Chapter 10: The Stranded Lovers in the Santana

They stood together on the street, sweating in the hot wind. Jian Zhaowen, his heart in shambles, looked at the disheveled Yu Zhimei and then at the steaming Santana beside them, feeling as though they were stranded companions sharing misfortune.

Recently unemployed and frequently riding the subway, Jian emerged from the station with a mouthful of dust. Accustomed to Beijing’s fierce winds and dry air, he found Shanghai’s year-round gentle breezes deceptive—summer in Shanghai had given him a rude awakening. Standing at the subway exit, he glanced around. Navigation showed he was still two kilometers from his destination—he’d overshot his stop. Three consecutive ride-hailing attempts had been canceled by drivers. Feeling the temperature soar past forty degrees, he spotted an electric bike driver eyeing him. Sitting in the scorching sun, Jian shielded his eyes with his hand—the lines on his palm resembling the forks of ginseng roots.

The company founded by his senior, Chen Jing, was located on the outskirts of Caohejing. Above the entrance hung four large orange characters reading “Ji Shi Network.” The polite receptionist on the first floor guided him to the eighth floor. As the elevator doors opened, he was greeted by four custom-made 1.5-meter-tall figurines of game characters standing at the entrance. Employees moved about busily, the clatter of mechanical keyboards creating a cacophony reminiscent of an esports tournament. Ji Shi was the culmination of five years of Chen Jing’s relentless efforts—mortgaging his house and car in a last-ditch effort. Just as things seemed dire, a female-oriented mini-game exploded in popularity, growing through word-of-mouth. Last year alone, the company earned 2 billion yuan—not investment, but pure profit. Under the glare of countless overhead lights, Jian Zhaowen was escorted into Chen Jing’s office by half a floor’s worth of employees, his steps increasingly uncertain. In contrast, the secretary walking ahead with a straight back looked more like a domineering CEO.

“This is the office we rented at the beginning of the year. We occupy three floors of this building. This floor houses the main development and operations team, while animation design, 3D visuals, and the cafeteria are all downstairs. Let me show you around.”

The fourth floor was markedly different from the eighth. Here, female employees predominated, dressed in strikingly anime-inspired outfits. The 3D visual design team had its own separate workspace, marked with a “No Entry” sign; one area even had its curtains drawn. Peering inside, Jian saw Chen Jing smile: “Those are our top-tier employees earning hundreds of thousands a month. Drawing the curtains is part of their work habit. We give them freedom here—if they’re the best in the industry, we accommodate their needs. Those two rooms that look like armories? They’re employee lounges, equipped with beds, snacks, and PlayStation consoles, though everyone’s grown tired of gaming.” Chen Jing’s hair was much shorter than during his school days, with streaks of gray at the temples, yet he exuded energy and an unmistakable air of authority.

“Truly impressive. I noticed the chairs you’ve provided—your employees’ keyboards are all black switches. Game companies really do spare no expense.”

Chen Jing chuckled: “Standard practice for game companies. It was a desperate gamble—I mortgaged my house. If we hadn’t generated cash flow within two more months, my wife and kids would’ve been sleeping on the streets. How’s your startup going?”

“Not bad. We recently secured Series A funding—but nothing compared to your scale.” Graduating from the same school, Jian didn’t want to admit failure so easily.

“You mentioned it’s a social networking app, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Not bad. Aside from marketing costs, you probably don’t have significant expenses, unlike us—we spend millions just hiring 3D artists. Is your app focused on image and video-based matchmaking, or more of a chat tool?”

“More like... the former.”

“That’s straightforward—user growth is fast, and if you’re targeting dating, you can quickly roll out VIP services.”

No wonder he ran a gaming company; every third sentence revolved around monetization. The bitter irony was that his earnestly crafted content had been dismissed, while Philip’s approach was immediately validated. Jian forced a smile: “It’s not exactly about dating—it’s just social chatting. Once you get bombarded with complaints every few days, you’ll realize that when an app focuses on handsome guys and beauties video chats, it’s seen as skirting the line of vulgarity.”

“What is the essence of social needs? Love and sex. Skirting the line is normal—like how we often get bad reviews. You just get used to it. And it’s not fair to call it vulgar—does having normal desires make it vulgar? The key is delivering value.”

Jian smiled faintly, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. Chen Jing picked up a prayer bead bracelet from his desk, rolling each bead between his thumb and forefinger: “At a certain level, sacrifices are inevitable. Business isn’t always pastoral harmony or utopia.”

This was the same senior who, during school, had won two scientific patents and frequently secured green lanes in entrepreneurial competitions. Now, he’d transformed into someone casually fingering prayer beads. Jian stared at his hands as if seeing a ghost. Chen Jing deftly slipped the bracelet onto his wrist: “Want to grab lunch? We just built an organic farm cafeteria downstairs—everything’s organic and healthy. Want to try?”

“No thanks, I still have work to do. I just dropped by today on my way somewhere.” Jian lied smoothly.

“Oh?”

Glancing outside, Jian pointed to a figure like spotting a savior: “My driver’s here.”

Chen Jing zoomed in with his phone camera: “How unusual—to send a Santana these days…”

Escaping down the stairs and crossing the street, Jian found the car hood open, smoke rising. Yu Zhimei stood fanning herself with a straw hat under the scorching sun. Seeing Jian, she was startled: “Why do I keep running into you?”

“Meeting a senior. What are you doing here?”

“Borrowing a car for a shoot. This antique heated up after just fifteen minutes of driving.”

Jian laughed: “What’s with your connection to Santanas?”

“I don’t know—maybe it’s fate. Who knows why they gave me such a beat-up car? Probably hoping I’d pay for damages.”

They stood together on the street, sweating in the hot wind. Jian, his heart in shambles, looked at the disheveled Yu Zhimei and then at the steaming Santana beside them, feeling as though they were stranded companions sharing misfortune. “Need a tow truck? Let me take a look.”

“Don’t touch!” Yu Zhimei pulled him back. “Opening the radiator now will burn you. Wait a bit—we’ll add water and drive back. They can’t pin this on me—I’ve already filmed a video. This car’s full of issues. If they want to argue, I’ll point them out one by one. How shameless of a rental platform to partner with such unscrupulous second-hand dealers.”

Jian touched the arm Yu Zhimei had gripped, feeling the heat in the 38-39°C temperature. After waiting twenty minutes, they drove to a shaded spot and dashed into a convenience store for cold drinks. Watching the smoking Santana parked in the shade, Jian remarked, “Being in car media isn’t easy—you really need to know cars.”

“I’ve seen plenty of junkers,” Yu Zhimei said, biting her popsicle. “My dad was a driving instructor—I’ve told you before. When I helped him teach people to drive, there was a repair shop next door. Whenever the coach cars broke down, we’d tow them over. In urgent situations, I’d fix them myself. Mechanics in small cities are notorious for price gouging—overnight repairs often involved stealing parts and swapping them out. Creating minor, non-life-threatening issues was a common tactic to attract repeat customers. Don’t look at me like that—I wanted to learn piano and ballet too, but survival came first.”

“I’m not judging you.” Jian Zhaowen smiled at Yu Zhimei, his eyes twinkling. Pretending to be annoyed, Yu Zhimei glanced at him and swung her legs as she gazed out the window. The afternoon sun blazed fiercely, pedestrians rushing into the shade under umbrellas. The air conditioning above them was a bit chilly, so Jian subtly shifted closer to Yu Zhimei, pretending it was accidental as he pressed against her arm. Sure enough, she felt cold. Remembering what he’d said a few days ago at the dessert shop, he spoke up: “That… I mentioned before that my feelings tend to fade.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“You’re not offended, are you…?” As soon as he said it, he realized—he was afraid Yu Zhimei would take offense.

“Though I can’t accept it, I understand. Some people’s feelings are like that. You’re Jian Zhaowen after all—handsome, always wanting to be a hero, with a proud soul. It’s only natural.”

“You once called it an urban illness. I thought about it carefully—I don’t think that’s me. When I genuinely like a girl, I can’t help but pour everything I have into her at that moment, and I’m completely faithful to each one. It’s just that I can’t control when the feelings fade. I feel sorry for the girls, but I don’t want vague emotions or to give them counterfeit love. Some say that at a certain age, you can accept ambiguity in life—but I don’t want to. Deceiving myself and others is meaningless. Oh, I’m not telling you this to make you pity me—it’s because…”

“Because I’m your neighbor and not within your algorithm’s range, so you can tell me without reservation, right?” Yu Zhimei reached out and pinched his ear. Just as Jian was about to protest, she squeezed his cheek hard: “Come on, I’m not that bad. Don’t act like no one pursues me and I’m only fit to be your confidant. Besides, I don’t want to date someone whose feelings disappear quickly.” Yu Zhimei looked into Jian’s eyes: “I’m waiting for a man who’s deeply devoted and long-lasting—a kind of enduring sincerity, not a fleeting meteor.”

“That’s a great metaphor. Even if I were a meteor, I’d speed past your sky.” Wincing from the pinch, Jian tilted his chin toward Yu Zhimei, his cheek turning red. He quickly swallowed his confession back down. As their eyes met, their heartbeats quickened. Jian’s face drew closer to hers; the static-charged strands of her bangs brushed against his lips, followed by the tip of his nose…

The convenience store doorbell rang, jolting Jian back to reality—he’d forgotten they were in a public place. Yu Zhimei cleared her throat: “The Santana should’ve cooled down by now. I need to add water—I have to return the car by five.”

On the drive back downtown, the two avoided discussing the kiss. Jian stared ahead, suddenly struck by a strange feeling—Yu Zhimei was different from any girl he’d met before. Could stepping outside the confines of his trusted algorithm lead to a different kind of emotion? Could he escape the ironclad rule of fading love? Two weeks after quitting his job, he reopened LoveDate, refreshing the list of potential matches. Without his algorithm, the app’s scope had expanded. After paying, the user types visible to him had indeed changed, with no age restrictions—ranging from 15 to 50. Fifteen-year-olds using such apps—could they even discern good from bad? Pushing algorithms without principles felt despicable. While waiting at a traffic light, Yu Zhimei glanced sideways at his phone: “So eager to find a new girlfriend?”

“Please, I’m just checking out the modified app.” Though he wasn’t lying, his fingers couldn’t help but swipe a few more times. When he looked down again, a profile appeared featuring a short-haired woman on a motorcycle, aged 35, with the description: “Loves desserts and speeding, a sexy sister who appears at night.” As he raised his head, he saw Yu Zhimei’s astonished expression.

It was He Jie. The honking of the car behind urged the Santana forward. Flustered, Yu Zhimei stepped on the gas pedal as if she and Jian had done something forbidden.