touched.
No words needed, no anger needed.
Only the attitude of "not fighting" has quietly changed, from absolute stillness to an ultimate stillness ready to intervene.
Like a bowstring, drawn but not released.
The storm was coming, and he was already standing in its eye.
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