Three days after Chen Fang walked out of the institute with Lin Fan's warning burning in her ears, Wang Feng called with news that was both expected and unwelcome. "There's another one," he said, dispensing with pleasantries. "This time it's a man. He's contacted the institute's public relations office claiming to be a journalist from the *Shanghai Economic Review*. He says he wants to interview you about the pharmaceutical institute acquisition. His credentials check out—the publication is real, and the name he's using matches a real journalist. But here's the interesting part: the real journalist is on sabbatical in New Zealand. Has been for three months."
"So he's a fake. Better credentials this time."
"Much better. Someone put real effort into this. The photograph on his press card matches the real journalist's photo from the magazine's website. That means they either hacked the website or had someone inside the publication. Either way, this is a more sophisticated operation than the last one."
Lin Fan stood at the kitchen window, watching the heron stand motionless at the lake's edge. The winter sun was pale and thin, casting long shadows across the gravel path. "When does he want to meet?"
"This afternoon. He's been very persistent. He told the PR office that he's working on a major profile of emerging pharmaceutical entrepreneurs and that you're the most interesting story he's seen in years. Very flattering. Very professional."
"Of course he is. The last one was too easy to spot. They've learned from their mistake." Lin Fan paused, thinking. The Corporate Strategy skill was cataloguing the variables, assessing the risks. A fake journalist with better credentials meant a deeper operation, possibly with support from someone inside the real publication. It also meant the stakes were higher. If he confronted this one as directly as he had confronted Chen Fang, he would need proof. Hard evidence that he could take to the authorities or, if necessary, to the press.
"Let him come," Lin Fan said. "But I want you to be there. Not in the room—in the security office, monitoring the meeting. I want everything recorded. Audio, video, the works. If this man is wearing a wire, I want to know about it. If he's carrying a concealed camera, I want to know about it. And if he's dumb enough to try anything aggressive, I want it documented."
Wang Feng's voice was dry. "You think he might be armed?"
"No. But he might be recording. The goal isn't to hurt me. It's to get me on tape saying something incriminating. Something they can use to pressure me later, or leak to regulators, or hand to journalists who aren't fake. They want leverage. I'm not going to give it to them."
"Understood. I'll have a full surveillance setup in place by two o'clock."
The meeting was scheduled for three in the afternoon. Lin Fan chose the institute's conference room as the venue—the same tired, fluorescent-lit space where he had first presented the Linfloxacin dossier to his researchers. It was not an impressive room, but it was his territory, and the institute's security team had spent the morning installing discreet cameras and microphones under Wang Feng's direction.
The fake journalist arrived exactly on time. He was in his early forties, dressed in a well-tailored suit that was expensive but not ostentatious—the kind of suit that said "serious professional" rather than "corporate spy." He carried a leather messenger bag and a digital voice recorder, which he placed on the conference table with the casual confidence of someone who used it every day. His name, according to the press card he flashed at the reception desk, was Zhou Ming. His smile was warm and practised, his handshake firm and dry.
"Mr. Lin. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me. I know you're a busy man."
"I'm always happy to speak with the press," Lin Fan said, which was not true but was the kind of thing billionaires were supposed to say. "Please, sit."
They sat across from each other at the long laminate table. Zhou Ming placed his recorder on the table between them and pressed a button. A small red light blinked on. "Do you mind if I record? It helps me get the quotes right."
"Not at all."
The interview began with the predictable questions. How did you become interested in pharmaceutical research? What do you see as the future of antibiotic development? What drew you to acquire the Shanghai Institute of Pharmaceutical Research? Lin Fan answered with the careful, practised responses he had developed over months of navigating the business world. He talked about the importance of medical innovation, the need for new approaches to antibiotic resistance, the vision of a research institute that prioritised patient outcomes over quarterly profits. Every word was true, and every word was carefully chosen.
The golden phone in his pocket remained still, but Lin Fan could feel its attention—a quiet, listening presence. The Alpha Sonar, which had been passive since the confrontation with Chen Fang, was beginning to stir. The fake journalist's smile was warm, but there was something beneath it. A tension. A watchfulness. The God‑Level Card Playing skill, attuned to the subtle signals of deception, noted the way Zhou Ming's eyes flicked to the left whenever he asked a particularly pointed question—a classic tell of someone constructing a narrative rather than responding naturally.
Twenty minutes into the interview, the golden phone vibrated. Not the soft, brief pulse of a moral acknowledgment, but a sharper, more insistent buzz—the Alpha Sonar detecting something. Lin Fan glanced at his regular phone, which was lying face-up on the table, and tapped the screen as if checking a message. The gesture gave him a moment to read the golden phone's screen, which was visible only to him.
`[Alpha Sonar Anomaly Detected: Active electronic surveillance device. Signal transmission detected from subject's clothing. Frequency: 2.4 GHz. Device type: wireless microphone/transmitter, likely concealed in jacket lapel or sternum area. Additional transmission detected to a receiver located in a vehicle outside the institute. Registration traces to a shell company associated with Blackstone Research Group.]`
So he was wearing a wire. Not just recording the conversation—transmitting it. Somewhere outside the institute, in a vehicle that was probably rented and would be impossible to trace, someone was listening to every word. Probably recording. Probably hoping Lin Fan would say something they could use.
He set down his regular phone and smiled at Zhou Ming. "I appreciate the questions, Mr. Zhou. But I think we've covered enough background material. Let me ask you something, if I may."
"Of course."
"You're not really a journalist, are you?"
Zhou Ming's expression did not change. His smile remained warm, his posture relaxed. But Lin Fan saw the micro-expression—the almost imperceptible tightening of the muscles around the eyes, the slight swallow, the reflexive twitch of the hand that was resting on the table. The God‑Level Card Playing skill catalogued each signal and filed them away.
"I'm sorry? I don't understand."
"The real Zhou Ming is on sabbatical in New Zealand. He's been there for three months. The press card you used to get past security is a very good forgery, but the photograph was taken from the magazine's website, which was hacked six days ago. That's a serious crime in China, by the way. Unauthorised access to a computer system. You could do prison time."
The smile was gone now. Zhou Ming's face had gone very still, the way a person's face goes still when they are calculating their next move and finding none of the options good. "Mr. Lin, I don't know what you're implying—"
"I'm not implying anything. I'm telling you." Lin Fan leaned forward, his voice still calm, still conversational. "You're wearing a wire. It's transmitting this conversation to a vehicle outside the institute. A silver Buick Enclave, registration Hu A‑59372, which is registered to a shell company in the Cayman Islands that is, in turn, owned by Blackstone Research Group of Wilmington, Delaware. The two people in the vehicle are listening to every word we say. One of them is probably your handler. The other is probably the technician running the recording equipment."
Zhou Ming's composure cracked. His hand, still resting on the table, began to tremble slightly. "How do you—"
"I pay attention. It's a habit." Lin Fan reached into his pocket and pulled out the golden phone, holding it in his hand. The screen was still glowing, the Alpha Sonar data visible only to him. To Zhou Ming, it would look like an ordinary smartphone. "Right now, this conversation is being recorded by my security team as well. Not just the audio—the video, too. Your face, your voice, your confession. So here's what's going to happen. You're going to stand up. You're going to walk out of this building. You're going to get into the silver Buick, and you're going to drive away. And you're going to deliver a message to your employers at Blackstone Research Group."
He stood, and Zhou Ming flinched. But Lin Fan didn't move toward him. He just stood by the table, looking down at the man who had been sent to trap him and had been trapped instead.
"Tell them this. Tell them that I know who they are. I know who their clients are. I know what tactics they've used in the past—the false-flag journalism, the financial manipulation, the personal intimidation. And I have evidence. Documented, verified, legally actionable evidence. If they send another operative to my institute, if they harass one more of my researchers, if they try to interfere with the development of Linfloxacin in any way—I will release that evidence. To the press. To the regulators. To the courts. And Blackstone Research Group will be finished. Not because I'm powerful. Because they're sloppy, and they've left a trail."
Zhou Ming's face was now the colour of old wax. He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. "You can't—this is—"
"Interference with medical research. Unauthorised surveillance. Corporate espionage. Identity theft. These are crimes in China, and they are crimes in the United States, where Blackstone is headquartered. I have lawyers in both countries. I have resources that your employers can only dream of. And I have absolutely nothing to hide." Lin Fan gestured at the door. "Now go. Before I change my mind and call the police."
Zhou Ming stood. His movements were stiff and jerky, the movements of a man who had been thoroughly and completely defeated. At the door, he paused and looked back. "You're not what I expected."
"Nobody is. That's the whole point."
He left. The door closed behind him with a soft, final click. Lin Fan stood alone in the conference room, the golden phone still glowing in his hand. The Alpha Sonar showed the silver Buick pulling away from the kerb, its occupants no doubt already on the phone with their handlers, reporting failure. The transmission signal from Zhou Ming's wire faded and then vanished.
The golden phone chimed softly.
`[Second Skirmish Won. The enemy has now tested your defences twice and found them stronger than anticipated. They will regroup. They will escalate. But they will also begin to fear you. Fear is a weapon. Use it carefully.]`
Lin Fan put the phone away. He walked to the security office, where Wang Feng was sitting in front of a bank of monitors, reviewing the footage from the conference room. The banker looked up with a faint, cold smile.
"Beautifully done. The confession is legally sufficient, though I doubt we'll need to use it. After this, Blackstone will think twice before sending anyone else."
"They won't stop. They'll just change tactics."
"Probably. But for now, you've bought us time. The clinical trials can proceed without further harassment. And the evidence we've gathered on Blackstone's operations—" Wang Feng's smile widened. "Let's just say that if Johnson & Johnson wants to continue this fight, they'll find themselves fighting on multiple fronts."
Lin Fan looked at the monitor, at the frozen image of Zhou Ming's terrified face. He felt no satisfaction in the man's fear. He felt only the familiar, quiet weight of responsibility. The war was escalating, and it would claim casualties. People like Zhou Ming, who had probably been hired for a job they didn't fully understand. People like Chen Fang, who had walked out of this building three days ago with a warning that might cost her her career. The real enemies—Marcus Chen, the executives at Johnson & Johnson, the shareholders who demanded profits at any cost—were safe in their offices, far from the consequences of their actions.
But that would change. The Linfloxacin trials would succeed. The drug would reach the market. And when it did, the pharmaceutical industry would be forced to reckon with a new reality. Not just a competitor, but a new model of innovation—one that prioritised patients over profits, access over exclusivity, healing over greed.
That was the battle he was fighting. Not the skirmishes with corporate spies, but the war for a different kind of world. And he was only just beginning.
He left Wang Feng to his monitors and walked out of the institute. The afternoon had cleared, the grey clouds parting to reveal a pale blue sky. The heron would be at the lake when he got home, he knew. The koi would be swimming their slow circles. The world would be quiet and peaceful and entirely unchanged. But somewhere in New Jersey, a vice president was learning that his latest attempt to spy on Lin Fan had failed. And somewhere in Shanghai, a fake journalist in a silver Buick was wondering how his target had known about the wire, the vehicle, the shell company—about everything.
Let them wonder. Let them be afraid. Lin Fan had spent months learning the art of paying attention, and he had learned it well. The next time they came for him, he would be ready. The time after that, he would be waiting.
He drove home through the quiet streets, the Honda's engine a familiar, steady hum. At the villa, the heron stood at the lake's edge, its grey silhouette sharp against the silver water. The koi swam their slow circles. The compound was peaceful, unchanged. And Lin Fan, who had faced down his second corporate spy in a week and sent him away empty-handed, sat on the wooden bench by the water and let the silence wash over him.
The golden phone chimed softly—the daily sign-in, right on time. Seventy-two million yuan. He barely noticed the number. He was thinking about the war ahead, about the drug that would save millions, about the enemies who would do anything to stop it. But he was also thinking about the allies who had gathered around him. Wang Feng's cold, precise efficiency. Dr. Shen's fierce integrity. Li Chuhan's stubborn compassion. Minister Gao's hard-won trust. Xu Yang's loyal friendship. His mother's quiet wisdom.
He was not alone. He had never been alone. And as long as he remembered that, the enemy's spies and schemes and threats would mean nothing.
Tomorrow, there would be a new occupation. Tomorrow, the work of building would continue. But tonight—this evening—he had won another victory. Small, quiet, invisible to the world. But real.
That was enough. That was more than enough.