Because the evidence was genuinely insufficient, the matter of the virus simply faded into nothingness. Chief Zheng merely invited Zhou Chang over for a simple chat, stating that they had received a report but the Network Security Division had already suppressed it. He advised Qinghui to take note in the future—to correct mistakes if any were made and strive further if none were—and with that, the issue was put to rest.

The day after the dust settled, Zhou Chang sent a message to Jing Hong’s phone:

【President Jing, do you have any free time? I’d like to personally express my gratitude to you for this mess.】

“…” Jing Hong thought about it for a moment, then replied: 【No need for thanks. It was only right. I’ve been too busy lately, but I appreciate the sentiment, President Zhou.】

Zhou Chang, however, did not give up: 【It won’t take up much of your time, President Jing. I can head over to the Fanhai Building. Expressing it through a mere text message is far too perfunctory; Qinghui still observes proper courtesy.】

Jing Hong truly had no reason to refuse Zhou Chang directly, so he could only stall. He sent a voice message: “Let me check my end first. I’ll have my assistant arrange things and then let you know, President Zhou?”

President Zhou naturally understood that Jing Hong was employing stalling tactics. He also replied with a teasing voice message: “What’s this? If I want to see President Jing in his office, do I need to send an official letter to Fanhai first?”

With Zhou Chang putting it that way, Jing Hong had no choice. He checked his schedule and ultimately gave Zhou Chang a time slot: “Wednesday afternoon at two-thirty?”

Zhou Chang didn’t even check his own calendar and directly said: “Works for me.”

In the early hours of Wednesday morning, snow began to flutter down once again. Snowflakes tumbled and swirled, forming a layer of frost on the windows that melted and drifted, blurring the scenery outside as it hid softly within the snow.

When Zhou Chang walked in, Jing Hong was searching for a document. A heap of items sat on his desk—projects awaiting approval, plans needing review, along with reference materials and papers… Jing Hong was rummaging through them frantically, leaving the executive desk in complete disarray.

With one hand resting in his pocket, Zhou Chang’s gaze swept over the desk, which looked as though a typhoon had just swept through. Pausing briefly, he asked, “What’s wrong—did Fanhai default on something, and President Jing is preparing to go on the run?”

It was only when his assistant knocked on the door that Jing Hong suddenly realized it was already two-thirty. Tidying up while he spoke, he replied, “Can’t you think of something nicer?”

“As long as nothing is wrong,” Zhou Chang continued teasing him, “I thought Fanhai had gotten into P2P lending as well.”

In 2017 and 2018, several hundred P2P platforms had defaulted; at its peak, 100 platforms went under in a single month, with founders either going to prison or fleeing abroad. Fanhai, however, held no such business.

Jing Hong continued gathering his papers, tossing back a snappy remark in passing: “Fanhai doesn’t have it; could it be that Qinghui does?”

“Qinghui doesn’t either.” Zhou Chang stood a few paces away, waiting for Jing Hong to finish tidying up. From this angle, Zhou Chang caught sight of that playful cowlick at the top of Jing Hong’s head once again.

He couldn’t help wondering to himself: Just how stubborn is this cowlick? If I flick it or press it down, could I flatten it a bit?

After a moment, Jing Hong finally gathered the scattered documents into a few neat stacks. Skimming through several files he no longer had any memory of and tossing the useless ones into the trash can by his feet, he asked Zhou Chang, “What would you like to drink, President Zhou?”

“Warm water is fine,” Zhou Chang said. “It snowed today.”

Jing Hong immediately retorted sarcastically to win back a point: “President Zhou is quite health-conscious. Then again, at 32, your body isn’t what it used to be.”

“Not really,” Zhou Chang replied. “This weekend, I broke 2 minutes and 05 seconds in the 200m butterfly again.”

“…” Hearing this, Jing Hong’s hand paused slightly. He raised his eyes to glance at the other man, then lowered them again without saying a word.

The 200-meter butterfly—a topic that had come up in the Maldives, during the daytime right before that night.

In Jing Hong’s mind’s eye, the image of Zhou Chang emerging from the swimming pool flickered once more. His entire physique was brimming with power, without a single ounce of excess fat. Wet black hair, glistening skin, with droplets of water sliding down his defined contours.

He recalled again how, when Zhou Chang’s hand touched the pool wall, the American man beside him had marveled, “His core power is so strong… he didn’t slow down at all in the second half.”

And very soon, on that night a few days later, he came to realize just how accurate that evaluation had been. The slick, damp skin on the insides of his thighs felt as if it were about to catch fire from the friction, leaving those two patches of skin bright red for several days straight.

Jing Hong pressed the intercom, instructing his secretary to bring in a glass of warm water. Though there was a water dispenser in the office, Jing Hong had no intention of serving him personally.

A moment later, the secretary brought in a glass of warm water on a saucer.

Holding the edge of the saucer, Zhou Chang set it down gently on the desk in front of him. Resting his palm against the tabletop, he looked across the desk at the faint fringe of hair hanging over Jing Hong’s forehead and said, “This time, my thanks to Fanhai.”

Jing Hong had finished tidying up and was putting the final items back in place. He raised his eyes, and the two of them locked gazes across the executive desk for a few seconds. Jing Hong lowered his eyes again, set two stacks of documents aside, and said, “It was only right.”

“No,” Zhou Chang’s gaze turned deep and intense. “I still must thank Fanhai.”

“…” Jing Hong sat down, looking up at Zhou Chang. “…You’re welcome, it’s really nothing.”

Perhaps wanting to change the subject, Jing Hong glanced at the glass of warm water on the saucer before Zhou Chang and asked, “Is plain water really enough? Would you like another hot drink? Coffee, perhaps? Don’t go saying Fanhai mistreated you.”

“I haven’t eaten anything since noon,” Zhou Chang said. “Empty stomach. Forget it.” To make time for today’s meeting, he had rescheduled several appointments.

Jing Hong looked at Zhou Chang, ultimately unable to leave him entirely unattended. He pulled open a side drawer with his right hand, rummaged through it for a good while, and finally pulled out a pack of cookies, tossing it over: “To tide you over?”

Fanhai had an employee cafeteria. Unless he was on a business trip or meeting clients, Jing Hong ate both lunch and dinner in his company’s cafeteria. Occasionally, however, when working into the early hours of the morning, Jing Hong would grab a quick bite to eat as well.

Zhou Chang pulled out the inner cookie tray from the packaging and didn’t decline. Jing Hong opened the document he had spent so much effort finding earlier, flipping open the cover with his left hand without letting go, gently covering the main text with his four long, slender fingers.

Zhou Chang tactfully stepped away.

He walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window on one side of the room, looking out at the snowy view while eating the cookies.

After a moment, Jing Hong finally confirmed the contents of the document, sent a message to a certain executive, and set the document aside. Looking up again, Jing Hong noticed that Zhou Chang looked as though he were tired, leaning lightly against the short side of his desk facing the window.

Jing Hong’s desk was three-sided, with a short edge on either side, one of which faced the window. Right now, Zhou Chang was leaning against it, watching the falling snow outside while eating Jing Hong’s cookies.

Zhou Chang was tall with long legs. Jing Hong’s executive desk was by no means low, yet Zhou Chang leaned against it with complete ease, his two long legs unable to stretch out fully straight.

Jing Hong said with distaste: “Get down. No one has ever sat on my desk.”

“Hmm? Oh, my apologies.” Though he offered an apology, there was no actual remorse in his tone. Leaving the window, Zhou Chang walked back around to face Jing Hong, picked up the glass on the desk, drained the warm water in two gulps, set the glass back on the saucer, and said: “Alright then, I’ll take my leave. You seem quite busy, President Jing; I won’t disturb you further.”

“Alright.” Jing Hong nodded, making no effort to keep him. “Is your car in the parking building, President Zhou?”

There was one thing Jing Hong didn’t voice—just a moment ago, he had quietly stared at Zhou Chang’s broad back for several seconds.

“No,” Zhou Chang replied. “My driver took the day off, so I drove over myself. I swapped to a different car on short notice this afternoon without registering it, so I just found an open spot in the street-side parking lot and backed in.” Zhou Chang was extremely relaxed at this moment, his speech carrying a relaxed Beijing lilt.

Jing Hong nodded.

Fanhai Group’s parking building had security guards at the gate, requiring external vehicles to be registered in advance. The guard on duty would cross-reference the license plate, the driver’s ID, and the registration log in hand. Without prior registration, the guard would have to call the department or employee being visited to confirm the vehicle’s intent—a very tedious process.

Looking out at the snow outside, Jing Hong asked, “Did you bring an umbrella, President Zhou?”

“The snow stopped for a bit when I arrived,” Zhou Chang said. “It’s fine.”

Jing Hong said, “There are umbrellas at Fanhai’s front desk. I’ll have Assistant Tan walk you out.”

If the CEO of Qinghui Group got wet on his head and body, it would look somewhat disheveled after all.

It turned out Tan Qian was unexpectedly absent. Tan Qian was set to be reassigned as Vice President of Fanhai next year and had been extremely busy recently.

Jing Hong had a second and third assistant, but felt it would be too neglectful. After all, the other party was the CEO of Qinghui; the rank of the person representing him to see him off shouldn’t be too low. So, supporting himself against the desk, he stood up, buttoned his suit jacket, and said, “Never mind, I’ll walk you out myself.”

Zhou Chang said, “Then I’ll trouble you, President Jing.”

Stepping out of the office led straight to Jing Hong’s dedicated elevator. On the elevator control panel, a bright red button sat in the most prominent position. Without thinking, Zhou Chang raised his hand, intending to press it.

“Hey…!” Jing Hong grabbed Zhou Chang’s wrist, halting his movement, and said, “That’s the fire alarm button.”

Zhou Chang focused his gaze and saw that sure enough, the outer ring of the button was bright red plastic, while the inside was white plastic with a tiny flame icon faintly visible in the center. Below it were several other buttons, such as “Fire Recall” and various other functions. Scanning all the way down, one could finally spot an inconspicuous, all-stainless-steel button at the very bottom that matched the panel’s color entirely—that was the actual button for going downstairs.

Zhou Chang let out a soft laugh and teased lightly, “Your design at Fanhai is certainly interesting.”

This time, Jing Hong nodded in agreement: “It is.”

At 179 cm tall, Jing Hong hadn’t even noticed the real button the first time he came; Zhou Chang, standing at nearly 190 cm, was even less likely to see it.

Hearing the “It is,” Zhou Chang said nothing more, shifting his gaze down to his left wrist, which was still firmly held in Jing Hong’s grip. Jing Hong’s hand was slender yet strong, the back of his hand smooth.

Zhou Chang’s gaze slid up to Jing Hong’s face: “I already know. President Jing, your hand.”

Jing Hong looked back at him, his five fingers gradually loosening as he feigned composure and faced the elevator. Zhou Chang pressed the button he was supposed to press.

The elevator was naturally parked on this floor, its heavy doors smoothly sliding open with a soft hum. Zhou Chang walked in first, with Jing Hong following behind.

Because it was a private elevator, the space was small. Jing Hong usually used the executive elevator when receiving guests; this one was for his own daily use. Zhou Chang’s height and broad frame instantly made the space inside feel cramped and narrow, making the elevator seem almost crowded.

The two stood side by side in front of the elevator doors, waiting quietly. Jing Hong stared at the floor numbers flashing on the display screen without uttering a single word.

The 50th floor felt so high at this moment, and the time needed to reach the ground floor felt endlessly long.

The elevator was top-of-the-line, running so quietly that one could hear a pin drop.

Zhou Chang began adjusting his left shirt cuff, which had been crumpled by Jing Hong’s hand earlier. He tugged at the inner shirt sleeve, adjusted it all around, and straightened the outer suit jacket to make the cuff crisp once more.

His fingers glided over the fabric, smoothing out every crease one by one.

Jing Hong remained silent, but he could hear the rustling sound coming from Zhou Chang’s side.

Once finished, Zhou Chang looked toward the elevator doors, as did Jing Hong. The stainless steel doors yielded a subtle reflection, though unclear, depicting only two hazy silhouettes—allowing them to stare quite brazenly instead.

Amidst the long silence, the private elevator finally reached the first floor.

Jing Hong walked up to the front desk, said nothing, but tapped his knuckles against the desk surface and pointed to the umbrellas behind it. The receptionist immediately handed an umbrella over.

Just as Jing Hong frowned, thinking that Fanhai’s receptionist was so lacking in tact, Zhou Chang smoothed things over: “One is enough. I’m driving straight back into Qinghui’s building. I won’t take Fanhai’s things or take advantage of Fanhai.”

Jing Hong paused, then said, “Let’s go then.”

The two walked out of the Fanhai campus. Light snow continued to fall gently, as though purifying the world.

Fanhai’s umbrella was deep black and long-handled, featuring a wooden grip. Holding it gently, Jing Hong walked along the curb alongside Zhou Chang. Because of his posture, a clean length of his pale white shirt sleeve was exposed, its diamond-encrusted metal cufflink gleaming brightly.

The snow seemed to isolate the two from the outside world, leaving only them between heaven and earth.

A motorcycle suddenly zoomed past. Zhou Chang grabbed Jing Hong’s upper arm, tugging and pulling him slightly, and the two stepped aside a few paces.

Afterward, however, Zhou Chang didn’t let go immediately. A few seconds after stepping aside, his thick, strong fingers tightened slightly on Jing Hong’s arm. Just like before, several finger imprints and creases instantly formed on Jing Hong’s suit.

“…” Before Jing Hong could say anything, Zhou Chang released his grip.

Jing Hong originally intended to smooth out the creases, but thinking back to the subtle atmosphere inside the elevator earlier, he abandoned the thought.

“Be careful,” Zhou Chang said, staring at the bright helmet on the food delivery rider’s head. “It wouldn’t look good if President Jing got hit by a rider from a delivery platform Fanhai invested in.”

“…” Jing Hong said, “It’s fine, I didn’t get hit. Unless President Zhou goes gossiping everywhere, no one will know.”

Zhou Chang curled his lips slightly: “Whether I gossip everywhere or not depends on my mood. Maybe I’ll spill it about President Jing one of these days.”

Jing Hong let out a faint laugh: “Your mouth lacks a proper filter, President Zhou.”

After walking for a distance, Zhou Chang suddenly remarked, “It’s quite cold today.”

“It is,” Jing Hong agreed. “That glass of warm water in your stomach has probably turned cold by now, President Zhou.”

“Indeed,” Zhou Chang replied casually. “It’s not like alcohol. One glass of that and your whole body burns up.”

Jing Hong said coolly: “That’s false. The blood vessels on the surface dilate, causing blood to rush to the skin while core body temperature actually drops. Alcohol isn’t a good thing.”

“Is that so,” Zhou Chang’s tone remained calm and unbothered as he said, “I, on the other hand, feel that at certain times, alcohol is truly a fine thing.”

Jing Hong felt that Zhou Chang was intentionally steering the conversation back to that day—first the butterfly stroke, now the alcohol. Once could be an accident, but twice was not, especially for someone like Zhou Chang—if Zhou Chang were that prone to making mistakes, he wouldn’t be Zhou Chang.

Zhou Chang had broken their previous tacit understanding today.

Jing Hong waited quietly, the snow crunching softly beneath his feet.

Sure enough, after a moment, upon reaching a somewhat quieter spot, Zhou Chang asked Jing Hong in his usual magnetic voice: “Jing Hong, do you want to be together?”

Jing Hong’s heart leaped violently, yet he maintained total composure on the surface, asking: “What do you mean by ‘be together’? Explain those words.”

Gazing into the distance, Zhou Chang’s voice remained equally steady as he said: “‘Be together’ in the sense of ‘mortal world, foolish men and yearning women.'”

This, too, was a conversation that had taken place in the Maldives, serving as the prelude to that night. At that time, watching the dancing couples and lovers on the floor below, Zhou Chang had uttered the line “mortal world, foolish men and yearning women.”

“I regret it,” Zhou Chang added. “I don’t intend to end it like this.”

Jing Hong fell silent for a moment before ultimately declining once more: “No, thank you.”

It hadn’t reached that point—not to the extent that he had to entangle himself with the head of Qinghui.

“Regret,” Jing Hong thought, was an unfamiliar word to him, and he believed it was the same for Zhou Chang. Because it was meaningless. What was past should stay in the past.

Cars were everywhere, slick with rain and snow, speeding past like flying arrows. The snow on the ground was dirty, turning into a muddy slush.

“Alright.” Zhou Chang nodded, not pressing the matter further.

For a brief moment, a few words hovered on the tip of Zhou Chang’s tongue, but he left them unsaid, the sound sinking into his throat.

What was there to say?

At this age and in this position, saying “like” sounded childish, while saying “love” wasn’t just childish—it was downright humorous.

And so they continued walking forward. Jing Hong thoughtfully held the umbrella a little higher, slanting it toward Zhou Chang’s side, but neither of them spoke a word afterward.

The sun still hung in the middle of the sky, carrying a peculiar charm amid the winter haze—not piercing, surrounded by a pale gray, empty sky. Because snow had fallen, the roofs of the buildings below were covered in pure white, rendering everything above and below a soft, washed-out color. Only the sun stood out, vivid and striking, serving as the sole focus in the vast, desolate landscape.

The distance wasn’t far, and soon they arrived at where Zhou Chang had parked.

A few groups of young men and women were gathered around the car ahead, taking photos and group pictures. Zhou Chang pulled out his car key, and the car emitted a “beep,” prompting the groups to immediately scatter like startled birds.

It was a black Koenigsegg Agera, a new model from the series.

Jing Hong walked him to the driver’s side. As Zhou Chang sat inside, Jing Hong bent down slightly and instructed: “The roads are slippery on a snowy day, drive carefully, and don’t forget to turn on the defroster.”

Zhou Chang shot him a half-smile: “Understood.”

Zhou Chang’s car was backed in, with the front facing outward. In the end, amidst the light snow, Jing Hong stood in front of the car with the umbrella in hand, giving a subtle nod toward the driver’s seat as a gesture of farewell.

Right at that moment, the headlights of another car parked on the opposite side of the parking lot flashed on behind Jing Hong, beaming light from behind him.

On a snowy day, one had to turn on the headlights before starting the car.

In the warm yellow light, the snow particles looked like a beaded curtain—a golden beaded curtain stretching beneath the sky, both beautiful and coolly detached.

Holding the umbrella, Jing Hong stood there with the light beaming from behind him, looking almost ethereal.

Zhou Chang looked at Jing Hong as a few snowflakes gathered on the windshield in front of him.

Zhou Chang suddenly recalled the first day he had ever met Jing Hong.

It was during a business competition where their two universities met in the semifinals. That time, because Berkeley had received a counterfeit 20-dollar bill, they were eliminated by the team led by Jing Hong. That was also the first time he experienced what it meant to “meet one’s match.”

It was actually a minor event.

Zhou Chang remembered the competition venue that year was in Syracuse, New York, translated into Chinese as “Snow City.” Syracuse University was the host; the university’s overall ranking was average, but certain business-related departments, like advertising and public relations, were actually quite good.

After the competition ended that day, snow seemed to flutter down from the sky.

As he pulled out of the parking lot, he saw Jing Hong still standing at the entrance of the shopping mall, likely waiting for his teammate to drive around and pick him up.

The warm yellow light from inside the mall spilled over his back, looking quite similar to today.

At that moment, the Chinese teammate in the passenger seat suddenly said in Chinese: “I just went over to ask earlier—his name is Jing Hong, it sounds really nice.”

“His surname is Jing?” Zhou Chang had remarked casually while driving. “I thought it was Jing as in scenery.” On the competition name tag, Jing Hong’s name was written as Hong Jing. Zhou Chang had assumed it was something like “Jing Hong,” since “Jing” was a common surname, whereas “Jing” (经) clearly was not.

“No,” the teammate answered. “It’s ‘Jing Hong.’ The Jing in ‘passing through,’ and the Hong in ‘wild goose.’ It sounds lovely.”

“Jing Hong…” Zhou Chang repeated it once.

Naturally, certain words and poems came to his mind.

Like a fleeting, breathtaking glance.

Like graceful as a startled swan.

Like Lu You’s description of his original wife at the age of seventy-five: Once a startling shadow came reflecting by.

At the time, the Americans in the back asked what they were talking about, and the passenger-seat teammate explained that the person’s name referred to a kind of bird that held a rather special status in Chinese culture—flying south every winter, yet holding a deep lingering affection for “home”; steadfast, magnificent, coming and going, impossible to catch or keep, resting beside humans only occasionally, flapping its wings when startled.

Americans were so naive; a girl immediately said, “People can be their home!”

Then the American in the back seat asked, “Can you say it one more time? What’s the Chinese pronunciation of his name?”

Zhou Chang answered. Because he was explaining it to foreigners, he enunciated word by word: “Jing Hong. J-I-N-G, H-O-N-G, Jing Hong.”

Perhaps because of the poems he recalled, or those vivid images, as those two syllables were spoken, they carried an indescribable, exquisite flavor—so much so that he felt a lingering sweetness on his lips and teeth.