HGG - 38

They stared at each other for a long time, the surrounding noise growing louder and more chaotic. Song Yi didn’t flinch or look away, and Chi Zhao showed no intention of turning his head either.

Chi Zhao seemed to lean forward slightly, and Song Yi instinctively pressed her fingers down on the armrests of her seat.

Just then, the lights in the venue suddenly went out.

The stage lights and screens flickered off simultaneously, plunging the entire arena into darkness. Song Yi tilted her head up, but almost immediately, a light shone beside her.

Chi Zhao had turned on the flashlight function of his phone. He looked up and muttered to himself, “A power outage?”

Behind them, the younger audience groaned in frustration. “Seriously? The match was just getting good!”

Gamers who realized what was happening began complaining about the organizers—some mildly demanding refunds and apologies, others harshly criticizing them. “What’s going on?! Trash organizers! How dare you disrespect the players?!”

Even the backup power supply failed. In a sense, the reputation of the event organizers was now completely ruined.

Song Yi looked up at the staff members trying to manage the situation. Chi Zhao, holding his phone with one hand, chuckled faintly, almost amused. “Poor things.”

“Didn’t Chongyou also invest funds in this?” Song Yi’s implication was clear—wouldn’t this affect their company?

“Don’t worry, it has nothing to do with us,” Chi Zhao said as he stood up. “Let’s go back.”

They left the venue along with the rest of the departing crowd. Once outside, Chi Zhao bent his head to operate his phone. Song Yi suddenly wondered—what would have happened if the power hadn’t gone out? Would they really have kissed?

Chi Zhao’s neck peeked out from between his hair and shirt collar. Standing behind him, she couldn’t resist reaching out.

But just as she intended to adjust his collar, Chi Zhao suddenly turned his head. Her fingers, which had been meant only to fix his collar, accidentally brushed against his face. Caught off guard by her action, he stared at her in surprise and reflexively grabbed her wrist.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

People’s intentions can change in an instant. While Song Yi had indeed only wanted to adjust his collar moments ago, something shifted when she met his bright, clear eyes.

“It’s… just that,” she said softly, “I wanted to touch you.”

“Is that so?” Chi Zhao’s gaze shifted slightly, a teasing smile playing on his lips. He let go of her wrist. “Then go ahead.”

With an air of indifference, he returned to fiddling with his phone, seemingly unperturbed by her boldness. But Song Yi simply withdrew her hand.

Song Yi should have been able to leave work and go home. However, Xia Fan was spending the evening at his girlfriend’s place, and Chi Zhao was working overtime, leaving her to take over as his assistant.

When she opened the company group chat, Song Yi saw screenshots shared by colleagues of trending hashtags.

“Danji Games plagiarizes ACDF .”

This must have been the reason Dan Jingyi had been frantically calling nonstop. Song Yi scrolled through related searches and clicked on comparison images posted by gaming bloggers. She saw the NPC character Kukuchi, the dragon-cat girl, which Chi Zhao had added to the game at the last minute before launch. Coincidentally—or not—Dan Jingyi’s game featured a strikingly similar design.

It was undeniable that Chi Zhao’s two preemptive decisions had benefited ACDF . By launching early, they not only avoided Danji Games’ attempted diversion of traffic but also gained renewed attention during the holiday weekend under the guise of being “plagiarized.”

To call all of this a pure coincidence seemed unlikely to Song Yi.

Yet Chi Zhao showed no interest in explaining himself. In fact, he seemed to be in high spirits, even playing classic scenes from The White-Haired Girl in the car.

Since Song Yi enjoyed that particular piece too, she didn’t press him for answers.

Back at the office, Zhan Heqing was unusually still present. When Song Yi went to submit materials to him, she took the opportunity to ask about the situation.

“Yes, it’s true—it was a calculated move,” Zhan Heqing admitted openly. “We bought the trending topic.”

Before firing a large number of employees, Chi Zhao had Xia Fan organize an internal art competition within the company.

The theme was ostensibly for the sequel to ACDF , but in truth, it was all a lie.

The fired employees each had drafts of completed artwork—these were traps.

With such a tight deadline to release their game, Dan Jingyi was desperate for talent. Coupled with his personal grudge against Chi Zhao, he didn’t hesitate to bite the bait.

In their rush to compete with ACDF , Danji Games chose a background strikingly similar to theirs.

This competition was tailored specifically for Danji Games.

“He hired so many of our people,” Zhan Heqing continued casually. “As long as one of them used their previous rejected drafts, they’d fall straight into the trap. And in a hastily assembled company like theirs, even our third-rate employees would shine.”

Song Yi hesitated briefly. “Visual similarities also help shape public opinion.”

“Exactly. What ultimately helped us was Kukuchi, the dragon-cat girl.” Zhan Heqing smiled gently.

They had prepared multiple possibilities, needing only one to unfold as planned.

Once their goal was achieved and the hype died down, they would use game updates to replace all those bait elements.

“But we won’t actually sue them,” Zhan Heqing added finally. “After all, in this country, copyright law is still relatively uncharted territory for games. We might end up losing more than gaining.”

Chi Zhao had mentioned something similar when discussing the magical fairy wand earlier.

Song Yi wondered what he had been thinking about at the time.

________________________________________

A few days later, Zhan Heqing represented Chongming to inspect the live-streaming platform they were about to acquire.

He meticulously tried on over ten outfits in front of the mirror and bombarded Song Yi with photos via social media early in the morning.

Woken by the incessant notification sounds, Song Yi sat up groggily in bed to check the outfit photos he had sent.

“They’re all the same,” Song Yi replied mercilessly.

The next second, Zhan Heqing called her. His voice was brimming with excitement. “Little Song Yi, don’t you know? Live-streaming companies are full of beauties. Who knows? Maybe today I’ll finally escape singledom!”

“I see,” Song Yi said flatly as she lay back down. “But wouldn’t it be better to bother Chi Zhao instead?”

“You don’t understand. Chi Zhao’s temper in the morning is absolutely terrifying…”

Before Zhan Heqing could finish, Song Yi hung up.

In the end, Zhan Heqing settled on wearing a formal suit, much like usual.

Before heading to the company—soon to be renamed Chongming Live—he did some research. On this day, Wu Qiuxiu was scheduled to meet with her agent.

Let it be said upfront—he wasn’t there to see her, nor did he intend to impress her with his professionalism or redeem himself. He simply thought it would be nice to understand her work situation or perhaps treat her to coffee. After all, it wasn’t easy for young women to find jobs these days.

Upon arriving at the company, Zhan Heqing assessed their operations and observed the office environment. After taking a tour, he excused himself to use the restroom and wandered around the employee activity floor alone.

On this floor, there were many streamers—some focused on gaming, others on lifestyle content; some relied on crass antics for attention, while others were undeniably beautiful. As he approached a lounge, he overheard several female streamers chatting idly inside.

“Did you hear? A new streamer got hit with a yellow card the other day.”

“Oh yeah, I heard about that. Didn’t the company send out an anonymous notice? Apparently, a viewer suggested she play with eels, and she asked what eels were. Hilarious!”

“Do you think she’s genuinely stupid or just desperate for attention?”

“Probably the former. Anyway, the company suspended her immediately.”

“My agent told me to promote her posts and support her, but honestly, I don’t want to.” One heavily plastic-surgeried streamer laughed. “Her real name is ridiculous too—something like ‘Woo Jiu Jiu,’ I think.”

At this point, Zhan Heqing’s expression darkened slightly.

He reached out to open the door, but just then, a cheerful voice rang out behind him.

“Vice President Zhan!”

Zhan Heqing turned to see Wu Qiuxiu approaching enthusiastically.

Today, she wore denim overalls and a light-colored shirt. With her baby face, anyone unfamiliar with her might mistake her for a middle school student.

A smile unconsciously spread across Zhan Heqing’s face.

At the same time, the boss of the live-streaming platform finally located Zhan Heqing at the end of the corridor. Smiling obsequiously, his expression changed dramatically when he spotted Wu Qiuxiu, like a performer in Sichuan opera switching masks.

“Wu Qiuxiu! What are you doing here?!” The man hissed, glancing at Zhan Heqing before dismissively waving her away. “This isn’t the time! Go back!”

Wu Qiuxiu’s smile froze on her face. Bewildered, she nodded at the boss and waved goodbye to Zhan Heqing with a small smile, mouthing “bye-bye.”

Watching her turn and walk away, Zhan Heqing stood rooted to the spot. It was the first time he had seen her looking so dejected.

“Miss Wu.” He heard his own voice. Taking a step forward, he walked toward Wu Qiuxiu.

Ignoring the stares of others, Zhan Heqing stopped directly in front of Wu Qiuxiu. Speaking loudly enough for everyone nearby to hear, he asked, “Are you free today? I’d like to treat you to dinner.”

________________________________________

Meanwhile…

A secretary’s morning is always busy.

After hanging up on Zhan Heqing, Song Yi quickly washed up, applied makeup, and headed to the office.

Lately, Chi Zhao had been living in the office. Judging by his online activity on the computer, he often stayed up late. To him, naps were more important than nighttime sleep.

When Song Yi entered the office, it was eerily quiet. Tiptoeing inside, she found Chi Zhao lying on the cashmere carpet, surrounded by plush Pokémon toys. His eyelids were peacefully closed. Song Yi stood beside him for a moment before slowly crouching down, allowing her gaze to trace from his browbone to his chin.

He slept as if dead, exuding a serene calmness, yet his ethereal charm became even more pronounced.

So handsome.

Almost involuntarily, Song Yi reached out with both hands. She pinched Chi Zhao’s ears.

Completely unaware in his sleep, he remained oblivious. Normally filled with youthful vigor, he occasionally revealed subtle traces of docility, especially in moments like these.

Without warning, Song Yi’s lips curled upward.

She gently stroked his ears, treating him like a doll. In his sleep, Chi Zhao furrowed his brows slightly and mumbled incoherently. Having lived in so many places, his dream-talk was a jumble of languages.

Half a sentence came out in Japanese, interspersed with English words, and ended in Chinese.

Trying to suppress her laughter, Song Yi’s shoulders trembled slightly. This silent joy was something she hadn’t experienced in a long time.

After standing up, Song Yi glanced around and noticed the office cat was missing.

Xia Fan wasn’t around—he usually took care of the cat. Song Yi stepped out to ask Wang Ma, who said she thought she’d seen the cat go downstairs.

Taking the elevator down, Song Yi left without hearing the phone ringing in the cubicle. Calling out “Tree Frog” as she descended the stairs, she arrived on the first floor and saw Zhan Heqing listening intently to someone.

He had just returned from the live-streaming company and should have been relaxing after finishing work.

However, at this moment, Zhan Heqing wore an expression of heightened alertness—the kind he reserved for when facing Zhan Luo.

Without giving it much thought, Song Yi continued calling out “Tree Frog” as she walked down the steps. Her voice was jarringly loud, instantly drawing the attention of Zhan Heqing and the person he was speaking to.

Effortlessly, she captured the visitor’s attention.

The moment Song Yi saw him, she froze.

She had seen this face countless times—in search engines, Chongming Culture’s promotional ads, and televised interviews where camera flashes lit up the screen. He was more aloof and imposing than anyone she knew, exuding arrogance and authority that radiated from his very presence.

Chi Shuren.

Founder and CEO of Chongming Culture, an absolute Machiavellian figure who could justify skipping his eldest son’s corpse retrieval. Ruthless and decisive, he dared to scold directors to their faces, knowing full well they couldn’t find anyone to replace him.

He was Chi Zhao’s father.

Song Yi stopped in her tracks, meeting the elder’s gaze fearlessly. She gave a slight bow, offering it as a greeting for their first meeting. But Zhan Heqing rushed forward, grabbing her arm and pulling her aside.

“What are you shouting about?!” he demanded urgently.

Confused, Song Yi replied, “Tree Frog is missing…”

“…” Zhan Heqing gave her a look of exasperation. “Don’t say that name in front of Mr. Chi.”

“?”

“When Chi Zhao named the cat ‘Tree Frog,’ his dad nearly dismantled Chongyou.” Zhan Heqing’s expression turned grave. “Chi Zhao’s biological mother isn’t from the mainland and liked using the word ‘wa’ as an exclamatory tone. She used to call Chi Zhao’s father ‘Shu Wa.’”