Chapter 8: The Day the Artist Fails, He Too Must Pack Up and Leave

The exaggerated praise of love stems from its absence; the rosy illusions about an industry stem from ignorance. In this entrepreneurial journey, he had charged into the fray, only to be defeated by his own idealism.

It had been a month since Jian Zhaowen last visited the company. As he stepped off the subway, crossed through the street lined with shady shops, and entered the Financial Bay Park, the “LoveDate” sign was now prominently displayed on the first floor of Building Four—a far cry from the cramped five desks they once occupied on the fifth floor. Initially, he and Philip had rented just five workstations, with computers occupying a few rear spots. Property management had even come to remind them that their monthly payment covered only twenty seats, and positions outside the paid range couldn’t be used freely. When they secured angel funding, it felt like their time had come. But when it came to renting offices, paying salaries, and purchasing bandwidth, every expense had to be carefully calculated.

Jian and Philip had met over boxed lunches in Xierqi’s public cafeteria, bonding instantly. At the time, Jian felt the need for a new direction and immediately quit his job to write a business plan and seek angel investment. Philip, with over a decade of experience, was adept at telling stories to investors, paving the way through obstacles. The money came quickly, but giving up 40% of equity at a discounted price still stung. Despite this, Jian trusted Philip deeply and followed him to Shanghai, working day and night, coding tirelessly. Not long after, LoveDate launched. They worked desperately to gather their first batch of users while investors pressured them daily. Philip held sharing sessions, closely studying foreign websites—Tumblr, Omegle, Chatroulette—copying whatever they could. Jian didn’t like this approach, but to achieve rapid user growth, he reluctantly implemented features he disliked. His falling out with Philip stemmed primarily from the decision to push for Series A funding. Philip demanded changes to the algorithm and the removal of the “tree hole” chatroom and mental health support pages. Now, seeing LoveDate’s prominent placement on the first floor, it was clear that Philip had secured the funding. Thinking back to seeing Philip humbly chatting in a bar, perhaps the Series A round had already been secured then. Jian felt a surge of anger. On the second floor, Philip was chatting on a two-meter-long sofa, surrounded by newly rented workstations and unfamiliar faces—the office was already full. On the whiteboard in the meeting room, phrases like “vertical” and “scalpel team” were circled repeatedly. Jian didn’t need to guess—Philip had clearly found his positioning and was still obsessed with copying concepts, having recently read The Mythical Man-Month .

Philip entered the office, brimming with confidence: “How does it feel?”

“Grandiose. It’s only been two months since I’ve been gone.”

“The financing went smoothly. We cut out unnecessary features…”

“You mean you cut out the tree hole chatroom and mental health support, making it easier for people to hook up directly. Just say it.”

Philip smirked: “Daily active users are holding strong. Doesn’t that prove the changes were correct?”

“You raised quite a bit of money with this, huh?”

“Valuation of 200 million, giving up 10% equity. What do you think?” Philip smiled: “With ad spending, we can survive for a year.”

“If you’re only doing paid matching, your platform won’t have any class. You’re not positioning it as a dating site, and the greed is unattractive. If your algorithm isn’t precise enough and you rush into monetization, users will leave. What about the next round of funding?”

Philip pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows, feigning enlightenment before offering a practiced smile. Jian had seen this expression countless times—it was Philip’s go-to tactic when he disagreed but hadn’t yet formulated a counterargument. Born in Shanghai but raised in Minnesota’s icy climate, Philip appeared refined and polite on the surface but harbored a sophisticated self-interest. He believed in the benefits of centralized control and enjoyed using personality attacks to subjugate employees—a tactic Jian absolutely rejected. Philip stroked his beard, maintaining a humble tone: “Zhaowen, when it comes to class, the photos we push on our homepage are more than enough to convey quality. You can’t always want to be a soul mentor.”

“Just say what you mean. There’s no one else here but us.” Jian felt a wave of anger. Why pretend to be so polite now when he used to humiliate others in front of a dozen people during meetings?

“You’ve misunderstood something—I’m not aiming to be the top social app. I just need money. Paid services bring revenue, and revenue brings valuation. We’ve secured Series A funding. If we can hold out until Series B, I’ll consider myself successful in the social space, and switching industries won’t leave me starving. As for other people’s love lives and personal journeys, how does that concern me? Besides, algorithms don’t need to be that complex—people just want to see pretty faces.”

Jian now understood why Philip had rushed to secure angel funding as soon as they had an idea. If Philip truly wanted to pursue his passion, he wouldn’t have diluted his stake from the start. Instead, after their initial discussions, Philip had swiftly registered the company, rented a team, and begun raising funds—he simply wanted to cash in round after round of financing. “What’s the point of entrepreneurship like this? Didn’t you tell me yourself that startups should aim to bring meaningful change to humanity?”

“You’re too young—’change’ comes in many forms, and achieving even a small part of it is difficult. I admire your straightforwardness and understand that programming and algorithms require precision, but you should stick to what you’re good at and follow leadership guidance to help the company grow faster.”

“I can’t accept this kind of growth.”

“So fundamentally, we’re incompatible. You value class; I value monetization. My actions may seem crude and underhanded to you, but your idealism is a stumbling block in my work. Our pursuits in business are different, much like relationships—if it’s not working, we split.”

“This is our shared company. I can’t allow you to strip away ‘love’ and leave only ‘date’…”

“The majority shareholder is me, Jian Zhaowen.”

“What?”

“You were part of the initial team when we started, and I value that greatly.” Philip enunciated each word of “initial team” clearly, as if drawing a boundary: “But now, given the company’s development, I think your idealism might be better suited to exploring a new path. HR will handle the rest.”

HR? The company now had the resources to set up an HR department? And what did that mean—was he being fired? Jian was utterly confused. A bespectacled man with a kindly face entered the room: “Jian Zhaowen, right? Let’s discuss your departure.”

“What?”

“You’ve been absent from work for two months. According to the previous contract, the company has the right to terminate your employment. However, Philip mentioned that you’re one of the founding members, so your social security and housing fund contributions will continue…”

Seeing the contract in front of him, Jian Zhaowen slammed his hand on the table: “I’m one of the founders! How can you dismiss me like this?”

“The investors weren’t particularly optimistic about an idealistic algorithm engineer, so…”

“So you’re using the investors to pressure me?”

Humiliation and shame hit Jian simultaneously. His voice faltered as quickly as his anger flared at Philip’s betrayal. Philip was the majority shareholder—when they started the company, he had argued that calling it a co-founding venture would destabilize morale once the company grew larger. The contract, written in black and white, contained clauses meticulously crafted by both Jian and Philip, designed to ensure employees couldn’t slack off without consequences. The earliest batch of contracts had even been drafted in rough form, with inconsistent fonts, but they had all signed them and stored them in a drawer, waiting for the official seal.

The HR representative saw through Jian’s unease: “You know the clauses about voluntary overtime and unexcused absences.”

It was a classic case of shooting himself in the foot—a deeply personal sting. Jian sneered at the man in front of him as he listened to the earnest explanation of his severance package. His mind went blank, leaving only one thought: how much must it cost to hire such a wise and polite HR manager?

Just before leaving, he received a text from Karl, the product manager, who seemed to have anticipated this outcome: “Brother Zhaowen, I’m resigning too. This Friday is my last day. If you ever want to create another project like this, call me—I’ll be there whenever you need.”

Walking the streets during a weekday, Jian carried a tote bag, feeling humiliated. To avoid looking like a fired employee, he refused the cardboard box offered by administration and simply stuffed his belongings into a bag. This was usually the golden hour when he’d argue with Philip in the meeting room. The companies were separated by a single corridor, and every day, a female broadcaster from the neighboring travel agency narrated scripts aloud. Standing at the subway entrance, an electric bike driver asked where he was headed. He waved them off, feeling disoriented. When a car pulled up in front of him, Jian nearly exploded—was this how unlicensed taxis operated now?

“Jian Zhaowen, what are you doing here?” Yu Zhimei’s face appeared under a straw hat from the car window: “Heading back downtown? Hop in.”

In addition to Yu Zhimei, two girls holding cameras sat in the backseat. They passed a straw hat around, occasionally fanning themselves with it. Yu Zhimei explained: “Don’t be shy—they’re interns I’m mentoring. We’re filming two cars today; another team is out shooting. I’m taking them back to edit the footage.”

Through the rearview mirror, Jian noticed the two girls. One had short hair and a somewhat handsome demeanor, while the other wore all black, her blonde-dyed hair adding a touch of softness despite her cool speech. She caught Jian staring at her, and a fleeting thought crossed his mind, which he quickly dismissed. As the car sped along the elevated highway, the blinding sunlight made him feel even lower. Yu Zhimei seemed to sense his mood and didn’t press him. The two girls occasionally chatted, their banter resembling flirtation. Suddenly, the blonde girl slapped the other: “Stop playing with your phone. If you keep this up, don’t bother being with me.”

“I haven’t ‘landed’ yet. What do you want? Don’t restrict my freedom.”

Jian glanced again at the short-haired girl. “Landing” was industry jargon—an app called Lala Island was the top female-focused social product. It was also a competitor in the dating software space, founded by Tan Ya, whom Jian had met once at a bar. Tan Ya was stylish, charming, and knew how to play the game. Lala Island was highly niche, designed specifically for women to meet others. Philip often wrote competing products on the whiteboard for comparison, including Lala Island, though he always dismissed chatroom features as something made by amateurs.

Behind him, the girl complained: “If it weren’t for your sweet words in the chatroom, I wouldn’t have come back.”

The tomboy continued playing on her phone, her tone mocking: “It wasn’t my words—it was because you’re starved for affection.”

Jian couldn’t help but glance back at the two girls. At his feet lay the belongings he had been forced to take after being ousted. He rolled down the window, letting the hot wind rush in, swallowing his pride rather than making a scene in front of these girls.

The tomboy’s words struck a chord—he realized the weight of sincerity. Philip’s victorious smile lingered in his mind, while he himself had fallen flat. The exaggerated praise of love stemmed from its absence; the rosy illusions about the industry stemmed from ignorance. In this entrepreneurial journey, he had charged into the fray, only to be defeated by his own idealism.

“Got plans tonight? Want to grab some noodles?” Yu Zhimei patted his shoulder.

“No, I’m not feeling well.”