1: Dismissal Crisis

11:00 PM.

The city was not asleep. Outside the office building, neon lights flashed—red, blue, and green—splashing against the glass curtain wall like a bucket of paint thrown carelessly. Inside, however, the building was empty. The entire office area was left with rows of workstations and a few desk lamps that hadn't been turned off; at the end of the hallway, the emergency exit sign cast a dim red glow.

Cheng Mo sat on the stairs of the fire escape. He held a cardboard box in his arms, containing his belongings: an old mechanical keyboard, a stylus with a broken tip, several sheets of scratch paper covered in numerical formulas, and a team photo that had been torn in half.

He was the company's former Numerical Designer. Twenty-six years old, wearing a black hoodie and cargo pants, with a single silver stud in his right ear. His hair was messy, and there were dark circles under his eyes. No one knew how those dark circles got there. He claimed they were "hardcore gamer badges," but others just thought he was talking nonsense again.

3:00 PM today, in the meeting room.

The executives sat at the end of the long table while the HR manager read the notice. They claimed he had tampered with test data to artificially inflate retention rates, a serious violation of professional ethics. He tried to speak, but the other party raised a hand to cut him off, saying the evidence was conclusive and no explanation was needed. His permissions were frozen on the spot, he was kicked from the corporate WeChat groups, and his fingerprints were wiped from the access control system.

No one spoke up for him.

Colleagues he had once pulled all-nighters with to patch versions kept their heads down, staring at their phones. When the art lead in the back row stood up to leave, they knocked over a water cup and didn't even look back. He stood there, listening to his name being announced as a negative example, as if he were listening to someone else's story.

A security guard waited at the door, supervising him as he packed his things. He wasn't allowed to take any company equipment or copy any project files. He stood in front of his workstation for a few seconds. The desk had already been cleared; the monitor was gone, and the chair had been replaced. A printed note was taped to the neighboring seat: "New employee starting next week, please do not occupy."

He walked back into the hallway, his fingers trailing along the edges of the rows of desks. His fingertips touched dust, and also the two letters "CM" carved into a corner. Those were his initials, carved with a utility knife three years ago. He didn't wipe them away.

Reaching the end, he found the pantry around the corner. The water dispenser was still running, emitting a faint hum. He stopped, opened the box, and fished out the broken-tipped stylus from the bottom. It was the tool he used to open soda cans, and also the one he had spun in his hand until it snapped. He gripped it tightly, the metal edge digging into his palm.

Then he turned and walked toward his workstation one last time.

The workstation was empty. But at the very back of the drawer, a sketch was still stuck. He crouched down and pulled it out forcefully. Drawn on the paper was a force model for a jumping mechanism, with "Jump Platform Prototype V1" written in the corner. This was something he had worked on privately; it hadn't been reported, hadn't been greenlit, and no one had ever seen it. He stared at the paper for a long time before folding it and tucking it into the inner pocket of his hoodie.

A notice was posted by the elevator: "Return to work prohibited; violators will be reported to the police."

He didn't look. He took the stairs down, floor by floor. His footsteps echoed in the empty stairwell. When he reached the first-floor lobby, the security guard on duty glanced up at him, said nothing, and simply gestured toward the exit.

It was cold outside.

As the wind blew, he tucked the cardboard box tighter under his arm. There weren't many cars on the street; the streetlights were on, and a convenience store sign in the distance glowed with white light. He stood at the entrance of the company building and looked back. The glass curtain wall reflected his shadow—thin, hunched, like a discarded object.

He pulled out his phone. The screen lit up. The photo gallery was still open, containing all the game prototype sketches he had recorded over the past three years. Some were casual gameplay, some were extreme challenge mechanisms—all unnamed and unsubmitted. He had once thought these things would come in handy sooner or later.

He tapped into the most recent image. It was a design for a platformer level, marking thirty different ways to die. He was about to delete it. His finger hovered over the "Delete" button.

The phone vibrated.

A text message popped up.

The sender showed as an unknown number.

The content was only a few words: "The Core Algorithm you possess, some people don't want it to exist."

He stared at the message, motionless.

The wind blew the cardboard box slightly askew. He nudged it back with his shoulder. He looked at the text again, reading it once, twice, three times. Then he quickly took a screenshot, dragged it into an encrypted folder, turned off the network, and powered down the phone.

He stuffed the phone back into his pocket.

He stood up and adjusted the box's position. His other hand touched the sketch in his inner pocket. He started walking. His pace was slow at first, then quickened. When he passed the trash can on the street corner, he didn't stop, nor did he throw anything away.

He knew that piece of paper couldn't be discarded.

Those designs weren't junk. They were things he had secretly accumulated over three years. Every numerical model, every mechanism derivation, was proof that he didn't want to make bad games. They could erase his employee ID and block his permissions, but they couldn't erase what was in his head.

He walked past three intersections.

The convenience store was just ahead. The lights were on, and the automatic doors could open. He saw a clerk inside restacking shelves; the shelves were neat, and the freezer hummed. He walked closer.

His right hand was tucked in his hoodie pocket and hadn't come out.

He knew what would happen tomorrow. He'd have to apply for unemployment benefits, the rent was due, and there was only 4,700 yuan left in his bank card. He knew all this.

But he also knew something else.

That text message wouldn't have appeared for no reason. "Core Algorithm"—what did it refer to? Which projects had he worked on? Which things had crossed someone's line?

He stopped once and looked back.

The company building was in the distance, now just a glowing silhouette.

He no longer hesitated.

He continued forward.

He pushed open the door to the convenience store.

The wind chime gave a single ring.