Chapter 3

Chapter 3

I leaned against the doorframe, refusing to let him in.

“On what grounds?”

Qin Yanchuan’s Adam’s apple bobbed as if he were suppressing something.

“Nebula 2.0 crashed.”

I smiled thinly. “Isn’t that your project?”

“Ruoqi.”

He rarely called me that.

Back at the company, he always used my full name or addressed me by my position. The closest we ever got was when he placed a cup of coffee on my desk after an all-nighter and said quietly, “Chen Ruoqi, don’t drop dead in my department.”

I had once indulged in a long-standing delusion because of that tiny bit of special treatment.

Thinking back on it now, it was pathetic.

“The system crash has left four core clients unable to log in. Public opinion is already spiraling,” Qin Yanchuan said, looking at me. He was speaking faster than usual. “If it’s not fixed by midnight, the company’s stock will hit the limit down as soon as the market opens tomorrow. There will be at least three rounds of chain defaults after that.”

“And?”

“And you’re the only one who can fix it.”

I stared at him, suddenly wanting to laugh.

During the day, I was a “high-risk employee who must be terminated for violating authorization regulations,” yet by nightfall, I had become the key figure who was “the only one who can save the company.”

He really transitioned from reality to corporate doublespeak more smoothly than a boardroom presentation.

“President Qin,” I said slowly. “Have you forgotten? You fired me today.”

“I know.”

“So now you’re here to beg the person you fired to come back?”

Qin Yanchuan fell silent for two seconds. Then, before I could even react, he actually lowered his knees and slowly knelt down right in front of me.

I froze.

The voice-activated lights in the hallway flickered twice. The surroundings were deathly quiet.

This move was so sudden that my mind went completely blank.

Who was Qin Yanchuan?

He was the youngest president in the company’s history, the industry’s notorious “Cold-Faced Yama,” and the man who dared to talk back to veteran shareholders during meetings of the Board of Directors.

Such a man was now kneeling at my doorstep, his suit trousers stained with rainwater and dust, his voice low to the point of hoarseness.

“Chen Ruoqi,” he said. “I’m begging you.”

It felt as if someone had squeezed my heart hard.

It wasn’t because I was moved.

It was because of the absurdity.

It was so absurd that I almost wondered if I was still dreaming.

I stared at him for a few seconds and suddenly burst out laughing.

“Qin Yanchuan, do you know?” I said. “If you had been willing to offer even a single word of explanation earlier today, I might have hesitated.”

“But you chose the very last moment.”

“You aren’t here to beg me. You’ve just finally realized that without me, you can’t hold things together.”

He didn’t argue.

It was the first time I had seen him like this.

He was always forceful; even his apologies sounded like official notices. But now he just knelt there, as if he had retracted all his sharp edges.

Rain dripped down his jawline, but my heart didn’t soften in the slightest.

“Get up,” I said.

He didn’t move.

“Qin Yanchuan, doing this only makes me look worse.” My voice turned cold. “I don’t owe you anything, and the company doesn’t owe me a kneeling apology. This was never what I wanted.”

He finally looked up at me.

“Then what do you want?”

I enunciated every word: “I want the right of authorship, original project permissions, direct auditing rights, and a public apology from the Board of Directors.”

“And one more thing.”

“From now on, I’m not going back to work.”

“I’m going back to audit the books.”

Qin Yanchuan looked at me, his eyes deep, as if confirming whether I was serious.

“Fine,” he said.

I was taken aback.

He agreed so quickly that it actually made me wary.

“Do you have that much authority?”

“Tonight, I do.”

I stared at him. “What if you go back on your word?”

“I won’t.”

“Empty promises. I don’t believe you.”

Qin Yanchuan pulled a crumpled contract from his coat; he had clearly prepared it before coming. Consultant employment, independent project decision-making, open permissions, a post-event review by the Board of Directors-even the compensation for breach of contract was written clearly.

I scanned it, finally letting my gaze rest on the last clause.

‘If this crisis is found to be caused by unclear authorship or permission attribution in historical projects, Party A must unconditionally cooperate with Party B in holding the responsible parties accountable.’

This didn’t look like something Xu Baiyan would write.

It looked more like Qin Yanchuan had long suspected that this matter wasn’t just a system issue.

I took the pen and signed my name.

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll go back with you.”

“But Qin Yanchuan, you’d better remember this.”

“I’m not going back this time to save you.”

“I’m going back to save what is mine.”