“Don’t insult people,” Zhu Yun said.
If there was anyone among Zhu Yun’s old friends who had fared the best in all these years, it was probably Fu Yizhuo.
Six years on, and true to form, this towering figure of a man still had no steady dance partner — but it didn’t seem to trouble him. He had opened a dance studio on the western side of the city, teaching children to dance.
Zhu Yun had visited once. The studio was in an ordinary residential complex, but his taste showed in the interior — the decoration was done with care. The day she went happened to coincide with a recital. A group of housewives sat on the expensive imported hardwood floors watching their children flail enthusiastically at the front of the room.
As it happened, the fact that Ren Di even knew Fu Yizhuo was partly thanks to Zhu Yun.
Back then, after Fu Yizhuo had clawed his way to graduation, his father had dragged him back home to go into the family business. He soon escaped and quietly opened a dance studio here — a studio that earned him not a single yuan. He barely knew how to look after himself, and when he first started out, he had no idea where to begin. He didn’t know anyone here and had no choice but to turn to Zhu Yun for help.
At the time, Zhu Yun was burning the candle at both ends in America, so she handed the matter off to Ren Di.
“Idiot.”
— That had been Ren Di’s verdict when she first met Fu Yizhuo.
Several years had passed, and her verdict had changed.
“Impressive,” Ren Di said now, pulling another cigarette from the pack and speaking with lazy indifference. “I haven’t seen him that many times, but he’s barely changed — exactly the same every time. The ability to actually make yourself happy is the greatest skill anyone can have these days… Want a drink?”
“No more drinking — how much have you had already?”
“Don’t compare your tolerance to mine.”
Zhu Yun gave her a sideways look and got up to open the curtains, only to be stopped by a shout from Ren Di.
“Don’t!”
“Why not?”
“It’ll blind me.”
Ren Di kept nocturnal hours all year round — her skin was a striking pallor, and she always wore makeup, which had left a permanent kind of darkness around her eyes, as if the pigment had seeped under the skin and never quite come out.
“Do you know what this room, plus you, amounts to?” Zhu Yun said.
Ren Di lay sprawled across the sofa, her long, bare legs crossed loosely. “What?”
“A graveyard.”
Ren Di laughed languidly.
“What’s wrong with you…” Zhu Yun didn’t open the curtains after all. She tried to think of something that would bring a little life into the room, and after a moment, turned on the television.
And immediately regretted it.
The entertainment news was running a segment about the extravagant wedding of a senior executive at a gaming company, whose bride was the actress who served as the face of their games.
The story had been generating enormous attention. For one thing, this actress had a notoriously messy personal history and a long list of rumored affairs. For another, the company itself had been accused of plagiarizing multiple acclaimed foreign titles, cutting every corner imaginable in the pursuit of money, and had earned a vile reputation in the industry. Now that these two were joining forces, it had drawn a torrent of commentary.
Whatever people said, the real outcome was that the company’s upcoming game release had received extensive publicity from the scandal — whether that counted as a benefit or a loss was anyone’s guess.
Zhu Yun stared at the man at the center of the screen — triumphant, in his element — then turned to look at Ren Di.
“Bring out whatever drinks you have. All of it.”
Ren Di glanced at her and rose to fetch the alcohol, unhurried. “Gao Jianhong got the worst end of that deal,” she said.
“How so?”
“I know that woman.” Ren Di’s expression was that of someone watching a drama unfold. “A complete parasite. She had her eye on our keyboard player once — didn’t work out. Gao Jianhong has terrible taste in women.”
Zhu Yun looked back at the television, but the news segment had already moved on. She sat there for a moment, drifting, until Ren Di pressed a glass into her hand.
Over the years, if there was one thing Zhu Yun had tried her hardest at and still failed to make any headway with, it was dealing with that company.
It was a persistent wound — one that ran even deeper than her memories of Li Xun. At least what had happened with Li Xun had a conclusion; his time had been frozen in place. But this company was different. It kept evolving under the banner of “L&P,” and every change it made pulled at something raw in Zhu Yun.
Zhu Yun and Ren Di drank until they were well and truly drunk, then slept until the sun began to sink in the west. Zhu Yun hadn’t drunk like this in a long time. Her stomach felt wretched, and she hunched over the bathroom sink, retching in long, miserable waves. There were no curtains in the bathroom. When she raised her head, she caught sight of the world outside — the sky the same blazing red as her face, burning and hot.
A blood-red sunset stretched across the horizon for miles. In the heart of the city’s most bustling district, one building stood tall and defiant. At its base, an enormous advertising screen played footage from the company’s soon-to-be-released game.
A taxi pulled up outside the building. A man stepped out — tall, dressed entirely in black, a black duffel bag slung over one shoulder. His whole figure seemed to blend into the shadows, like a fog that refused to lift.
It was the height of rush hour. Pedestrians streamed past him in every direction.
The man paused in front of the building for a long moment, then slowly began to walk forward.
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