Zhu Yun discovered that as long as she was with Li Xun, all her fear and anxiety slowly dissolved.
Three days after leaving home, her heart gradually settled.
Li Xun was like a sedative to her. She loved looking at him, loved touching him, loved being held by him — and in her most wretched moments, she even wanted to sink directly into him, to become part of him entirely.
Once she had calmed down, Zhu Yun quietly called home. Zhu Guangyi picked up. He didn’t erupt in rage; he simply told her in a steady, measured tone that her mother was deeply disappointed by what she had done.
“You’re older now, and you have your own ideas about things. I don’t want to make one-sided demands of you. I’ve also talked with your mother. I can give you a little time — let everyone cool down and think things through properly. But Zhu Yun, your mother may have a fierce temper, but you need to understand that everything she does comes from a place of caring about you. And after all these years in education, she does have a way of reading students.”
Zhu Yun said nothing. Zhu Guangyi sighed. “Look at the state of this New Year. You’ve been well-behaved your whole life — don’t make your mother grieve.”
Zhu Yun didn’t go home for the entire holiday. She spent New Year’s Eve with Li Xun in their small rented room.
Li Xun had wanted to take her out, but Zhu Yun refused, citing laziness. The two of them nestled in the room without even turning on the television. At midnight, they lay side by side at the window and watched the fireworks.
In moments like these, Li Xun would reveal a softness that was unlike his usual self. He’d wrap his arms around her from behind — wheedling, shameless, irresistible. His voice close to her ear had an almost devastating effect, and he had a particular gift for words; a few sentences were all it took to leave Zhu Yun flushed and utterly defeated, while he wore the expression of someone who had just won a great victory.
How old was he, anyway?
She couldn’t even be bothered to deal with him.
After the new year, they threw themselves back into work. There was always more to do than hours in the day, and before long the new semester had begun.
Since getting together with Li Xun, Zhu Yun felt herself growing in every direction at an almost alarming pace — every decision required four or five steps of careful deliberation before she could commit to it. The simple, uncomplicated campus life that most of her classmates were living seemed to be drifting further and further from her.
Professor Lin, the old man, learned that Li Xun intended to start a company and enthusiastically introduced him to a startup consulting firm run by a friend of his. Li Xun had little interest in it and brushed it off, declining to go himself and sending Zhu Yun and Gao Jianhong in his place, as a token gesture.
The consultant who received them was a man in his thirties — impeccably dressed in a suit, expression grave, every inch the seasoned professional. He listened briefly to Zhu Yun’s outline of their concept, then said without preamble: “Give it up.”
Zhu Yun asked, “Why?”
“You’re too young. No experience. Healthcare is a complicated industry — best not to wade into it. And setting aside the difficulty, this project has far too much of a public-interest character and too few revenue streams. There’s a good chance the team will fall apart over funding issues before you ever get off the ground.”
The consultant then produced a series of data reports and recommended: “I’m not sure if you’d be interested in e-commerce or gaming — based on our analysis, those two sectors are going to be the major growth drivers in the coming years…”
Zhu Yun listened to him hold forth at length and thought to herself: Li Xun was right not to come.
She was looking for an excuse to leave, but Gao Jianhong was thoroughly engaged. He and the consultant talked for a long time, clearly on the same wavelength. By the end, the consultant was even bringing up several well-known investment firms, mentioning that all of them were currently looking to back e-commerce and gaming startups. Given the strength of their university credentials and their own capabilities, if they were seriously considering pivoting to those sectors, he would be happy to make introductions.
Zhu Yun sat quietly beside them and listened without a word. When Gao Jianhong’s animated exchange with the consultant finally wound down, she didn’t head straight back to campus — instead, she brought Gao Jianhong to a café on the side of the road and they sat for a while.
The coffee arrived. Neither of them touched it.
They both understood what the other was thinking. Gao Jianhong didn’t mince words. “I think what that man said made sense. This isn’t a sudden change of heart on my part — I’ve been thinking about it for a while. Medical projects really are what he described: high difficulty, low returns. We’re starting a company. We have to think about profitability.”
Zhu Yun was quiet for a long moment before she finally spoke, slowly. “The truth is, Li Xun — sometimes he makes decisions in a rather idealistic way.”
Gao Jianhong looked up at her, visibly surprised. “You think so?”
Zhu Yun smiled. “I do.”
Perhaps it was because reality had pressed down so hard on him in his early years — it had left Li Xun, now that he had the means to break free and choose his own future, thinking far more about the meaning of what he was doing than about money.
He was stubborn to the bone.
Zhu Yun quickly gathered her thoughts, set aside what didn’t matter, and brought her full attention back to the conversation.
“Let’s set aside the intrinsic value of this venture for now and just talk about the profitability question you raised. Take last year alone — nationwide, more than three million people were newly diagnosed with cancer. Do you understand what that number means? It means over eight thousand people in this country are diagnosed with cancer every single day. But when I surveyed several oncology hospitals in this province, I found that only about two percent of patients have their medical information properly recorded. Everything else is unstructured, disorganized data.”
“Can’t you see what’s hidden here?” Zhu Yun looked at Gao Jianhong steadily. “Medical information will be integrated one day. Data will be standardized one day. The value buried inside this space goes far beyond what’s visible on the surface. The fact that no one has done this before doesn’t mean it isn’t worth doing — and the fact that others have failed doesn’t mean we will.”
Gao Jianhong’s brow furrowed deeply; he was thinking in silence. Zhu Yun continued: “We’re not a charity. There’s nothing wrong with our direction. Gao Jianhong, all we need is to keep our feet on the ground and our eyes on the long horizon.”
He still said nothing. Zhu Yun spoke one last time: “Medical projects are genuinely slow to start and slow to show results — but it depends on who’s doing them. I’ll say again what I’ve always said: the choice of path is yours to make. But if you choose Li Xun, then you must — ” She paused here, then adjusted her words: “No. You are obligated to believe in him.”
Gao Jianhong raised his eyes. They held each other’s gaze for several seconds. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed — a sudden, open laugh that broke the tension entirely. The atmosphere in the café thawed at once. He seemed to let go of the weight of the conversation, leaned back into the sofa, and said with a teasing lilt: “Zhu Yun…”
“Mm?”
“You’re really quite good to him, aren’t you.”
Zhu Yun hadn’t expected him to say that, and for a moment she had nothing to say at all.
Gao Jianhong gazed out the window with a relaxed expression. After a little while, he said lightly: “Fine. That’s that, then. I’m used to the two of you anyway.”
Zhu Yun understood what he meant. She thought about saying something, then decided there was no need. She picked up her coffee and took a sip. It should have tasted bitter — but somehow, she found sweetness in it.
Li Xun’s practice lab was shut down at the start of junior year, which set off a furious tirade from the department head. The story went like this: when a certain top-scoring graduate had been angling for what the program could offer, he had stood before the department head and sworn high-minded oaths about pouring his heart into contributing to the department. Now that he had extracted everything useful from the program — completing the preliminary groundwork, adding the last batch of course credits for the final cohort of members — he simply walked away without a backward glance.
The department head was furious, but there was nothing to be done. Li Xun had no interest in his grades, no need for the school’s recommendation resources, and didn’t even seem to care whether he graduated. A man with nothing to lose has nothing to fear — he could afford to be shameless, and no one had any real leverage over him.
On the day the lab closed, Li Xun, Zhu Yun, and Gao Jianhong went out for barbecue at a street stall. The most famous one on the long road behind campus — packed every single night.
Li Xun didn’t eat much; the real fighting force was Zhu Yun. She and Gao Jianhong demolished an entire table of skewers, and by the end Zhu Yun felt like she was on the verge of becoming one herself.
Li Xun sat beside them the whole time, eyes half-lidded, watching. When they had eaten so much they were nearly sick, Li Xun spoke up lazily: “We should give it a name.”
Zhu Yun and Gao Jianhong both looked at him. “What?”
“A company needs a name.”
They exchanged a glance, finally catching on. Zhu Yun’s blood surged with sudden excitement. She drove her skewer stick into a gap in the table and declared: “Let’s call it Skewers!”
Li Xun looked at her with undisguised contempt. “You’re drunk again.”
Gao Jianhong pondered it seriously. “I think the name actually matters. Should we consult someone about the auspiciousness of different options?”
“Sure.” Li Xun’s expression didn’t change. “Go find out if ‘Skewers’ is auspicious.”