The broadcast studio fell into a sudden, heavy silence as the "Live" lights finally flickered to gray. The high-voltage energy of the room began to dissipate, leaving only the low, rhythmic thrum of cooling fans. Tang Yuze leaned back in the ergonomic gaming chair, the star-power in his eyes dimming into a human, bone-deep exhaustion.
He pulled the headset off, his hair ruffled in a way that would have driven his fan clubs into a frenzy. Sister Wen was at his side in an instant, her face glowing with the reflection of the final numbers.
"Twelve million, Yuze," she whispered, her voice trembling. "It's a record. We need to issue a press statement immediately."
"Not now, Wen," Yuze said, his voice a low, resonant rumble. He checked the clock on the studio wall. It was only 4:00 PM. "Meilin is expecting me for dinner. I promised her. But..." He paused, his cinematic gaze drifting to the window. "Let's finish that advertisement shoot we scheduled. If we start now, we can wrap by 8:00 PM and head straight to the Tang residence. I don't want to show up at my sister's door smelling like a movie set."
Wen nodded, already tapping out instructions to the crew.
Before he left the set, Qin He stepped forward, his expression one of profound respect. "Mr. Tang, your contribution tonight cannot be measured. On behalf of Lin Capital and ZM Technology, thank you."
Zihan stood beside him, his face pale but his eyes burning with a quiet intensity. He offered a short, stiff nod—the gesture of one king recognizing another. "Thank you, Brother Yuze."
Yuze looked at the younger man, seeing the faint tremors in Zihan's hands that the cameras had missed. "Don't thank me yet, CEO Xie. You built the world; I just walked through the front door. Congratulations on the downloads. It seems the 'Myth' is real."
With a final, sharp grin, Yuze turned and walked out, his entourage trailing behind him like a comet's tail.
The War Room: 5:00 PM
Inside the inner sanctum of the 7th floor, the atmosphere was a mix of triumph and strategic exhaustion. Xu Feng was pacing the length of the glass table, his tablet displaying a vertical climb of data that looked like a mountain peak.
"We've officially hit fifteen million downloads in the first ninety minutes," Xu Feng reported, his voice cracking with excitement. "The Weibo servers are still struggling to keep up with the mentions. ZM Technology is the number one searched term in the country. Zihan, we're not just a startup anymore. We're a phenomenon."
Qin He poured three glasses of water, sliding one toward Zihan. "The success is absolute. But with this kind of visibility comes a new level of danger. The press is already swarming the lobby. They're looking for the 'Ghost Developer.' They want to know who is behind the God-Protocol."
Zihan sat in the center of the leather chair, his fingers interlaced. He looked like a man who had conquered a kingdom, but his internal world was beginning to fray. The "Beta-strain" toxin was moving through his veins like liquid nitrogen, a delayed reaction to the adrenaline of the server breach. Every breath felt like inhaling shards of glass.
"I don't want the press," Zihan said, his voice a raspy whisper. " I need... to leave."
Qin He checked his phone. A message had just arrived from a private, encrypted number. He looked at Zihan, then at the elevator banks. "A safe extraction has already been arranged. The Tang... I mean, Lin Capital's security is waiting at the private basement entrance. You can leave now ,i will take care of press."
Outside the Building Arc, the scene was a riot. Dozens of news vans and hundreds of freelance reporters were crowded against the police cordons, their cameras pointed at the main glass doors like a battery of cannons.
Deep in the shadows of the VIP underground garage, the matte-black sedan sat idling, its engine a low, predatory purr. Inside, Meilin sat in the darkness of the rear seat. She had returned from the customs docks, her white floral dress holding the faint, sharp scent of sea salt and crushed camellias. The crates of rare herbs were secured in the trunk, the temperature-controlled locks glowing a steady green.
Her eyes were fixed on the heavy steel doors of the private elevator.
"Yan," she murmured, her voice a cold, focused thread. "The moment he steps out, get him in the car. Don't let anyone stop him."
"Understood, Miss."
The elevator doors hissed open. Commander Yan stepped forward as Zihan emerged, flanked by two security guards. Zihan's walk was uneven, his shoulder leaning slightly against the cold concrete wall. His dark hair was damp with cold sweat, and his skin had taken on the translucent, waxy sheen of someone on the verge of a total systemic collapse.
Zihan looked up, his vision tunneling into a narrow blur of grey and black. Then, he saw it. The sedan. And through the tinted window, the unmistakable, elegant silhouette of the woman who had haunted his thoughts all day.
She had actually come.
A sudden, fierce warmth flared in his chest—a final surge of emotion that his compromised nervous system couldn't process. It was the "trigger" the Gamma-strain had been waiting for.
He reached the door of the car, his hand fumbling for the handle. Yan caught his arm just as his knees buckled. Zihan turned his head, his eyes meeting Meilin's through the glass for one fraction of a second—a look of raw, unshielded relief.
Then, the world went black.
His body went limp, the "Ghost of the Arc" collapsing into Yan's arms. The king of the digital world had finally reached his sanctuary, but the cost of his throne was a darkness that threatened to never end.
"Get him in!" Meilin's voice cut through the silence, no longer a whisper but a command.