Chapter 76: At the Last Moment, I Haven’t Actually Left Yet; I Watched Your Back Grow Further and Further Away

The 14th floor of Lorry’s building is now the production department for the 2028 Project. The original producer’s office, which once faced southeast, has been transformed into a “black box” — a small, isolated room exclusively used by illustrators to focus on their work. The copywriting team remains in its original position, with Akira’s art team still across from them. However, the work they do now is entirely different. Jiang Huan is now responsible for creating character designs for NPCs (non-player characters). Her daily task involves crafting NPCs that players can interact with at various checkpoints. These dialogues are automatically generated, and the characters are randomly assigned without needing complex emotional layers or precise narrative arcs. She doesn’t need to stay up late anymore, and occasionally she can even leave work on time. But Jiang Huan feels hollow. Every time she opens a new document, her mind drifts back to the male protagonist of Love Continent, and the image of Bai Jingchuan — always dressed in a suit — emerging from the office at the end of the hall.

To everyone else, nothing has changed. But for Jiang Huan, it feels like the world has been turned upside down. Bai Jingchuan disappeared from her life, along with the thick stack of stories printed during the geomagnetic storm period, as well as the figurines and standees of Li Junzhu that she had spent money on... It’s almost laughable — all the 2D merchandise she bought offline is still there, and she’s still the otaku-loving employee she always was.

Even the doll that Shan Di Meng helped her purchase is still around.

Bai Jingchuan no longer appears in her dreams. Despite this, Jiang Huan remembers every detail: the stranger who held her close to avoid an oncoming car when they first met, the producer who saved the production team with his decisive actions when he entered the office; the man who wore the same suit for nearly two months, his feet often bleeding from ill-fitting dress shoes, unknowingly exuding charm while living next door to her and being utterly captivated by her desserts… Bai Jingchuan infiltrated her life bit by bit, like dyed water, evaporating and leaving behind only a faint stain.

Crying serves no purpose, and wailing loudly would be unbecoming. In moments of profound grief, people tend to become quiet. Jiang Huan sits in the office, often resembling a plant, but her colleagues see her as she has always been — an old employee of 2028, tucked away in a corner, writing trivial details for the project. If someone else were to take over, they might inject some liveliness into the work. But Jiang Huan is too subdued, seemingly dispensable to the team.

This is the stereotypical impression left on her after Pantheon gave her Bai Jingchuan, a kind of karmic retribution.

Akira remains Jiang Huan’s closest friend. Carrying a lunchbox, she sneaks into the meeting room, pulling open the curtains with a flourish and offering fried chicken to Jiang Huan, who is catching up on sleep. She tries to complain about her young, somewhat useless boyfriend. Without opening her eyes, Jiang Huan replies, “If you’re going to rant about how your boyfriend isn’t good enough and then immediately backtrack to say he’s actually nice to you, I suggest you post it directly on Xiaohongshu. Guaranteed, you’ll get more comments than likes, and it’ll be archived in the ‘Quirky Couples Destined for Each Other’ folder. Everyone will congratulate you on a hundred years of happiness.”

“You’ve got such a sharp tongue. I don’t remember you being this venomous. You haven’t dated in so long, your brain must be rusting. Keep this up, and you’ll turn into a nun.”

“Who says I haven’t dated?”

“Mm, sure you have. You play otome games, spend money on Guo Yi, and then complain to me about how cheesy and poorly written their lines are, like fatty pork that smells bad no matter how much you try to wash it.”

Jiang Huan finally opens her eyes. “Is that really how you see me?”

“What else? We’ve been colleagues for four years.”

“Have I really been doing nothing but that for four years?” Jiang Huan straightens up. “Isn’t there anything else? Haven’t I ever dated a virtual love interest?”

“Sure, you’ve dated. You’ve got twenty boyfriends in Guo Yi, but I’ve never seen you commit to any of them. And that’s fine. Who would waste real money on men they can’t touch?”

“Do you not remember? Bai Jingchuan was my boyfriend, our former producer. This floor used to house the production team for Love Continent. We were all part of Bai Laoshi’s loyal female squad…”

Akira quickly covers Jiang Huan’s mouth. “Lady, you said the exact same thing last time you were drunk. Everyone thought you’d lost your mind. They almost recorded you and lumped you in with those mentally unstable people who ramble nonsense.”

“So you don’t believe me either.” Jiang Huan sighs, feeling let down. “Aren’t you an ESFJ? Don’t they say you’ve got spreadsheets in your head? You once told me no one could ever deceive you…”

“I still do. I remember every single account, every subordinate’s task. But Jiang Huan, have you gone insane? You keep muttering these things from time to time. I’ve never heard of anyone named Bai Jingchuan, and I can’t find him online. Are you dreaming about him? If you’re under too much stress, I’ll go to the park with you, or maybe we should see a psychologist?”

No one believes that Bai Jingchuan ever existed, and even fewer know about Li Junzhu. Memory rewriting seems as simple as dragging files into the recycle bin. Only Jiang Huan retains memories related to Bai Jingchuan. She simply replies, “I don’t dream anymore.”

Left alone in the city, everything carries the shadow of the person she loved. On the surface, nothing has changed, but deep down, she knows she can never return to the way things were.

How long does it take for something to become “taken for granted”? Perhaps it’s true — her life simply no longer includes Bai Jingchuan. For others who haven’t retained their memories, it’s like a fish losing its bicycle.

During Friday’s lunch break, her colleagues gather near the elevator. “Jiang Huan, want to go to Renwu Road?”

“No, I’m busy.”

“You’re so strange. Isn’t Renwu Road Lorry’s backyard? It’s just a ten-minute walk, and you can eat well and relax. Why won’t you go? Should I list all the great shops on that street for you?”

“Really, it’s fine. I’m just lazy.”

Her colleagues add another stereotype to their list about Jiang Huan — she dislikes group activities and isn’t particularly polite. Deep down, she rejects Renwu Road out of narrow-mindedness and a lack of sociability.

Jiang Huan doesn’t care whether Renwu Road has Shan Di Meng, whether there’s Xianghe Soul Chamber, or if there are familiar stores. Even if she hears about them, she doesn’t bother asking the shop owners’ names. Just like her colleagues, who feel nothing has changed after their memories were collectively erased, Jiang Huan avoids searching for information about Renwu Road and doesn’t participate in gossip about the shops changing hands. Instead, she buries herself in her work, completing tasks faster than anyone else.

In Jiang Huan’s heart, there’s no one left to whom she can openly express her feelings. It has nothing to do with forgiveness.

When everyone else has left, Jiang Huan goes downstairs to buy a sandwich. She bumps into Elder Fu, eating the same lunch by the lake. His silver hair, now past his shoulders, is tousled by the wind, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He’s watching the black swans on the lake. As the producer of 2028, it’s an open secret that he’s trying to resurrect his daughter in the virtual world. He’s already placed a test version on his phone, created a model of his daughter through face sculpting, and frequently chats with her. Recently, during the “Big Bang” update, he showcased his daughter slightly “aging” after her birthday — her ears moved up by a millimeter, and tiny wrinkles appeared at the corners of her mouth. This was the system’s automatic adjustment to simulate aging.

Elder Fu notices her and asks, “Would you like to sit?”

Stone benches surround them, and sunlight glitters across the lake’s surface, inviting people to linger. Here, Bai Jingchuan once nimbly rescued his own manuscript, an event captured on video that made the entire department laugh at him — especially since what he saved was just a stack of blank paper. But this was one of the few moments she was genuinely moved by him during their initial encounter. Most of the time, she resented this meticulous producer. Elder Fu asks about her work in the production team. She explains that she’s now only responsible for writing basic personality traits for NPCs. Their dialogues are automatically generated based on these traits, so her job is to ensure each NPC has distinct characteristics. Her role is highly replaceable. Elder Fu nods. “Good. A girl should take it easy. There’s plenty of energy left for life’s little details. You shouldn’t overwork yourselves.”

After the geomagnetic storm, everyone’s memories were deleted. Elder Fu likely doesn’t remember Bai Jingchuan or Love Continent. Therefore, she can’t mention that she designed an entire map. The rare opportunity to showcase her abilities to a senior leader is gone. But she has no interest in boasting or seeking rewards. She just wants to tell Elder Fu that women’s imaginations aren’t confined to comfort zones. They can independently design entire maps and create fleshed-out, multidimensional characters.

But she can’t say it. The characters she created have vanished from both her work and her life. Without representative works, even the loudest self-promotion is empty talk. The black swans spread their wings, flapping a few times and creating ripples across the water. But they merely preen their feathers, remaining scenic decorations in the lake. Still, Jiang Huan brings up the 2028 Project to Elder Fu. She explains that reviving the deceased or allowing people to shape their ideal companions offers immense emotional support. But when people realize these creations are artificial and abandon them, what happens to these lives? Will they develop consciousness? How should they be handled?

Elder Fu smiles and replies, “If these beings truly have lives, they’ll live according to their own trajectories. Being abandoned is also part of their journey. In fact, even when you weren’t paying attention to them, they were still striving to live. Think of it as a parallel universe where your paths simply crossed without recognition.”

Jiang Huan is momentarily stunned by his words. As Elder Fu gathers his sandwich wrapper and stands, he adds, “You’ve dyed your hair. That’s good. You’re moving forward.”

“Do you remember my previous hair color?”

“Yes, you weren’t in my department back then.”

Jiang Huan stands up in shock. “How do you know that…?”

“This project is my child. I know every detail of 2028.” Elder Fu smiles and leaves. “Data can be altered, and so can memories. But I’ve lived too long. No one can make me forget anything related to my daughter, no matter how small. On the night of the geomagnetic storm, you came to Arctic Village. I saw you. You walked a long way for a boy.”

“...”

“You’ll have other chances to create something. Rest here for now.”

There’s a hidden meaning in his words. Jiang Huan watches his retreating figure, deep in thought. Was that message from Bai Jingchuan? Is it her imagination?

Bai Jingchuan was a boring man whose exploration of the city always revolved around her. After meeting him, Jiang Huan became deeply intertwined with him but later realized his traces in the city were sparse. They hadn’t visited landmarks together or paused to enjoy life. Walking across the company’s sky bridge, Jiang Huan habitually looks across the street — bustling peers heading in four different directions. But there’s no longer a man in a suit who conjures rainbows for her.

The initial draft sank underwater, turning into mushy pulp. Models were deleted without cause. She once thought his features would be forever etched in her heart, but even his smile is fading. If only she had been taken to a new planet. Though she’s still working, the producer is attentive and not targeting her specifically. 2028 holds promise, but it has little to do with her dreams. Life has returned to a meaningless, aimless state.

She discovered a secret base three years ago. Searching online confirms it hasn’t been renovated. Carrying a plastic bag filled with beer, she uses a resident’s access to enter the building. This six-story old Western-style house in the city center hides a rooftop accessible via a small staircase. Once introduced by a photographer she briefly knew, Jiang Huan never shared this spot with anyone — not even Bai Jingchuan, who didn’t have the chance. Climbing to the top, she pushes open the door and sees Wen Li sitting by the old-fashioned chimney, drinking.

She initially wanted to ask how Wen Li knew about this place, but Jiang Huan once vowed to come here to brood when sad. Duanmu Xuan’s character setting included solitude and a love for heights. Around here, which other famous building offers seclusion for drinking? It had to be this one.

Duanmu Xuan is gone, and this memory has passed to Wen Li. That supposedly omnipotent system isn’t so powerful after all.

Falling in love with a male protagonist you created counts as a form of mutual understanding. Both women struggle to make conversation. Speaking of painful topics only furrows brows, so they silently drink instead. Wen Li isn’t the type to bring up uncomfortable subjects, but facing Jiang Huan’s silence, she speaks up: “I’m looking for a new job, but I’m hitting walls everywhere. Maybe it’s karma for reporting Love Continent.”

“It’s fine. Love Continent is gone.” Jiang Huan smiles. “Your report was erased long ago, probably by Bai Jingchuan.”

“I… still need to apologize.” Wen Li clinks her bottle against Jiang Huan’s. The bottle remains untouched, cradled in her hands, but she seems already drunk. Her belated apology is heartfelt, yet the evening breeze scatters her unspoken regrets. Jiang Huan hasn’t been listening. When she snaps back to reality, she breaks the silence: “Did you say something to me?”

Half an hour has passed. Wen Li reaches out to touch Jiang Huan’s forehead. “No fever. You looked like you were tuning into cosmic signals.”

“...It’d be nice if that were possible.”

“Pretend they’ve gone to another planet. When I can’t sleep at night, I sew on my machine and even grab slippers to catch signals. Sometimes I pretend Duanmu Xuan is connecting with me. My mouth is as sharp as ever.”

Jiang Huan thinks, How should I respond? They’re indeed on another planet. Maybe they’ve started new lives, rebuilding from scratch. They’re all first-generation Singularity immigrants.

“Don’t you think this is heartbreak?”

“Not really. It’s not that he stopped loving me. He’s just unreachable. Maybe one day, while I’m tying my shoelaces or buying coffee, he’ll appear again, loving me just the same. I’d even complain about how late he is.” Jiang Huan swallows, unaware her voice is trembling. “If we still love each other, it’s not a breakup. It’s only a breakup if we stop loving each other and part ways…”

“Stop deceiving yourself.” Wen Li’s eyes gleam. “If a relationship couldn’t progress, it’s a breakup.”

“Mm, he wasn’t particularly handsome. Small eyes, legs not long enough, not even 185 cm tall. Male protagonists these days are so competitive. If they’re not tall, what kind of men are they…?”

“But Bai Jingchuan was quite sexy. After all, he was a mature man.”

“It’s fine. Duanmu Xuan is a full upgrade — better pecs, abs, younger. Youth is capital.”

To lighten the mood, Wen Li makes a terrible joke: “Do you… watch certain animations or movies with physical contact to project them onto him?”

“Yeah.” Jiang Huan doesn’t find it taboo. “Before I met him, of course I did. It’s part of romantic imagination. I avoided vulgar content, though. When I saw romantic films where couples embraced, I’d imagine it and feel jealous. How could I impose the poses I liked from erotic films onto him? Those are all male-gaze-driven actions. I could only pick a few poses that felt like him. SILK is a suitable brand, but no matter how much I projected, it wasn’t the same. A person who truly loves you wouldn’t need references. They’d instinctively want to kiss and embrace…”

Jiang Huan stops talking. The wind knocks over an empty bottle, as if trying to remind them of something. But neither interprets it as a meaningful sign. Wen Li seems cheerier than before. “It’s fine. I’ve grown stronger after being loved. You’re running low on energy, so I’ll share some of mine.”

After cleaning up the trash and heading downstairs, they aren’t friends who can comfort each other with hugs. They walk side by side through the alley, emerging onto streets where Shanghai’s most romantic youth gather to dance, flirt, and drink, completely free of inhibitions. Can heartache transform into part of romance? Otherwise, how can they be so relaxed on the streets, as if they have no attachments? Jiang Huan looks around. Everyone seems superficially happy, mimicking K-pop dance moves, playfully slapping each other, or crossing their legs while balancing laptops for overtime work. Occasionally, they glance up to join friends’ conversations with laughter or teasing. It’s as if noise is a kind of magic that temporarily dulls the pain of loneliness. Amidst the crowd, Jiang Huan spots Akira and her young boyfriend. Akira notices her too: “What are you doing here? Come join us!”

The young boyfriend politely gives up his seat — or rather, Akira pushes him off. Jiang Huan feels awkward and tries to decline, but her enthusiastic friends insist on pulling her into the group. She starts to explain that she’s with someone else, but when she looks up, Wen Li is nowhere to be seen. Behind them, soothing City Pop plays. Someone sets up a phone: “Let’s film a video!”

“Put the new sister in the middle!”

At Akira’s call, her friends enthusiastically push Jiang Huan to the center. The boy filming gives a thumbs-up. “Let me find some music that fits this tender, romantic atmosphere…”

Before she can comment on how this chaotic scene relates to tenderness, the record button is pressed, and a clichéd pure-love BGM blares from the phone. Akira shouts, “Sorry, Jiang Huan! When this song plays, it’s time for pure love. Not matching the vibe means not cooperating!”

With that, five people line up, hugging pairs on both sides — kissing. Jiang Huan raises her palm toward the camera and forces an awkward smile. “Wow, you really know how to welcome me, pushing me right into the middle. Next, are you going to zoom in and capture how pathetic I look?”

Bai Jingchuan would never let this happen. Either he’d diffuse the tension gently or step in to break the awkwardness, often unexpectedly — hugging her from behind or blurting out a nonsensical yet blush-inducing confession. He wouldn’t let Jiang Huan’s discomfort be recorded in such a moment. To her left, a couple in the throes of passion clings to each other. To her right, an older couple, though bickering, still kisses sweetly while pinching cheeks and holding waists. Loneliness amplifies unnaturally. She sighs with a forced smile. “Fine. If it makes the video funny, I’ll play the comedic character…”

The next moment, someone leans in and kisses her lips lightly. The touch is soft and warm — it’s Wen Li. She must have acted on impulse, just like that time in the villa when she was handed a boat ticket in isolation. But now, she smiles, holding a beer bottle, the scent of alcohol lingering on her lips. She winks, her eyes radiating stubborn dissatisfaction, as if repeating her earlier words: “It’s fine. I’ve grown immensely strong after being loved. This fulfillment can be shared with you.”

Wen Li grips Jiang Huan’s hand tightly, as if transferring all her strength. She’s like a wild yet resilient rose. Jiang Huan recalls a distant metaphor: girls wait for trophies at every stage of life. The woman before her insists on awarding her one despite her failure. Call it talent. Owning this trophy places her at rock bottom, but it’s bound to bring good things.

She smiles gratefully at Wen Li.