Chapter 2

Chapter 2

I carried the box back to my rented apartment. Without even changing my shoes, I immediately pulled out my laptop.

I hadn’t logged into my old email in a long time. The password was still that stupid string of numbers from an anniversary five years ago.

It felt as if someone had timed it perfectly, deliberately handing me a key the very day I was laid off.

I searched using keywords, and the more I read, the colder I felt.

Five years ago, when the Nebula Project was first proposed, the attachment authors, revision history, meeting minutes, and flowcharts all bore my fingerprints. Even the core Risk Control Model matched the draft versions I had long since deleted from my old computer.

But two years later, internal emails showed the Project Lead had completely become Qin Yanchuan, and the Initiator was listed as Xu Baiyan. As for me, I was reduced to a few marginal notes, like some nameless low-level worker who had occasionally participated.

I stared at the screen for a long time, and finally, I couldn’t help but laugh.

I laughed at how truly stupid I had been.

Over the years, it wasn’t that I hadn’t noticed something was wrong. But every time I wanted to speak up, Qin Yanchuan would throw me a bone-a raise, a chance to give a keynote, or a promise like, “I’ll give you a proper explanation once the project is finished.” And so, I would grit my teeth and keep going.

I thought I was paying my dues.

It turned out I was just being boiled like a frog in a pot.

At seven in the evening, the doorbell rang.

Thinking it was my delivery, I opened the door only to find He Jiashu standing there.

He was a college classmate of mine, now a Partner at another top company in the industry. He was also the only person who had consistently messaged me every few months over the past few years to ask, “When are you jumping ship?”

Seeing that my boxes weren’t even unpacked, he paused. “You really got laid off?”

I stepped aside to let him in. “Word travels fast.”

He Jiashu set down the bags he was carrying, which contained two iced Americanos and a box of small cakes.

“I originally came here to headhunt you,” he said. “Now, it looks like we can skip the formalities.”

I turned my laptop toward him.

“Take a look at this first.”

He Jiashu looked at it for ten minutes, his expression gradually becoming serious.

“This isn’t just plagiarism,” he said. “If these version records can be verified, the entire Nebula Project’s attribution and intellectual property rights are in question.”

“I know.”

“What do you plan to do?”

I fell silent.

From the initial drafts five years ago to Nebula going live three years ago, the disappearing credits starting a year ago, and finally today’s layoff notice and the sudden email-connecting these dots made it clear that I wasn’t simply being “optimized.” I was being purged.

But if I were to truly burn bridges, I didn’t have enough evidence in hand.

I no longer had access to core company data, internal finances, or the approval chains. Xu Baiyan was a notorious fox who always kept a backup plan.

Moreover, the most difficult part of this situation was never Xu Baiyan.

It was Qin Yanchuan.

I didn’t know how much he knew, or how much he was involved.

He Jiashu glanced at me, as if guessing my thoughts.

“Are you still thinking about Qin Yanchuan?”

I looked down and closed my laptop. “I’m wondering if I was blind in the eyes or blind in the heart.”

He Jiashu didn’t respond to that. He simply pushed a business card toward me.

“My company is currently looking for a Project Lead. You name the salary,” he said. “If you just want to walk away, I can sign a contract with you today. If you want to settle the score with them, I can provide you with lawyers and channels for evidence collection.”

I looked at the card, and my nose suddenly felt a bit prickly.

I tucked the card away.

“Let me think about it for a night.”

He Jiashu nodded and stood up to leave. At the door, he turned back.

“Ruoqi.”

“Yeah?”

“If Qin Yanchuan comes looking for you tonight, don’t go soft.”

I was stunned for a moment. “How do you know he’ll come?”

He Jiashu smiled, but there was no warmth in his eyes.

“Because Nebula 2.0 is doing a full-scale switchover tonight at eight o’clock.”

“And you once told me that at the very bottom of that system, there’s a hidden Circuit Breaker Threshold that only you know about.”

A chill ran down my spine.

The biggest risk for Nebula 2.0 wasn’t the launch itself, but the abnormal traffic post-launch.

That Circuit Breaker Logic was a semi-manual patch I had written myself. Later, to save time, the company cut the Secondary Verification I had originally proposed. During my last week before leaving, I was still pushing for the patch, but Xu Baiyan said to launch first and optimize later.

If something went wrong tonight, the entire system would blow up.

And those people still thought that as long as they kicked me out, the project would remain theirs.

After He Jiashu left, the apartment was terrifyingly quiet.

At 8:03 PM, my phone rang.

Caller: Qin Yanchuan.

I stared at the name for three seconds and declined the call.

At 8:05 PM, he called again.

I still didn’t answer.

When it rang for the third time, the sound of screeching brakes came from downstairs.

Five minutes later, there was a heavy pounding on my door.

I opened it to see Qin Yanchuan standing there. His suit jacket was mostly soaked, and his hair was disheveled by the rain. He looked like a completely different person from the meticulously groomed CEO he usually was.

He looked at me, and his first words were:

“Chen Ruoqi, come back to the office with me.”