Chapter 65: In an Age Where Nothing Is Untraceable, Everything Can Be Traced

In such a vast world, if even spaces for speaking the truth are destroyed, then when no pure ground remains, the soil will no longer nurture people capable of telling the truth. By that time, every blade of grass and tree will be suspect, and everyone will live in fear.

The app had only been online for five months. Half their lives were poured into building 200,000 users and 10,000 daily active users, and yet they hadn’t even waited for the new version to launch before being taken down. Jian Zhaowen’s blood ran cold from head to toe, his heartbeat nearly stopping. Being reported was something Jian had experienced occasionally at LoveDate—usually over intellectual property disputes, requiring reconciliation with the complainant. Jian was used to it; under Philip’s orders, their product managers and designers plagiarized ideas everywhere. At first glance, the app seemed to have everything, but everything belonged to someone else. Social apps couldn’t avoid users pushing boundaries or discussing explicit content, so Jian was already prepared to frequently “drink tea” with regulators. But he never expected this to happen so soon, nor did he expect the app to be taken down for three months due to a report of obscene content.

Lei Zheng called quickly: “What happened? Obscene content?”

“I don’t know. Our daily active users are so low, and my review process is extremely strict.”

“It must be malicious competition.” Lei Zheng remained surprisingly calm about the situation. “I got the message earlier. The report came in at 18:29 on the 22nd. They didn’t provide the image, but you can trace it, right? You can, right? I refuse to lose like this—I hate losing.”

“I can trace it—who likes losing?”

Yu Zhimei called him to breakfast from the terrace. Seeing her, Jian resisted the urge to vent his frustration. But Yu Zhimei could tell from his expression that something was wrong. “What happened?”

“We’ve been reported. I need to fix this urgently.”

“Oh no, the app’s only been online for a short while.”

“I’m skipping breakfast. Our weekend plans are probably ruined too.”

“Is romance really important at a time like this? Wait a minute.” Yu Zhimei disappeared into her room and reemerged, handing him a packed sandwich. “Hurry to work. Call me if anything happens.”

Jian gave her a quick air kiss and left. Racing to the office, he immediately pulled up all images from two minutes before and after 18:29 on July 22nd. He found a high-definition image of exposed genitals. Though it hadn’t been posted, the image data remained in the backend. Someone had likely taken a screenshot and filed a manual report. Within three minutes, Jian traced the source on Tumblr—an Asian girl had uploaded a selfie during the Lunar New Year.

Jian wasn’t sure whether to call the uploader clever or foolish. The phone number linked to the report was a secondary account on Day & Night, with few followers or interactions. The uploader thought using mobile data would prevent tracing back to their Wi-Fi location. But a search of the device ID revealed another phone number registered to the same device, highly active both on the main feed and in anonymous sections. With the phone number, it wasn’t hard to find the real name. And since downloading Day & Night required granting device access permissions, even without precise geolocation, Jian could roughly estimate where the user was. Seeing the location, Jian understood—this person was now likely the content director at LoveDate, the same person who had once commented on Jian’s Weibo post calling him a traitor.

Jian pulled out a cigarette, took a deep breath facing the computer screen, then put the cigarette back in its pack. Malicious reports were easy—just take a screenshot. Social media apps carried original sin, and such incidents would happen again. These images were all captured before the review process. If their team had been larger and their reviews faster, perhaps they could have stopped this from happening. It wasn’t worth getting worked up over. He chuckled at the irony—Philip was determined to destroy him, kicking him out of the team and trying to kill him off just as Day & Night launched. Even though Jian had already run far ahead, Philip still aimed a sniper rifle at him right as he started running. There was no other reason—it was pure malice. Such people didn’t deserve rational arguments or righteous indignation. Retaliation was enough. But using third parties, especially regulatory agencies, was beneath contempt. Even if Jian went to Zhangjiang and beat Philip to the point of disability, he wouldn’t stoop to such tactics.

By the time Jian returned from the restroom, Lei Zheng was sitting in front of the computer listening to a video. After finishing, he turned around: “I’ve been drinking tea all day—it stinks! I’m going home to shower. Tomorrow I’ll go smooth things over with the relevant parties. We’ll hold a meeting tomorrow to discuss how to improve the new version.”

“Why wait until tomorrow? Let’s do it today!”

“You write a Weibo post tonight, and I’ll repost it. LoveDate’s report was clearly an attempt to bury Day & Night. Tomorrow’s tech headlines will probably be about us. If we don’t handle PR quickly over obscene content, we’re dead. Keep a humble tone—don’t just focus on defending ourselves. Show that we’re actively cooperating!”

Jian lit a cigarette. Content operations alone couldn’t resolve this issue quietly. For maximum impact, Jian himself needed to counterattack his former boss through public opinion. The takedown was a massive blow to Day & Night. They’d already spent two million on servers and employee operations. If the app died now, all those sleepless nights and efforts would be wasted. Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. Yu Zhimei walked in with a backpack and a takeout box: “I figured you hadn’t eaten yet.”

Inside the takeout box was sour fish soup from a nearby restaurant with a one-and-a-half-hour wait. The fried fish head was paired with Sichuan peppercorns, red peppers, pickled mustard greens, and vermicelli. Accompanying it were brown sugar rice cakes and shaved ice dessert. A satisfying meal. After the two operations staff finished eating and cleaning up, they entered the office to see Jian solemnly typing away. Yu Zhimei quietly pulled up a chair behind him, opened her laptop, and started working. The room was silent, save for the occasional click of keys, until Jian sent the two employees home early. Yu Zhimei still hadn’t moved closer.

It wasn’t dramatic, but Yu Zhimei always appeared when Jian needed her most. After three hours at the computer, Jian posted the official Weibo statement: Day & Night has temporarily been removed from app stores following user complaints. We are conducting a comprehensive review and self-correction of internal content, actively cooperating with relevant authorities to foster a green internet environment. Users who have already downloaded Day & Night can continue using the app without interruption.

But in the long Weibo post, Jian wasn’t letting this go so easily.

Day & Night is an app for adults to speak their minds. Its current version doesn’t resemble a dating app much. While the homepage might feature selfies and short videos, 70% of the content consists of text and image sharing. Once logged in, users can choose between day and night modes. In night mode, users share workplace struggles, romantic dilemmas, and requests for psychological help. These voices form an irreplaceable part of Day & Night. Initially, I thought social dating apps were simply about providing data matching and community operations. But through the challenges of building this app, I realized how many issues people are too ashamed to talk about. Without love and life experience, people often find themselves trapped after falling in love. Growing up, no one taught us how to love—we were left to get hurt. The more pain we endure, the more badges of honor we wear.

Upon investigation, we found that Day & Night was maliciously reported. I’ve traced the obscene content ID completely and provided detailed retrieval steps below. The reporter comes from LoveDate, where I once worked and where I’m now seen as a competitor. How strict our image review process is—I’ll soon release all my code in open-source communities for peer oversight. For thirty years, I’ve acted with integrity. Facing something like this, I feel both helpless and furious. In such a vast world, if even spaces for speaking the truth are destroyed, then when no pure ground remains, the soil will no longer nurture people capable of telling the truth. By that time, every blade of grass and tree will be suspect, and everyone will live in fear. Resorting to false information and regulatory bodies instead of competing fairly—to directly kill off opponents—is malicious beyond measure. As an upright person, I can’t comprehend this.

After posting the Weibo update, Jian uploaded the Android download package to several forums and comment sections to ensure registrations and stabilize daily active users. The rest depended on Lei Zheng’s return. All Jian could do now was refine the product. Closing his laptop, he gently tapped the sleeping Yu Zhimei: “Let’s go home.”

Under the glow of streetlights, Jian drove Yu Zhimei home, softly playing Hikaru Utada’s Can’t Go Back . The ride was silent. Yu Zhimei sat in the passenger seat, lightly squeezing his hand—a unique way she expressed affection.

The phone rang—it was Zheng Zeye. Yu Zhimei answered. Zheng’s tone sounded anxious: “Is Jian Zhaowen with you? Please pass the phone to him.”

They had just arrived at the parking lot. Jian frowned as he took the call: “Yes, we’ve been taken down. No, your presence won’t solve anything… Alright.”

Hanging up, Jian’s expression remained blank: “Zheng Zeye is coming over.”

Late into the night, Zheng stood outside their building in a gray shirt, his hair slightly longer than usual, no longer as concerned with appearances. He didn’t come upstairs, only asking from below: “Is there anything I can do?”

“Of course not. The app was reported—you’re a user.”

“What was the issue?”

“The review process missed some obscene images. But it was deliberate—the details are complicated.”

“Pre-release manual reviews are crucial; otherwise, this will happen again.” Zheng’s expression turned serious. “You should consider fundraising. With money, you can build a larger review team.”

Jian knew this well. Zheng pressed on anxiously: “For future funding rounds, I’ll do everything I can to help.”

“Why so serious all of a sudden?” Jian smiled. “Are you really that invested in Day & Night?”

“My romance is over—I just want to help you.” Zheng turned to leave. “I’m going.”

Yu Zhimei watched him go. Zheng Zeye seemed to have shed some of his arrogance and confidence. Perhaps the night softened him—he looked unusually defeated. After he disappeared, Yu Zhimei said to Jian: “He seems different somehow.”

Outside Miaolin Dessert Shop, Zheng Zeye stared at the lights on the third floor, then at the chained iron gate. Two meters high, he could easily jump over it—but the thought repulsed him. He reached out to touch the lock on the gate, then glanced at his phone. Ou Jinghe’s name was no longer in his contact list. His once unrestrained, bottomless past had turned into knots of regret. The desires he once possessed now felt like the chains binding the iron gate before him.