The Blackstone Research Group did not waste time. Three days after Wang Feng's warning, Lin Fan received a call from Dr. Chen Yong at the institute. The director's voice was tight with the particular anxiety of a man who had spent his career avoiding conflict and had suddenly found himself at the centre of a war.
"Mr. Lin, there's someone here asking questions. A woman. She says she's a journalist with the *Asia Pharmaceutical Review*, but her credentials seem... thin. She's been talking to the researchers, asking about the Linfloxacin trial. One of the lab technicians mentioned the compassionate use case. She wants to speak with you directly."
The Corporate Strategy skill in Lin Fan's mind identified the tactic immediately. A journalist, real or fake, was the easiest way to penetrate an organisation's defences. Researchers who would never speak to a corporate spy would happily talk to a reporter, eager for recognition, flattered by the attention. If Blackstone had sent someone, she would be good at her job.
"Don't let her leave," Lin Fan said. "Keep her in the conference room. Offer her tea. Tell her I'm on my way."
He drove to the institute through the grey afternoon, the Honda's engine humming through the rain-slicked streets. The golden phone was silent in his pocket, offering no guidance, no warnings. The System had made it clear that it would not protect him from the consequences of his choices. This was his fight.
The woman waiting in the conference room was not what he expected. She was young—late twenties, perhaps—with the kind of unremarkable attractiveness that was perfect for corporate espionage: pretty enough to be memorable, plain enough to be forgettable. She wore a dark blazer and carried a leather notebook, and when she smiled at his entrance, the smile was warm and entirely artificial.
"Mr. Lin. Thank you for coming on such short notice. I'm Chen Fang, with the *Asia Pharmaceutical Review*. We've been following the remarkable developments at your institute with great interest."
Lin Fan sat across from her, his posture relaxed, his expression neutral. The God‑Level Card Playing skill, dormant since the warehouse poker game, stirred faintly in his mind. It was not just about reading bluffs and calculating odds. It was about understanding human behaviour—the micro-expressions, the vocal inflections, the tiny, involuntary signals that revealed a lie.
"You're not a journalist," he said quietly.
Chen Fang's smile flickered, just for an instant. "I'm sorry?"
"The *Asia Pharmaceutical Review* is a legitimate trade publication, but their Shanghai correspondent is a man named Huang Wei. I know this because we subscribe to their database. You're not Huang Wei. Your credentials are fabricated. And the notebook you're carrying is brand new—the spine isn't even cracked. Real journalists don't buy new notebooks for every assignment."
The smile faded. Chen Fang's eyes, which had been warm and open, went cold and flat, the eyes of someone who had been caught and was rapidly recalculating. "You've done your homework."
"I pay attention. It's a habit." He leaned back in his chair. "I'm going to make this simple. I know Blackstone Research Group sent you. I know Johnson & Johnson is your client. I know you're investigating my background, my finances, and the Linfloxacin trials. None of that concerns me. What concerns me is that you approached my researchers under false pretences, attempted to extract confidential information, and compromised the security of a facility that is developing a drug that will save millions of lives. That is not corporate espionage. That is interference with medical research. And there are laws against it."
Chen Fang's composure cracked slightly. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Then let me be clearer." He placed his regular phone on the table between them and played a brief audio clip. It was Wang Feng's voice, recorded that morning: "Blackstone Research Group. Registered in Delaware. Clients include Fortune 500 pharmaceutical companies. Known for aggressive tactics including false-flag journalism, financial manipulation, and personal intimidation." The recording stopped. "I have a very thorough banker. He's been tracking your employer for the past three days, and he's very good at his job."
The silence in the room was absolute. Chen Fang's face had lost its colour. She was no longer pretending.
"What do you want?" she asked.
"I want you to deliver a message. Not to Blackstone. To Marcus Chen, at Johnson & Johnson. Tell him that I know who sent you. Tell him that I know what he's trying to do. And tell him that if he continues to send operatives to my institute, to harass my researchers, or to interfere with the development of Linfloxacin, I will respond. Not with lawsuits—though those will come—but with exposure. Every unethical tactic his company has used. Every bribe paid to regulators. Every study suppressed. Every patient harmed by a drug they knew was dangerous. I have resources. I have patience. And I have nothing to hide."
He stood. "The front door is to your left. Don't come back."
Chen Fang rose, her movements stiff and mechanical. At the door, she paused. "You're making a mistake, Mr. Lin. The people you're threatening are very powerful."
"I know. So am I."
She left. The conference room was quiet, the faint hum of the fluorescent lights the only sound. Lin Fan stood alone for a moment, letting the tension drain from his shoulders. The first skirmish was over, and he had won it, but the war was just beginning. Blackstone would not retreat because one operative had been caught. Marcus Chen would not abandon his mission because a young billionaire had made threats. The attacks would continue, from different angles, through different channels. The only way to stop them was to make the cost of continuing too high.
He pulled out the golden phone. The screen was dark for a moment, then flickered to life with a single line of text:
`[First Skirmish Won. The enemy now knows you are aware of their operations and willing to fight back. This will escalate. Prepare accordingly.]`
He put the phone away and walked out of the institute. The rain had stopped, and the grey sky was beginning to clear. Somewhere in New Jersey, a vice president named Marcus Chen was about to receive a very uncomfortable phone call. And somewhere in Shanghai, a young woman who had been trained to extract information was reporting to her handlers that the target was not as naive as they had assumed.
The war had begun. Lin Fan was ready for it. He had been ready since the night the safe opened, since the note from a stranger asked him to use what he had found well. He had not chosen this fight, but he would not run from it. The compound interest of decency was not just about helping people. It was about standing against those who would harm them. And Johnson & Johnson, with its investigators and its shell companies and its cold, calculated greed, had just made itself an enemy.
Tomorrow, there would be a new occupation, a new challenge, a new opportunity to do good. But today—this grey, quiet afternoon—the first spy had been sent, and the first spy had been caught. That was enough. That was a beginning.