#112: Choices

Love cannot be matched by algorithms, and the needs of troubled souls are endless. If one must find reasons for these truths, the former lies in the complexity of human nature, while the latter stems from systemic gaps. Day & Night had once offered those seeking love and hope a swirling galaxy of possibilities. But the profound social responsibility that came with it—addressing deeper societal issues—was never something Day & Night could fully shoulder. To let the platform evolve into a market-driven product, stepping aside to focus on what truly mattered, was the reason Jian Zhaowen believed he should relinquish control.

Returning to the office, Jian found himself immersed in meeting after meeting. Investors were multiplying, and as he shuttled between conference rooms, the company felt increasingly unfamiliar. Yet, buoyed by his late-night conversation with Yu Zhimei, which had cleared much of his frustration, Jian regained his sharp wit and efficiency. His dark circles faded significantly, and he even caught himself scrolling through their chat history with a smile. An intern snapped a photo of him and shared it in the company group chat. When pressed about it, Jian didn’t get angry; instead, he treated everyone to a tea party and ordered a sushi boat, filling the office with rare laughter for an entire afternoon.

The new content director, Huai En, wasn’t as straightforward as Kou Xiao. With a subtle demeanor, Huai negotiated a 600,000 yuan annual salary plus stock options and quickly adapted to her role. Unlike Kou’s lanky frame, Huai stood at 175 cm with broad shoulders, thick eyebrows, and large eyes. Her arms and legs were sturdy, and her chest bounced slightly as she walked, making Jian feel momentarily dizzy. During her interview, she mentioned being unmarried but having a three-year-old daughter. Glancing at her phone screen, where a biracial girl in a red dress smiled brightly, Jian thought to himself—unsurprisingly.

The company now undeniably resembled an emotional social networking platform.

Signing exclusive deals with top-tier streamers burned through substantial funds, along with the costs of ad placements. The available cash dwindled rapidly, and a new round of financing became urgent. As the month-end approached, every employee faced evaluations. Performance review forms landed on Jian’s desk, and salary adjustments required his personal approval. Reviewing six months’ worth of KPIs left Jian unusually irritable. Some employees submitted summaries claiming they’d completed all their work within a single month, leaving little doubt about how they’d spent the rest.

Jian gathered all employees in the conference room, addressing the two rows surrounding the table: “We currently have five million yuan available for discretionary use. If anyone has ideas or features they want to implement, speak up. I’ll allocate funding based on feasibility.”

Silence filled the room. Everyone was simply biding their time, lacking both creativity and motivation. They weren’t entrepreneurs but mere employees grinding away. None seemed to consider how fulfilling it could be to transform fleeting sparks of inspiration into functional features. Jian despised these employees hiding their phones under the table, waiting for the meeting to end. He slammed the whiteboard: “What’s so important on your phones? We’re in a meeting!”

The employees froze, and Jian looked at the silent faces around him, exhaustion washing over him again. The entire team now rested solely on his shoulders—the future of Day & Night depended entirely on him.

Before securing financing, equity adjustments were necessary. Originally holding 60% of the shares, Jian, trusting the initial team, proposed phased stock option allocations based purely on KPI performance without bias. Before this announcement, colleagues maintained harmonious relations, but afterward, attitudes shifted. Employees grew sullen, and some privately sent screenshots of group chats criticizing Jian: “All our hard work boils down to KPIs—it’s inhumane. The boss is hoarding shares for his exit strategy since Lei Zheng left. None of us can quit either. We’ll endure until the company goes public in a year or two.”

Reading these messages infuriated Jian. These employees rarely took initiative, resisted innovation, and adopted fatigue tactics to evade KPIs. Yet when stock options were discussed, they suddenly claimed ownership. What angered him most was that these individuals were once juniors he had painstakingly nurtured.

Meanwhile, Kou Xiao continued simplifying functions methodically, preparing for the upcoming dating livestream feature. Jian, Kou, and Huai pulled an all-nighter brainstorming sessions. By dawn, Kou’s beard nearly matched his hair length, and Huai remarked that managing adults was more exhausting than handling children. Both Kou and Huai’s previous employers had already launched similar livestream platforms, with prominent sections dedicated to live streaming squares—a domain they navigated effortlessly. Dissatisfied with the lack of differentiation, Jian finally conceived real-time matching for live streams. While popular live rooms relied on gifting economies, smaller rooms would pair users based on prior tests and mobile data, limiting the number of participants, akin to online matchmaking events. This innovative approach aimed to revolutionize the dating sector. With a user base of three million, Day & Night users could easily find compatible broadcasters to watch. The once iconic homepage star map would soon be replaced. The revamped interface focused on four main features: the live streaming square, real-time matching streams, animated video avatars for chat, and the video square. Text-based chatting moved entirely to the Night Zone, merging with anonymous sections and treehole areas. The original help section retreated to the function bar alongside user information and settings, virtually invisible to new users. Early adopters no longer used Day & Night, and its flashy new features overshadowed the once-proud anonymous chat—an area that, over time, proved incapable of driving traffic.

The launch of the new features tested user numbers and daily active users. What began as a platform “to express adult desires and sincerity” morphed into livestream meetups and online voice chats—a transformation Jian hadn’t foreseen. Whether this concession would impact Day & Night remained uncertain. After Huai returned home, Kou sat hunched over his computer, exhausted yet calm as ever. Jian admired Kou’s steadfastness, born from years of experience smoothing out rough edges. Sitting across from Kou, Jian teased, “I never expected you to be such a capable worker.”

“If the pay is good, naturally, I put in more effort.”

“I’ve never met someone as attractive and unassuming as you.”

Kou merely smiled, ignoring Jian’s banter. Jian prodded further: “How do you stay so composed?”

“Because I’m not as boring as you,” Kou quipped, closing his laptop. “The requirements are in your email. Since you made me pull an all-nighter writing the PRD, here’s your task: deliver the code to me within three days with your team.”

For a moment, it felt like old times. Jian grinned: “No problem.”

After the new version of Day & Night launched, complaints flooded Jian’s Weibo comments. Once a small, elegant app, Day & Night now reeked of capitalism. Some accused Jian of greed, compromising the platform for livestream revenue. Yet during the week of backlash, Day & Night soared, gaining 500,000 new users, with its valuation skyrocketing. Jian understood the entertainment industry adage: “Being criticized to the point of controversy marks the beginning of attention.” Day & Night transitioned from niche to mainstream. During lunch breaks, Jian overheard new employees discussing Lei Zheng’s departure timing. One remarked that leaving cost Lei dearly, as the valuation doubled post-departure—cashing out now might grant financial freedom. Catching wind of Jian behind them, the employees scurried off nervously. Standing before Lei Zheng’s former office, Jian smoked pensively. Kou exited for lunch, and the room bore a striking resemblance to Lei’s tenure.

The echoes of past ambitions lingered, but the future beckoned relentlessly.

After Kou Xiao returned, Jian Zhaowen intentionally arranged a dinner with him. Kou was reluctant to have much contact with Jian outside of work and hesitated for a few minutes before agreeing. The two drove to a Japanese restaurant, and Jian remained silent, waiting for the sushi chef to prepare their meal. Aside from the chef, the private room contained only the two of them. The soft strains of shamisen music played in the background, and with Kou not speaking, the scene felt like a silent play. Kou sipped his tea slowly, occasionally glancing at Jian. Beside him, Jian seemed famished, his long lashes fluttering as he stared intently at the teacup in front of him. After Jian finished eating and wiped his hands, Kou suddenly asked, “No sex life? You seem so frustrated.”

Jian nearly spat out his tea.

“If you have something to say, just say it. With such privacy, what could be so earth-shattering?”

“Why didn’t you take the stock options before? Do you not believe in Day & Night’s business, or do you not plan to stay long?”

“Simply don’t want to tie myself to one thing. Besides, when changing jobs, many companies require that you aren’t a shareholder in similar companies. With too many shareholders, withdrawing options isn’t easy.”

“Smart. So you still don’t plan to stay long at Day & Night?”

Kou had a small appetite and poured himself some sake: “Everyone has their own plans. Doing your current job well is enough. From what I know about you, you don’t really believe in the live streaming business either. But fighting with so many shareholders isn’t necessary, right?”

He indeed knew everything. From Series A to Series B, both investors valued Day & Night’s product, except for Vicky’s father, who had left Qingzhun Capital. Among the remaining members, no one particularly liked Jian, thinking him stubborn and wasteful, unable to capitalize on trends. Since proposing the live streaming business, the two investors had united in pressuring Jian, using various methods to undermine his authority due to his low equity stake. Jian had never seen such strange power struggles—investors supposedly wanting Day & Night to thrive but ultimately dragging down overall efficiency. Kou, observing the wall lined with alcohol, wisely remarked, “Sometimes investment isn’t about making you stronger but ensuring you don’t surpass competitors. At my previous company, I saw investors buy out competing dating chat rooms, doing nothing with them, just to suffocate the competition. It’s all part of big company factional struggles.”

“Not that malicious, surely?” Jian furrowed his brow, gripping his glass. Everything in the room seemed almost still, save for the sushi chef’s movements.

“You still hold fifty percent of the shares. If I were you, I’d think about what to do next—seizing more control, continuing financing to dilute yourself, handing Day & Night over to someone stronger, or finding another path. Each points to different directions.” Kou smiled here: “Starting to feel how the entrepreneurial game gets more complicated the higher you climb?”

Jian was momentarily taken aback: “I always feel like I made a wrong move somewhere along the way.”

“No right or wrong. Big companies eventually become battlegrounds of capital and human nature. Lei Zheng liked talking about niche markets, but behind it all, it’s people and policies. Defining it doesn’t change anything. You’re smart; you understand what I mean.”

Silently finishing his drink, Jian said: “Talk to me and Ou Jinghe about the psychological help section next week.”

“No problem.”

The room fell silent again. Jian had grown accustomed to these prolonged lulls. Though he couldn’t fathom Kou’s past, he could at least respect it. Kou stood up, picking up his handbag: “Anything else? Then I’ll go.”

This still irritated Jian: “Sit down!”

“Count this as overtime then.”

“Money, money, money, always talking about money. Finish work and leave. Am I really that detestable?”

Kou chuckled softly: “Don’t treat me like Lei Zheng. He would indulge your whims; I won’t.”

“Rest assured, I’m not gay. I just thought we could be friends, no need to keep our distance outside of work. Or—is it that you like me too?” Slipping out the word “too,” Jian quickly added, “Like those intern girls.”

Sitting on the stool, Kou picked up the menu and ordered a bottle of Dassai: “You’re really too full of yourself.”

Returning to the old house, Jian stopped on the second floor and knocked on Ou Jinghe’s door. Her hair disheveled, Ou was on the phone in her room—nearly ten o’clock, and she was still coordinating with the volunteer team.

“Will the company fire me if things continue like this? The help section is almost invisible. If not for the official account, I wouldn’t know why I’m sitting in the office with two girls, feeling like an idiot.”

“How many fans?”

“More than you can imagine. Back-end requests and complaints are endless.”

“Do you want to turn the official account into an independent help system?”

“It’s not about willingness but necessity. We must keep doing this. Many people are waiting for answers. I’m tied to so many girls’ hopes—urban insecurity, small-town women wanting to escape husbands, village girls wanting education. How can I stop? The only reason would be—no money.”

Jian looked at Ou Jinghe in surprise: “Sister Ou, you’ve changed. You’re nothing like the former boss lady.”

“Don’t talk nonsense.” Ou almost swore: “What change? It’s all because you dumped this mess on me, keeping me busy with low pay. Now I’m stuck. When is Yu Zhimei coming back?”

Jian didn’t answer, only rotated his shoulders and neck, cracking sounds echoing: “Don’t worry about the subsequent funds. I have a way.”

“What way? Going around begging for financing? Do you know employees mock you in small groups, saying you barely dare breathe when calling investors. Such little money is used to hire streamers and buy ads, leaving nothing for us. One day I’ll resign because saving people is endless…” Ou sighed suddenly: “Really, Jian Zhaowen, there are endless souls in need.”

Love cannot be matched by algorithms, and the needs of troubled souls are endless. If one must find reasons, the former lies in the complexity of human nature, while the latter stems from systemic gaps. If Kou Xiao’s words hadn’t yet enlightened him, Jian now understood clearly. Day & Night had once offered those seeking love and hope a swirling galaxy of possibilities. But profound social responsibility wasn’t something Day & Night could fully shoulder. To let the platform evolve into a market-driven product, stepping aside to focus on what truly mattered, was the reason Jian believed he should relinquish control. He was deeply attached to Day & Night, having created it in the old house while thinking of Yu Zhimei, depleting his savings and energy. Yet, Day & Night no longer developed in the direction he envisioned. Becoming a mainstream social app brought complex users, making idealized goals unattainable. Grounding the product, seizing opportunities, and maximizing profits became primary objectives. Ultimately, post-IPO, everything would boil down to a capital game.

Continually sanctifying the product with love was meaningless. Jian smoked for a long time on the balcony, glancing at his phone—July 1st, and Yu Zhimei hadn’t kept her promise to return. The chatbox in Day & Night remained silent, no reply. Jian didn’t ask further, adhering to his word—if she didn’t choose him, he wouldn’t inquire, merely experiencing heartbreak once more.

Now, his mind echoed with the initial inspiration that sparked his entrepreneurship: “When people fall in love, deciding to choose true love, they shed their masks, break free from constraints, harboring secretly nurtured sincerity, quietly confessing.”