Chapter 44: Day and Night

Without meaningful content to guide it, capital forces user numbers into being the sole metric of success. Anyone can register and pay to speak freely, with no clear laws or rules to constrain them. Eventually, insults and attacks will run rampant, coercing everyone into sharing the same worldview, ultimately pressuring the very capital that fueled this chaos. But by then, the capital has already reaped its profits, leaving behind only those who grew up in this environment—people too lazy to think critically yet eager to condemn, wreaking havoc wherever they go.

Ou Jinghe’s recent joy had been found in playing the app Day and Night . She would wake up checking messages and send flash chat cards before bed, rediscovering the thrill of her teenage years sneaking into internet cafes to log into chat rooms.

In the year 2000, when online chatting was just beginning to take off, she had to travel ten subway stops away from home to find an internet café so her parents and neighbors wouldn’t catch her online. Without an ID, she relied on heavy smoky makeup to blend into the smoke-filled couch seats. Although today’s social apps have evolved significantly—with images, videos, and phone number registrations making real-world and online personas almost indistinguishable—meeting people still hinges on photos, everything laid bare and direct. When logging into Day and Night , He Jie always chose the “Night” interface. Anonymity meant no profile pictures, no face-to-face meetings—just clicking on interesting flash chat cards. It felt like the early days when having a QQ number was all you needed to make friends. Jian Zhaowen had designed a unique feature for the night mode: users could remain anonymous, broadcasting and chatting without linking their daytime profiles. Chat histories were preserved, but if something became unpleasant, one could simply click “Demolish” to delete all conversations with the other party. Occasionally, she’d be rejected or insulted, but her excitement for anonymous chatting outweighed her fear of being hurt. If she tired of someone, a single click on “Demolish” erased them entirely. Sometimes, she’d keep a few enjoyable conversations going, never needing to uncover identities. At her age, she had thought she merely wanted to stay beautiful and feared aging, but for the first time, she realized she dreaded loneliness—especially lacking anyone to confide in or share secrets with.

Even under anonymity, many chats proved as dull as real-life conversations, leaving Ou Jinghe disinterested halfway through. Some vanished from the chat box before she even got to know them. Those who managed to maintain conversations for more than three days were rare. Ou Jinghe knew such chats wouldn’t lead to romance, but her extreme loneliness made her cherish any small spark of connection. As Jian Zhaowen had said, finding a soulmate in the vast universe of words could bring happiness—and she was willing to search.

So when someone managed to chat with her consistently for over ten days, Ou Jinghe felt she’d hit the jackpot. Remaining anonymous, she didn’t know his name, only that he was perpetually online, responded quickly, and was exceptionally gentle. Seeing his chat window pop up every time she opened the app brought back memories of the excitement of seeing her QQ icon blinking in the corner fifteen years ago.

“You’re very punctual at nine o’clock every night.”

“Just finished exercising. Do you like desserts?”

“Not really. I deal with desserts every day and have grown tired of them. I like to cook perplexing dishes to torment my customers.”

“You really don’t know how to enjoy life. Right now, I’m craving a bowl of mango sago dessert.”

“Tormenting others is my way of enjoyment.” Sometimes, she spoke insincerely.

“I can tell. You seem to love provoking people.”

“How did you come across Day and Night ?”

“There was a live stream about catching cheaters. After watching it, I thought this might be a place to ‘hook up.’” The other person sent an emoji: “I admit, my motives weren’t pure.”

“Do you have any favorite books?”

“Not really. There were too many books at home when I was growing up—I once knocked over a bookshelf and broke my leg. But my mom loved Alain de Botton, Marguerite Duras, and Eileen Chang. My childhood wasn’t filled with fairy tales, just literary works.”

The other person seemed well-educated. “Have you heard of Norbert Zakav? I really like his book The Secret of Langdengel .”

“Yes.”

“Damn, I made that up. Are you even paying attention to our conversation?”

“I said I knew you made it up. You’re just a superficial girl craving attention.”

“Girl—I’m not that young.”

“Sorry, I can’t sense your age through this text chat.”

Ou Jinghe deliberately waited a while before replying. She intentionally left her phone far away, soaking in the bath for less than five minutes before getting out to look for it. Growing older, she forgot where she’d tucked it earlier—under the pillow, beside the cabinet, on the dressing table… Finally, she found it wedged sideways in the bookshelf. The other person asked: “Would you like to add me on WeChat?”

“I only want to chat with you within this interface.”

“What, afraid to meet?”

“Your chat window would get mixed in with group chats and unwanted conversations—it’s like dragging you into a noisy restaurant or a crowded mall. I just want to quietly exchange a few heartfelt words.”

The other person paused briefly: “If you feel like you’re speaking sincerely to me, I’m willing to stay here with you.”

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Jian Zhaowen had worked two quarters at a major tech company in Shanghai and successfully earned his performance bonus. He calculated that his time at the company was limited—if he didn’t build his team soon, he’d burn himself out. The biggest advantage of working at a big company was the ability to recruit talent directly from within. Jian Zhaowen kept workgroup chats open, reviewing colleagues’ progress and flipping through chat logs late at night while waiting for updates. Over six months, he observed the varying schedules of different departments and identified several intriguing individuals. He disliked mindless workaholics, ignored those who clocked in just to pass time, and despised authoritarian leaders who centralized power in their departments. Instead, he sought out sharp-minded individuals who embraced novelty. After meeting Yu Zhimei, he added another criterion to his search: people who relentlessly pursued freedom and happiness. Finding such individuals amid the pressures of a metropolis wasn’t easy, but working at a renowned domestic tech giant made it feasible. Everyone there was top-tier talent, financially independent to some degree, and often seeking fresh experiences outside their demanding jobs.

Jian Zhaowen enjoyed chatting with these interesting colleagues during tea breaks. Some were shy, some outright refused, but most didn’t turn him down—especially those who knew about Lovedate and had downloaded it. Influencers with fan bases admired his style, execution-driven individuals appreciated his ideas, and creative thinkers envied his technical expertise. Jian could talk about anything, and occasionally at birthday parties, he’d even play the guitar or dance with colleagues without fear of embarrassment. When he encountered someone he couldn’t connect with but who was curious about his angel round funding process, Jian would toss out a string of jargon: “Generally, we look at the teaser first. If interested, we’ll review the business plan, then sign an NDA. After that comes due diligence—DD, LDD, FDD, CDD—and once everything checks out, we sign the SPA.” While his colleague was still processing, Jian would buy them a coffee and explain each term in detail—he never brushed people off.

Social interaction was always a necessity, and romantic socializing even more so. According to a friend in venture capital, several live-streaming companies had recently received investments. Gaming streams were thriving, while showbiz streams made money incredibly fast. Though Jian didn’t watch live streams, he understood the mechanics well. For entry-level viewers, spending a hundred virtual lollipops could get them the streamer’s WeChat—but in reality, they’d be chatting with an assistant. Those throwing rockets and massive donations for top spots on the leaderboard sought something more tangible, like physical exchanges. As for the middle-tier consumers who spent modestly but weren’t easily swayed, they weren’t part of the target audience. Many social platforms seeking funding incorporated live streaming features, banking on the lucrative tipping culture. Even just providing technical support for such software could secure financial freedom within a few years.

Of course, he found none of this meaningful. The internet boom prioritized user-generated content, equating large user bases with value—a forced correlation. He foresaw what the internet landscape would look like in the coming years. Without quality content to guide it, capital would rely solely on user numbers as a metric, allowing anyone to register and pay to speak freely without clear regulations. Eventually, insults and attacks would proliferate, coercing everyone into adopting the same worldview before turning their ire back onto capital itself—but by then, the capitalists would have already amassed their wealth. What remained would be generations raised in this environment: lazy thinkers eager to condemn, wreaking havoc wherever they went.

After saving a few potential candidates’ contacts, he decided to tackle them one by one. His first choice, naturally, was Karl, his former colleague who had promised to “create another legend” together before leaving the company. Karl, his age-mate, had studied abroad since high school. With impeccable taste and originality, he had strong ideas about product development and, most importantly, shared similar values. Meeting at a café, Jian saw Karl’s familiar smile, and memories of late nights working on products together came rushing back. As expected, Karl was currently managing projects at a state-owned enterprise, locked in daily battles with clients. His work wasn’t particularly exciting, so seeing Jian felt like rain after a long drought. He even pulled out paper and pen. Skipping coffee, Jian earnestly explained his product requirements: “I want to create software that protects people while they openly discuss their emotions. Registration will require real-name verification, but there will be two login modes: username-based and anonymous. Username-based login will facilitate normal dating and social networking—posting moods, selfies, flash chats, chat rooms, quick matches. I’ll use user profiles for algorithmic matching. The anonymous section will focus on emotional expression, both positive and negative, with channels for psychological support and harm prevention.”

“Brother Zhaowen, this isn’t quite what I expected.”

“What do you mean?”

“Let’s think of it as having two sides—black and white. On the white side, are you emphasizing dating or sharing? For selfies, people can post on social media; there’s no need to come to this app. The black side is more concerning. At best, no one will dare share; at worst, if you step on someone’s toes, the entire app could be shut down.”

“The white side will definitely outweigh the black. Remember how many morally bankrupt users there were on Lovedate ? The black side is meant to flush out those kinds of people. Philip only cared about making money. While I also want success through entrepreneurship, profiting from depravity is something I can’t do.”

“Boss Zhaowen, I understand your stance and admire your integrity. But I have one question: how do you plan to make a profit?”

“One, through user numbers and daily active users. Two, through high-quality content.”

“The product requirements seem a bit scattered. Let me think about it.”

“No problem—we know each other well. Ask whatever you need.” Jian was trying to build rapport, sensing that Karl wasn’t entirely satisfied with the current idea: “This time, I don’t plan to seek angel funding right away. I’ll develop it myself, which means more pressure.”

“What?”

“I don’t want further dilution. I’ll start on my own and seek funding only if necessary.” Jian seemed resolute: “This is a product no competitor would attempt—not succeeding means going all-in.”

“So, Boss Zhaowen, you’re looking for partners, not hiring me, right?”

“If you want to join as a partner, I’d welcome it. I believe our goals and ideas align.”

Karl hesitated, asking for time to consider. His girlfriend was nearing marriage, and he needed to discuss it at home. Jian understood—leaving a stable job at a state-owned enterprise to dive back into the chaos of entrepreneurship required careful thought. Karl’s biggest concern was the risk of investing real money and resources into a project he wasn’t confident about, risking too much sunk cost. Jian also realized that Karl was better suited for employment than partnership—his boldness and talent weren’t ideal for co-founding.

Jian flipped through his contacts, debating whether to reach out to friends in Beijing. Beijing’s cultural internet ecosystem was indeed richer than Shanghai’s, especially for content-focused companies and influencer incubation. Perhaps friends could help him quickly find a partner. A few classmates were involved in investment and startups, and if necessary, he might need to return to Beijing for extended discussions. However, he wasn’t eager to go back. If the company operated in Beijing, he wouldn’t be able to remain Yu Zhimei’s neighbor. Even staying in Shanghai, contacting Beijing friends would inevitably bring up his ex-girlfriend Qiu Nuo. He had one or two candidates in mind, knowing that any collaboration would mirror his past discussions with Li Yin—once partnered, it would combine strong products and technology, promising a bright future.

He kicked a pebble at his feet, suddenly feeling a surge of frustration. Finding the right person was proving difficult. Shanghainese disliked drinking, meaning deals once sealed over drinks now required lengthy coffee shop conversations. And the coffee at places conducive to startup talks was notoriously bad, leaving discussions fruitless and frustrating!

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P.S.: This chapter delves into some entrepreneurial content, which may feel dense, but it’s essential for the plot development~ Feel free to add the book to your shelf and vote for recommendations. Waiting for everyone to chat today!