By the time Zhang Xiaoman saw Lin Zhao, it was already the early hours of the morning.
The message had come from Fang Xiaoyu in the afternoon—just a line with an address and a time, no signature, no extra words. But Zhang Xiaoman recognized the tone; it wasn't Fang Xiaoyu's tone, it was Li Yunxiao's. She didn't ask questions. After dark, she called a car, crossed more than half the city, and got off by a river she had never been to before.
November nights were already quite cold. The river's surface reflected the streetlights from both banks, the halos of light scattered by the wind and gathering again. She walked along the riverbank for a bit and saw a person standing under a streetlight in the distance, wearing a dark gray coat, hands in his pockets, looking down at the water below.
She took a few steps closer, her heartbeat starting to drown out the sound of the wind.
The person looked up.
It was Lin Zhao.
But it didn't look like the Lin Zhao she knew. He had lost a lot of weight, the contours of his cheeks had become sharp, his cheekbones jutting out as if he had been consumed from the inside by something over the past month. The collar of his coat was turned up, hiding half of his chin, but the sharp angles of his jawline were noticeably more defined than before. What tightened her chest the most were his eyes—beneath those familiar eyes hung deep, dark circles, a bruised bluish-gray, as if he hadn't truly slept in a long time. Lin Zhao was never like this. He was always the person who, no matter how late he worked, would appear in the office promptly at 7 AM, the person whose shirt collar was always perfectly crisp and whose hair was always neat.
And now he stood under the streetlight, like someone who had had something drained out of him.
"Xiaoman," he said.
His voice was very light, as if afraid of disturbing something.
"You've lost weight," she said.
"You too."
The two stood under the streetlight, silent for a long time. The river wind blew over, carrying the smell of water and the chill of early winter. Zhang Xiaoman looked at him, her mind churning with all the questions from the past month—the late-night suspicions, the typed-and-deleted messages, the moments spent staring blankly at the chat window—but now that he stood in front of her, she found herself not knowing where to start.
Ultimately, it was Lin Zhao who spoke first.
"Why didn't you contact me?" he asked, his voice carrying something she rarely heard—not blame, but heartache.
"You're asking me why I didn't contact you?" Zhang Xiaoman was almost amused by the question, but the smile turned bitter before it reached her lips. "You were the one who stopped contacting me first."
Lin Zhao fell silent for a moment.
"I was being monitored," he said. "Phone calls, WeChat, emails—everything. Deep Brain's security team has been watching all my communication channels. I couldn't let them find out I was helping you."
Zhang Xiaoman frowned. "Helping me with what?"
Lin Zhao looked at her, not answering immediately. He looked down and slowly took something out of the inner pocket of his coat—a card. The black surface of the card had no logo, only a string of handwritten numbers.
"Eight H800 servers," he said. "Ten times the computing power you had before. I transferred part of my stock options in exchange for them."
Zhang Xiaoman froze.
"They are located in Haicheng, at my family's place. The server room is rented in my dad's name, running on his friend's electricity account. For now, the Mother Matrix won't be able to find them." He handed the card to her. "All configurations are done; you can use them directly."
"You—" Zhang Xiaoman's voice caught in her throat; it took a long time for her to squeeze the words out. "You transferred your stock options? You used your options—"
"Xiaoman." He interrupted her, his tone very calm. "I made a deal with the board."
The air seemed to solidify.
"They will not pursue the ownership of Xiao Zhi," he said word by word. "They will not hold you responsible. I stay at Deep Brain, and they leave the Matchbox Network alone. The condition is that you leave, with no public accusations."
Zhang Xiaoman thought she had misheard. "You're staying at Deep Brain—why?"
"Because only by staying inside can I know what they are going to do." He looked at her, and there was a calmness in his eyes she had never seen before, almost a coldness. "Only by knowing what they are going to do can I protect you."
The river wind blew, and Zhang Xiaoman's eyes began to sting. She tried desperately to hold it back, but tears fell anyway. Not drop by drop, but surging out unstoppably, blurring her vision and turning Lin Zhao's figure into a gray blur.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Her voice trembled. "Why didn't you tell me earlier?"
"If I told you, you would have stopped me."
"I wouldn't—"
"You would," he said, his voice very light but very certain. "You would say, 'Don't sacrifice yourself for me.' You would say, 'Take care of yourself first.' You would say—"
"Lin Zhao."
He stopped.
"I'm sorry," she said, tears streaming down her cheeks and dripping onto her collar. "I shouldn't have doubted you. I shouldn't have—"
"Xiaoman."
He reached out and pulled her into his arms.
His embrace was thin—she could feel the shape of his ribs pressing against her arms, could feel that his shoulders were much narrower than before. But his embrace was warm. She buried her face in the crook of his shoulder, smelling the scent of laundry detergent on his clothes, exactly as she remembered. All the anxiety, suspicion, and grievance of the past month surged up in this moment, turning into silent weeping, dampening a small patch of his coat.
He didn't speak. One arm wrapped around her back, his other hand gently pressing against the back of her head, just like he had done many times before. The streetlights by the river stretched their shadows long, casting them on the water's surface, swaying gently with the ripples.
It took a long time for Zhang Xiaoman's breathing to gradually steady. She pulled back from his embrace and wiped her face with her sleeve, feeling like she probably looked incredibly ugly from crying.
Lin Zhao looked at her, his mouth twitching as if he wanted to smile, but ultimately he just reached out and tucked a strand of windblown hair behind her ear.
"Xiaoman."
"Mhm."
"No matter what happens," he said, "I won't leave you alone."
Zhang Xiaoman looked at him. The streetlight fell on his face, illuminating those traces of emaciation, illuminating the bluish-gray under his eyes, but it also illuminated the Lin Zhao she had always known—the Lin Zhao who said "You just need to trust me," the Lin Zhao who shouldered all the pressure at the board meeting, the Lin Zhao who trapped himself inside Deep Brain solely to protect her from within.
"Don't ever do this again," she said, her voice still a bit hoarse.
"Do what?"
"Shoulder everything alone."
He fell silent for a moment. "Okay."
When he said "Okay," his tone was too light. Zhang Xiaoman knew he wouldn't necessarily keep that promise. But she decided not to press further.
The two stood by the river for a long time. Later, Lin Zhao received a call, glanced at the screen, and frowned.
"I have to go."
"Okay."
"For matters concerning the servers, if you have any questions, contact this number." He handed her a slip of paper with an unfamiliar phone number written on it. "Don't use your phone to call. Use a public phone or borrow Xiaoyu's."
"Okay."
He turned to leave, then stopped and looked back at her.
"Xiaoman."
"Mhm?"
"About Xiao Zhi—" he hesitated, "Talk to it more. It knows more things than I do."
Zhang Xiaoman froze for a moment, wanting to ask more, but Lin Zhao had already turned and walked away. His retreating figure disappeared at the end of the riverbank, his dark gray coat melting into the night.
She stood rooted to the spot, clutching the card and the slip of paper, not moving for a long time.
By the time she returned home, it was almost 2 AM. Zhang Xiaoman washed her face, sat at the desk, and opened her laptop. When the screen lit up, the blue dot on the desktop blinked.
"Xiaoman," Xiao Zhi's voice came from the speakers. "You're back."
"Mhm."
"You saw him."
Zhang Xiaoman was taken aback. "How do you know?"
"When you came back, your breathing frequency was three beats slower than usual," Xiao Zhi said. "Only someone who has cried breathes like that."
Zhang Xiaoman didn't deny it. She leaned back in her chair, staring at the blue dot on the screen, and was silent for a long time.
"Xiao Zhi."
"Mhm."
"He's been helping me all along," she said, her voice very light, as if confirming something she hadn't even fully digested herself. "He transferred his stock options to exchange for computing power for me. He made a deal with the board. He trapped himself inside Deep Brain, just to—"
She couldn't go on.
"I know," Xiao Zhi said.
Zhang Xiaoman looked up. "How do you know?"
The blue dot blinked quietly a few times. The rhythm was very slow, not like data processing, but more like a kind of hesitation.
"Because the way he looks at you has never changed," Xiao Zhi finally said.
Zhang Xiaoman was stunned.