Li Xuan’s phone was in the middle of a call. Sheng Min had tried calling him once, but it didn’t go through. Opposite him, Zhang Shan watched leisurely.
“He’s probably busy dealing with this mess,” Zhang Shan said casually. “Xiao Min, don’t look at me like that. It’s not like I did this.”
Sheng Min’s fingers clenched around the armrest of the sofa, his fingertips turning white. The game forums were being flooded with constant updates, and every other post mentioned Nook and Void Island.
>‘Why did Nook get taken down? The official site says routine maintenance. Do you guys believe that? I sure don’t.’
>‘Isn’t this fishy? Nook goes offline, and suddenly Void Island drops a massive update. There’s no way these two events aren’t connected. This isn’t how normal updates work. Who releases this much content at once? Are they insane? [JPG]’
>‘Anyone check out the new Void Island content? The ideas seem great on paper, but the execution feels off. It’s not bad, but something about it just feels… hollow.’
>‘Agreed. Feels like when I write my thesis—I use the framework my professor gave me, thinking I’m gonna nail it, but in the end, it’s just mediocre.’
>‘But hey, it’s a lot of content. Feels great to have so much to play. Plus, it’s free. Gotta go—time to play Void Island.’
>‘Well, this is the end for Nook. I had high hopes for it, thought it’d be the indie game dark horse of the year. But now? Void Island is giving it all away for free. RIP Chinese indie games.’
>‘Not necessarily. Let’s see what Nook does next.’
>‘Does what? It’s been taken down. By the way, isn’t it weird? Void Island originally got big by copying Nook. Where did they suddenly get all this new content? If we connect the dots, I have a very unsettling theory… I’m scared. Shaking…’
>‘Stop making baseless accusations. The facts are simple: Void Island is ahead of Nook now. And come on, how is this copying? Similar gameplay doesn’t mean plagiarism. All games borrow from each other. [Doghead JPG]’
…..
“Your boyfriend’s in serious trouble this time. The Void Island update—yeah, it definitely came from him.”
Zhang Shan let out a theatrical sigh. “Now that his game is taken down and someone else has pushed his content first, even if he manages to get Nook back online, it won’t matter. His revenue stream is done for. Before, he could at least compete—players were willing to pay for a better experience. But now? Void Island has more features, bigger maps, and it’s all free. Nook has lost all its advantages.”
She spread her hands with a look of mock regret. “His designs got stolen, and now he can’t use them anymore. He’ll have to start over. He needs to create new content that fits the original storyline but doesn’t overlap with Void Island’s update. Just one new map will take a month or two, minimum. Seven? At least half a year. And even if he pulls it off, players aren’t as loyal as fans. Revenue will never bounce back to where it was. This game? It’s finished. What a shame.”
“President Zhang, you seem to know a lot… how impressive,” Sheng Min said evenly, though he felt a chill running down his spine.
“Oh, this is nothing. I don’t understand the gaming industry at all. Before coming here, I consulted professionals.” Zhang Shan idly tapped the contract in her hands. “By the way, his father is ruthless, huh? He’s basically cut off his son’s income for at least three to five months. That’s a massive financial hole.
“Oh, and did your boyfriend ever mention this? Nook has a bunch of IP collaborations—with bubble tea brands, restaurants, streetwear labels. Several contracts have been signed, money has been paid, but the products haven’t been released yet. In this situation, the partners have every right to demand compensation.”
Sheng Min’s heart skipped a beat. He didn’t know much about Li Xuan’s company, but he had heard about Nook’s partnerships. The marketing had been everywhere, and two brands were scheduled to launch products next month. If they sued for damages, the amount wouldn’t be small.
Zhang Shan might be exaggerating, but there was no way she was making this up just to scare him.
“The people at Xingge Optics are tight-lipped—it was a pain to get any information from them. But Yuanxin was easier. Gathering intel and choosing the right time to talk to you wasn’t cheap, you know. But it was worth it, right, Xiao Min?”
Zhang Shan rubbed her temple lightly. “Honestly, this whole thing isn’t that complicated. At the end of the day, it’s just about money. He’s cornered because no one dares to invest in him, right? If you gave him a large sum of money, this problem would be solved. But Xiao Min… do you have enough? Enough to pay for your own contract termination lawsuit and cover your boyfriend’s crisis?”
The sunlight outside suddenly seemed blindingly harsh.
No, he didn’t have enough.
Sheng Min had set aside funds for Li Xuan, but who could have predicted Li Mingge would go this far? Cutting off Nook’s revenue completely…
There were so many employees to support, and every minute the company stayed open cost money. Unless Li Xuan laid off some staff, but that’s something he would never do—Sheng Min knew him better than anyone.
Sheng Min unconsciously pressed his lips together. He still had his car and house that he could sell, but those weren’t easy to liquidate in a short time, and who knew if Li Mingge would find a way to obstruct him again…
“Are you willing to take a look at my contract now?” Zhang Shan raised an eyebrow slightly, stood up leisurely, and took a slow stroll around Sheng Min’s office, casually glancing at things. She then tilted her head, looking at the script still lying on his desk, untouched. “You never requested it before, but if you want, the company can arrange a dedicated lounge for you. Even if you rarely use it, that’s fine. I guarantee it’ll be twice as big as this one.”
“What would I need that for?” Sheng Min asked softly. “I don’t need it.”
“But the company needs you. Your boyfriend needs you too. Of course, if you choose not to have this boyfriend, your troubles would naturally be much fewer. These few photos, they could be big or small problems. They’re not solid evidence, after all. Besides, you don’t even want to stay in the entertainment industry anymore, so they don’t really matter… But can you bear it?”
Zhang Shan sat back down in front of him, her high heels tapping against the floor—though the floor was spotless, it felt as if dust had been stirred up from nowhere. Outside, the snow had started falling again, the sun completely hidden, the sky oppressively dark.
Having delivered the slap, now came the sweet date. Zhang Shan switched to a coaxing tone. “Five years. I just need five years from you. After five years, if you want to leave, I won’t stop you. Every clause in this contract is the best you could get—no other company would offer such favorable terms. You can change managers if you want, pick anyone you like, they’ll only manage you. I’ve already selected some scripts—big productions, major IPs. You can pick one to take on, then join a variety show. For these two projects, the company won’t take a single cent from you. It’s all yours. Wouldn’t that solve your boyfriend’s problem? If that’s not enough, I’ll make up the difference… Isn’t that a good deal, Xiao Min? You’re only twenty-two, the golden age for an artist. Why suffer?”
“Sure.”
Li Xuan’s phone was still in the middle of a call. Sheng Min flipped the screen down onto the table and spoke in a low voice, “Sounds great.”
His tone made Zhang Shan pause for a moment, as if she felt a twinge of guilt. After a brief silence, she said, “Xiao Min, don’t blame me. I brought you up in this industry. You’re a good person, and you have a soft heart—I don’t want to push you. But I have no other choice.”
Sheng Min didn’t respond. Zhang Shan stared at the table for a long time. “I really considered letting you go. Truly. You know how I’ve treated you all these years. You’ve been with me since you were so young—I see you as half a younger brother, and I wanted to help you. But the company hasn’t been doing well these past few years. If you leave, who knows how much the stock price will plummet?”
Sheng Min’s expression was unreadable. He sat still for a long while before saying, “I need time to think. I’ll give you an answer before the contract expires next Wednesday.”
“That’s too long. I need it signed tonight.”
“President Zhang.” The snowfall grew denser outside. Sheng Min stood up and turned on the lights. “I’m not afraid of going down with the ship. If you insist on having it signed today, then let me be clear—I won’t sign. In this situation, I have more choices than you do.”
A faint breeze drifted in from a window that hadn’t been shut tightly. Zhang Shan gazed at him, looking somewhat weary, while Sheng Min’s expression remained indifferent and unmoving.
“Xiao Min.”
As the two remained locked in a standoff, the door suddenly swung open. Yin Qianpin strode in, shaking the snow from his shoulders. “Sorry, I meant to come earlier, but it started snowing as soon as I left, and traffic was terrible. Damn weather… I brought the contract, you—”
His words cut off abruptly, and he frowned slightly. “This is…?”
He hadn’t met Zhang Shan in person before, but back when Sheng Min had gone for the auditions, he had done some background checks and seen her photos. She looked familiar, but he couldn’t immediately place her.
“Director Yin, is it? I’ve heard a lot about you.” Zhang Shan smiled pleasantly. “I’m the vice president of Dongyi Culture.”
Her gaze flicked to the folder in Yin Qianpin’s hand, her expression carrying a hint of amusement.
“I see. No wonder.” She sighed in mock regret. “This isn’t intentional on my part, I truly had no idea.”
She bent down to pick up her handbag and turned to Sheng Min. “It seems I picked a bad time to visit… Or maybe, just the right time. Let’s do as you say—I agree.”
Her words were deliberately vague and ambiguous, enough to make Yin Qianpin momentarily puzzled. Zhang Shan then turned to him and said, “Director Yin, I have matters to attend to, so I won’t interrupt your conversation with Xiao Min any longer…”
She casually picked up the photos from the coffee table. “A little gift for our first meeting… I’m sure Xiao Min wouldn’t mind.”
Yin Qianpin barely glanced at them before his expression turned cold. “I don’t know you well enough to accept gifts, President Zhang.”
“But what if I insist on giving it?” Zhang Shan continued to smile.
“President Zhang.” Sheng Min closed his eyes briefly before opening them again. Then, he smiled lightly and reached out to take the photos. “At least let me say it myself.”
“There’s nothing to say.” Yin Qianpin frowned. “Even if you do, I won’t listen. I came here to discuss the contract with you…”
“I know.”
Under the pale daylight, Sheng Min’s helplessness and detachment were laid bare. Zhang Shan lowered her gaze and finally left.
