[Penthouse — Floor 99 — September 16, 7:40 PM]

  The rice cooker clicked to its keep-warm cycle. Steam curled from the vent in a thin white line that nobody watched.

  Lin Weiwei's mouth opened, then closed. She looked at Xiao Yue — sitting at the end of the counter with her elbows on the granite, watching them both with eyes that missed nothing — and then at Zhang Tingting, still holding the spatula above a pan that had started to pop with oil.

  "Big Brother…" Her voice came out careful. Measured in a way that told him she was calculating every word before it left. "That's not really something we should discuss with—"

  "It’s okay Weiwei, they need to know too."

  Lin Feng held up a hand, eyes on Lin Weiwei — already reading the refusal forming on her face.

  Lin Weiwei's jaw shifted. She didn't like it. He could see her weighing the options — the family obligation against the strategic necessity, five years of guarding information against the man who'd never once asked for it now demanding she hand it to strangers.

  "Big Brother, you don't just—" She stopped herself. Took a breath. Started again, quieter. "The coating formulations have NDAs that even department heads can't see through. Half the board doesn't have full access. That's our intellectual property, the core of our business, and now you want me to just — lay it out? Here? In front of—"

  "Weiwei."

  “—people who aren't even on our payroll?”

  "They're not random people."

  Something in Lin Weiwei's expression shifted — a flinch she almost hid. Her mouth closed, and her fingers pressed flat against the granite.

  Lin Feng held her gaze. He didn't soften it, didn't walk it back.

  "None of you are random strangers to me. You, Yue, Tingting — you're my team. The first members of it."

  "A team?"

  "Yes, a team. I have a lot I need to do, Weiwei. And I need all three of you to do it."

  Before Lin Weiwei could respond, Xiao Yue spoke from the end of the counter.

  "Don't bother convincing her Lin Feng. Whether she explains or not — I don't need it."

  Both siblings turned.

  Xiao Yue hadn't moved. Her posture was the same — elbows down, spine straight, expression flat.

  "Whether she shares anything or not," Xiao Yue said, "my research doesn't depend on your family's business model. I've been working on degradation patterns for five years without anyone's help." Her chin lifted a fraction. "Whatever she tells me, I'll already have ideas she hasn't considered."

  The kitchen went very still.

  Lin Weiwei's voice dropped. Her fingers curled around the edge of the counter, but her eyes never left Xiao Yue.

  "You showed up this morning. And now Big Brother wants me to hand you our coating formulations, our supply chain, our revenue structure — everything I've spent years learning from the inside."

  Her eyes stayed on Xiao Yue. Steady. Measuring.

  "I know you're not stupid. That's exactly why I don't want to give you this."

  Xiao Yue held her gaze from the end of the counter. No flinch. No reaction at all.

  "Like I said, I don't need anything from your Lin family." Xiao Yue met her stare, her elbows still on the granite, expression unchanged.

  "I wouldn't even be in this penthouse tonight if it wasn't for Lin Feng. He wants to do something — so I'm helping. That's it."

  The pan popped. Oil spattered against the backsplash. Zhang Tingting flinched and turned back to her station, adjusting the heat with quick fingers while her eyes darted between the two women across the island.

  They're going to tear each other apart over knowledge territory before I even get an answer.

  "Both of you. Stop."

  Lin Weiwei's mouth closed. She looked at him, then away.

  "...Fine." Lin Weiwei's eyes stayed on Lin Feng. "But I'm only doing this because you asked me to. That's it, Big Brother."

  "Same." Xiao Yue didn't look up. "I'm here for Lin Feng. Not... whatever this is."

  Lin Weiwei held his gaze. Her jaw shifted left, then right — the way it always did when she was chewing on something she didn't want to swallow. Her grip on the counter's edge went white, held, then slowly eased.

  A breath through her nose. Then her chin lifted.

  "Fine!"

  Lin Weiwei glanced at Xiao Yue — one quick look, sharp enough to draw blood — then turned back to Lin Feng and tilted her head.

  "The Lin Group manufactures two things." She held up two fingers. "Microtransistors and ELECs."

  "What's an ELEC?"

  Lin Weiwei's hand dropped. She looked at him for a long moment, and her lips pressed together — not tight, not angry. The corners pulled in slightly, the way they did right before she decided not to say what she was actually thinking.

  "Big Brother... you really don't know?"

  "Pretend I don't."

  "I'm not pretending." She let out a breath. "Okay. Electronic Life Extending Component, ELECs in short. Every piece of electronics in production gets treated with specialized coatings and shielding layers during manufacturing. Without them, circuits degrade in weeks. Sometimes days."

  "Days?"

  "Yes. Days. Sometimes hours. It’s the coatings that make your phone last two years instead of two weeks." She watched his face while she said it — tracking whether it landed, whether she needed to slow down more. "That's what ELECs do."

  “You mean something like a shielding layer? And without them, circuits could fail quickly. So you mean something is actively eating them?”

  “Well, you can say that.”

  "So, what kind of materials are being used here?"

  "Lead-based compounds, mostly. Tungsten alloys." She tilted her head. "There are some proprietary heavy metal composites too, but the board keeps those under lock — I don't even have full access to the formulations. I'm not really that privy to the inner workings of the company."

  “Heavy metals? Like lead and tungsten?”

  "Exactly. And we're also the main supplier of ELECs and micro-transistors for Yunjiang Province," she continued, tapping her finger on the counter. "About thirty percent of the consumer electronics market runs through our foundry. If we stop shipping, a third of the province has a problem."

  She paused. Glanced at him sideways.

  "But the transistors aren't where the real money is."

  "The ELECs."

  "Mm." She leaned forward, and her hands came off the counter — gesturing now, drawing invisible supply chains in the air between them. "Everyone needs coatings. Every manufacturer, every fabricator, every production line in the province. You can make your own chips, but without ELEC treatment they're worthless in —"

  "The revenue split is closer to sixty-five percent ELEC, thirty-five percent microtransistor manufacturing."

  Lin Weiwei's hands stopped in the air.

  The correction had come from the end of the counter. Xiao Yue, not looking up, fingers tracing a slow line on the granite.

  "The public filings list it as sixty-forty," Xiao Yue continued, "but that doesn't account for third-party ELEC licensing. That includes the patent revenue from coating formulations sold to competitors, and the actual dependency on ELEC products is closer to two-thirds."

  The conversation stopped. The only sound left was oil in the pan and the rice cooker cycling.

  Lin Weiwei's hands lowered back to the counter. She stared at the granite for a second, then two — and when she looked up, something behind her expression had rearranged itself.

  "...She's not wrong."

  Five years. Five years and this stalker bitch has already mapped the whole industry alone. Revenue models, patent portfolios, licensing structures. Without access to any of it.

  Lin Weiwei reached for her glass. Took a sip and set it down.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  "So everyone knows electronics degrade. Everyone knows ELECs slow it down. But in fourteen hundred years... nobody's figured out why?"

  "There are a lot of theories. Some say it has something to do with the aether. Others say it's the edge of the spiritual." Xiao Yue waved a hand from her end of the counter. "My money's on atmospheric degradation. The atmosphere does something to unshielded circuits. Nobody knows what."

  Lin Weiwei looked at her. Held the look for two seconds — then turned back to the counter. "Nobody knows, or nobody's allowed to find out. Right... Miss Xiao?"

  The kitchen got very still.

  "...Well." Xiao Yue held her gaze. "Well, you’re not wrong either, Ms. Lin."

  "It's Mrs. Lin, your exce—"

  "Weiwei." Lin Feng's voice cut across the counter. Not loud. Just fast enough.

  Lin Weiwei stopped. Looked at him. Read his face — and whatever she found there made her mouth close.

  Xiao Yue's eyes moved to Lin Feng. Stayed there. Her expression didn't change — but her fingers on the granite went very still.

  "Dumplings are ready."

  Zhang Tingting was already lifting the pan lid, steam rising in a thick wave. She'd arranged the first batch on a plate — golden-brown bottoms, translucent skin, each one crimped in identical tight folds.

  "Um — they're ready. You should eat them while they're hot. They're not as good when they cool down. Also, I didn’t make that many.”

  Lin Feng pushed off the counter. "You heard the chef. Come! Let’s dig in. I’m hungry."

  The dining table was a long slab of dark wood that seated eight, positioned near the windows where the last warmth of the evening light had long since faded. Zhang Tingting had already cleared one end — placemats set, chopsticks laid parallel, a small dish of black vinegar with freshly sliced ginger at each place.

  Lin Feng noticed the jar on his way to the table.

  It sat on the sideboard — a pale grey rock sealed inside a glass jar filled with water. Carved ornamental lines ran along its surface, flowing into each other like waves or wind. Like the kind of thing you'd find in a furniture catalog under "accent pieces."

  The water glowed.

  Not much. It was only a faint blue shimmer that hugged the rock's surface, soft enough to mistake for a trick of the kitchen light. Like twilight dissolved in water and glass.

  Strange—

  "Here, move this." Zhang Tingting reached past him, picked up the jar with both hands, and set it on the side table behind them to make room for the serving plate. "Chopsticks are on the left."

  She'd held it for maybe two seconds. Long enough for Lin Feng to touch the sideboard where it had been.

  The surface was still warm.

  Oh... so it was just a jar of warm water. Though what was that glow?

  The thought didn't finish. Zhang Tingting was already setting down plates, and Weiwei was pulling out her chair, and the question slipped away like something half-remembered from a dream.

  Lin Feng sat down.

  Lin Weiwei took the seat to his left. She pulled her chair in and set her phone face-down on the table.

  Xiao Yue took his right — a beat behind, her eyes tracking the table layout before she committed. She set her bag on the floor beside her chair, straightened her chopsticks, and folded her hands in her lap.

  Zhang Tingting sat across from him. The last seat left.

  The dumplings arrived on a white ceramic plate, arranged in neat rows — golden-brown on the bottom, translucent skin glistening with steam, each one crimped in identical tight folds.

  Lin Feng picked one up. The wrapper blistered against his chopsticks, thin enough to see the filling through the skin but firm enough to hold without tearing. He dipped it in the vinegar, ginger sliding against the edge, and bit through the crisp bottom layer.

  Pork and chive, clean and sharp. The sesame oil released in a wave of heat that carried the chive's brightness without drowning it. The wrapper crackled, then yielded. Enough meat for substance, enough chive for bite, enough oil to bind without making it heavy.

  This is not some home cooking! This is restaurant-grade!

  "These are really good," Lin Feng said.

  Lin Weiwei had already taken her first bite. Her chewing slowed. She looked at the dumpling in her chopsticks — the clean crimping, the even browning — and her eyebrows rose.

  "The wrapper is—" She paused. Took another bite. "Okay. These are actually good."

  Zhang Tingting's shoulders dropped a fraction. Her chin lifted slightly.

  Xiao Yue ate her first dumpling in silence. Set her chopsticks down. Looked at her empty plate for a beat — then reached for a second without comment.

  The table found its rhythm after that. Chopsticks clicking against ceramic. The vinegar dish passing back and forth.

  "Where'd you learn to cook like this?" Lin Weiwei asked, looking at Zhang Tingting.

  "From the internet, mostly." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Just... cooking videos. I watch a lot of them when I have nothing else to do."

  Halfway through his fourth dumpling, Lin Weiwei glanced at Lin Feng's plate. Then at hers. Then back at his.

  "Tingting."

  "Mm?"

  "The filling ratio. What is it?"

  "Seventy-thirty pork to chive. Sesame oil folded in at the very end so it doesn't break down during the sear."

  Lin Weiwei nodded slowly. Her eyes drifted back to Lin Feng — who was already reaching for his fifth.

  "And the dough?"

  "Cold water. Almost ice. That's what gives you the blister without tearing the skin."

  From the other end of the table, Xiao Yue set her chopsticks down.

  "The crimping," she said quietly. "How many folds?"

  Lin Weiwei's head turned.

  Xiao Yue wasn't looking at her. She was looking at Zhang Tingting.

  "Three," Tingting said. "Most people fold twice. That's where the tear happens."

  Neither Weiwei nor Xiao Yue looked at each other. Neither looked at Lin Feng either — though he was the reason both of them were asking.

  Xiao Yue picked up another dumpling. Ate it slowly. Set her chopsticks down again.

  "Tingting."

  Zhang Tingting looked up.

  "Can you teach me how to make these? Later, when you have time."

  The table went quiet for half a second. Lin Weiwei's chopsticks paused mid-air.

  Zhang Tingting blinked. "You... want me to teach you?"

  "It's — no, it's not trouble at all. I just didn't think you'd be interested in—"

  "I'm interested." Xiao Yue's eyes weren't on Tingting. They were on Lin Feng, who was halfway through his sixth dumpling and showed no signs of slowing down.

  Lin Weiwei set her chopsticks down.

  "Me too."

  Xiao Yue's gaze shifted to her.

  "Teach me as well, Tingting." Lin Weiwei said it like it had been on her mind the whole time. "I've been meaning to learn anyway."

  She hadn't. Everyone at the table knew she hadn't. But Zhang Tingting just nodded, a small bewildered smile forming at the corners of her mouth.

  "I... sure. I can teach both of you."

  Lin Weiwei leaned forward. "What about the vinegar-ginger ratio? Is there a specific—"

  "Two parts vinegar to one part ginger," Tingting said. "But you have to slice the ginger thin. If it's too thick, it overpowers the—"

  "What about the searing temperature?" Xiao Yue cut in. "How do you know when the oil is ready?"

  Tingting's head swiveled between them. "You — um — you flick water at the pan. When it pops immediately, it's—"

  "And the wrapper thickness?" Lin Weiwei again. "How thin are you rolling these?"

  Lin Feng reached for another dumpling. The plate was getting cold. Neither of them noticed — they'd stopped eating three questions ago, leaning toward Tingting from opposite sides of the table like she was giving a lecture on state secrets.

  He ate in silence while the interrogation continued.

  The dinner wound down the way dinners do when nobody wants to be the first to leave. Zhang Tingting cleared the plates. Lin Weiwei helped — or tried to, until Tingting waved her off with a quiet "I've got it."

  Xiao Yue stayed seated, scrolling through something on her phone, occasionally glancing toward the kitchen where the other two were putting things away.

  Lin Feng took the last dumpling from the plate before it disappeared. It was cold. He ate it anyway, standing by the counter, and it was still good.

  He took the stairs to the rooftop.

  The wind hit him the moment he stepped out — not a breeze anymore, a proper gust that pulled at his shirt and flattened his hair against his forehead. The pool sat dark and still, its surface rippling in long slow lines that caught light from somewhere he couldn't name.

  Su Qingxue smiled up at him from the floor.

  The metal portrait was right where it had been — printed on steel, bolted into the concrete at four corners. The wind had blown grit across her face but hadn't dulled the finish. Even in this light, the printing was sharp and professional.

  He stepped over it.

  He pulled a cigarette from his pocket. Cupped his hand around the lighter. Flicked it.

  The wind killed it.

  He turned his back, hunched over, flicked again. Dead.

  He shifted behind one of the support columns, pressed his shoulder against the concrete, and tried a third time. The flame caught — barely — and he brought it to the tip before the wind could take it.

  Finally.

  He crossed to the chaise lounge lined up along the edge. Plastic. Or maybe leather — hard to tell in this light. He dropped into one and immediately regretted it.

  Damn, it's freezing.

  The cold bit through his shirt and into his back. The wind wasn't helping. He should go back inside. He should absolutely go back inside.

  He didn't.

  He lay back, cigarette between his lips, smoke ripping away the moment it left his mouth. The city sprawled below him — millions of people going about their Tuesday night, lights in windows, traffic crawling through streets he couldn't name yet.

  He exhaled. Watched the smoke vanish. Looked up.

  And stopped.

  The sky wasn't dark.

  It should have been. It was past eight, maybe nine. The sun had set — he was sure of that, he'd watched the last of the light fade from the kitchen windows over an hour ago.

  But the sky wasn't dark. Not the way night was supposed to look. It was still holding color — a soft blue-violet wash that hung above the city like the last few minutes after sunset, stretched out and frozen in place.

  The stars were there — he could see them — and the moon hung full and bright overhead. But they looked wrong, filtered through that strange even glow like light seen through tinted glass.

  And scattered across it — not evenly, not in any pattern he could recognize — islands of brighter light. Pale clusters that drifted slowly, like clouds lit from the inside. They weren't stars. They weren't aircraft. They were just... there. Part of the sky. Part of whatever this was.

  He took a drag. Let it out slowly.

  Huh. That’s strange.

  Nobody had mentioned this. Not Weiwei, not Xiao Yue, not even the original novel. Or maybe they had and it wasn't worth mentioning. Maybe this was just what night looked like here.

  The cigarette burned down between his fingers. The wind pulled at the ember.

  But it looks beautiful...

  He lay there for a while, watching a sky that refused to go dark.

  [Zhang Tingting] ★☆☆☆☆☆☆ (1-Star Heroine)

  ├─ Previous: 10

  └─ Current: 7 (-3)

  [End of Chapter 35]