Chapter 1

Chapter 1

On the day I was laid off, the company’s largest screen was looping a countdown poster for “Nebula 2.0.”

The line on the poster, “Project Lead: Qin Yanchuan,” felt like a thorn pricking straight into my eye.

It was because I was the one who came up with the name “Nebula.”

Three years ago, I spent four months grinding to write the first version of the underlying architecture. I was the only one left in the office. At two in the morning, the air conditioning had broken down, and I sat on the floor of the pantry with my laptop, revising flowcharts. Back then, I felt like this project was a glowing cloud; I wanted to turn it into the company’s true flagship product.

Later, the project launched. It was a hit, becoming the company’s most valuable business line in the last three years.

First, my name disappeared from the weekly reports. Then, in briefing meetings, my role was reduced to “planning group providing support.” Finally, today, it culminated in me clutching a cardboard box and leaving my workstation while the project I built hung in the lobby, basking in the glory as the boss prepared to accept an award for it.

“Chen Ruoqi, please sign.”

The HR representative pushed the severance agreement toward me, her voice so soft it was as if she were afraid of disturbing someone.

I looked down. The reason written was very dignified: Organizational optimization, position adjustment.

At ten o’clock last night, my direct supervisor had sent me a message telling me to finish organizing the final risk control module for “Nebula 2.0” by tonight. At nine o’clock this morning, the moment I stepped into the conference room, I saw Qin Yanchuan sitting in the head seat, with HR and Legal flanking him like they had set up a funeral parlor in advance.

I didn’t pick up the pen. I just looked up at Qin Yanchuan.

“Organizational optimization?” I laughed. “Then why am I the one being optimized, and not Xu Baiyan, who has been faking reports for three consecutive months?”

Qin Yanchuan didn’t even twitch an eyebrow.

He maintained that same cold, detached look. His black shirt was rolled up to his wrists, his knuckles pressed against the tabletop. When he spoke, his tone was so steady it made you want to throw something at him.

“Chen Ruoqi, the company will investigate Xu Baiyan’s issues.”

“And what about my issues?”

“You accessed core project backup data without authorization, violating permission regulations.”

I froze for a moment, then let out a cold laugh.

“I accessed project data that I wrote myself, and you call that ‘unauthorized’?”

Qin Yanchuan finally looked up at me.

He simply said flatly, “You signed a non-disclosure agreement.”

I stared at him, suddenly unable to say a single word.

When I first joined the company three years ago, Qin Yanchuan wasn’t the CEO yet; he was just the youngest business lead. Back then, no one in the company respected a female planner like me who had jumped ship from a small firm. He was the only one who pulled my proposal out during a meeting and said, “Keep this person.”

After that, I followed him to work on projects. I pulled all-nighters, went on business trips, patched bugs, saved clients, and accompanied him for demonstrations. During the hardest times, I even powered through fevers by relying on coffee and ibuprofen.

If it weren’t for today, I would probably never have known that some people pull you up not because they see you, but because they just happen to need someone who can build the ladder for them.

I pushed the severance agreement back.

“I’m not signing.”

The HR rep got anxious. “Ms. Chen, the company’s compensation will follow the N+3 formula…”

“I don’t want compensation.” I looked at Qin Yanchuan. “I want an explanation.”

Qin Yanchuan remained silent for two seconds.

Then he said, “You must leave the company by 5:00 PM today.”

The last bit of hope in my heart died completely.

I grabbed the pen, scribbled my name, and slammed the agreement onto the table.

“Fine.”

“Qin Yanchuan, you’d better pray that the person you laid off this time is truly replaceable.”

When the conference room door opened, the outside went silent instantly.

I walked out carrying my box. The dying pothos plant at my desk was one I had bought three months ago; half its leaves were yellow, and no one had watered it. I stuffed it into the box. As I passed through the lobby, the screen happened to switch to the launch event’s teaser video.

Qin Yanchuan stood tall in the footage, his voice steady: “Nebula 2.0 will redefine industry efficiency.”

I looked up for two seconds, suddenly remembering the night we named the project three years ago. I had sat in his office and said, “Let’s call it Nebula. It’s like a mist when scattered, but it’s the light of the heavens when gathered.”

He had smiled then and said, “Chen Ruoqi, you have no small amount of ambition.”

Thinking back now, the ambition was there; I just overestimated human nature.

As I walked downstairs with my box, my phone suddenly vibrated.

It was an old, scheduled email. The subject line had only two words.

`Nebula Draft`

Sent: Five years ago.

To: Qin Yanchuan.

CC: [Blank].

My hand faltered. I opened the attachment. Inside was a forty-seven-page proposal; even the underlying project naming and the risk control logic diagrams were identical to today’s Nebula 2.0.

And in the author column, it read:

Chen Ruoqi.