I stride through the 11th floor of Sinosteel Plaza—head high, shoulders squared, the click of my heels slicing through the silence like a metronome of inevitability.

  The founders of YouQu still haunt the building, clinging to offices they no longer own. But the company isn’t theirs anymore. It’s mine. The media calls them internet pioneers. I call them what they are: losers bailed out by my father.

  They never understood the Republic’s online video market. Even at YouQu’s peak, when we led this fledgling industry, they cowered in the shadow of downloaders—those clunky pirate dens stuffed with Western films, TV series, and Japanese porn. Their idea of competition was chasing ghosts.

  The early adopters of online video were socially domestic tech nerds—men who prided themselves on navigating the labyrinthine interfaces of downloaders, waiting hours for Blu-ray rips to land on their precious laptops. They’d invite women over to watch—not the porn, obviously. That was their idea of a romantic night.

  Then came 2012. Mobile phones and 4G infrastructure detonated the old world. A flood of new viewers surged in—affluent, impatient, socially active. Many of them women. People who didn’t want to wait. People who would pay for immediacy, quality, and relevance.

  While iKiwi and MillionCentury pivoted to Netflix’s business model, YouQu clung to YouTube relic. They mistook nostalgia for strategy. By the time they realized the game had changed, the war was already lost.

  The new ecosystem had taken root. Young, hungry creators—tired of the suffocating censorship in state-run studios—signed exclusive contracts with our rivals. iKiwi and MillionCentury locked down digital rights when the film industry still treated online revenue as pocket change. They built empires while YouQu played catch-up with a broken compass.

  Now the platform is a mess. No coherent monetization strategy. No creator loyalty. No algorithmic edge. Just a hollow shell of what could’ve been.

  But I’m not here to mourn.

  I’m here to rebuild.

  From the ground up.

  My way.

  … …

  As I enter my office, Junhang, my secretary, informs me Shao Zhang is waiting—the HiCreative CEO sent to salvage HiTV’s hemorrhaging business.

  He comes alone. That's telling. Hiting's confidence in HiCreative has been legendary. Yet desperation makes people discreet. Fewer witnesses. Fewer leaks.

  But coming alone takes guts. He knows my reputation. He knows he’ll be grilled.

  He’s dressed like a man who still believes in control—tailored dark suit, salt-and-pepper hair parted with surgical precision. Wire-rimmed glasses frame eyes that carry the haunted focus of someone calculating not just his company’s survival, but his own. He carries a slim leather portfolio. Minimalist. Clean. A sharp contrast to the mountain of capital he’s come to beg for.

  “We’ve met before. Do you remember?” I smile, watching him closely.

  “Yes. Cannes.” His voice is steady, but his posture betrays tension. “Gong Li’s party.”

  “Excellent memory.” I lean back, letting the silence stretch.

  “Nobody forgets a woman as radiant as you.” The flattery lands smoothly, but there’s strain around his eyes. He’s performing.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  “So tell me,” I say, voice sharpening, “how much of the TechSpeed exposé is real?”

  His jaw tightens. A beat passes. “I honestly don’t know.” He sees my skepticism and adds quickly, “Hiting keeps everything close. I only run HiCreative. But since the article dropped, the cash supply from the parent company has been throttled.”

  “Why?” I tilt my head. “The exposé hit your stock price. But does it really cripple operations?”

  “Ripple effects.” His shoulders stiffen. “We raised a round in March. Another was planned for August. Now?” He exhales. “Investors won’t touch us. That’s why I’m here—to invite Aladdin to take part.”

  “We’re not investing.” I let the words hang like a blade. “We’re only interested in buyouts.”

  He nods once. No surprise. “With the right price, I’m sure Hiting will listen.”

  “Show me the financials first.”

  He slides the documents across the desk. HiCreative projects 23.6 million yuan in profit on 184 million in revenue. Year-over-year growth: 50%.

  I skim, then push the papers back. “I don’t trust financial statements. How much of this is inflated by internal transactions with HiTV subsidiaries?”

  I know their game. Inflate copyright prices between affiliates. Shine the numbers for financing. Then quietly revise the contracts post-IPO. Sometimes they don’t even execute the deals—just draft them for optics.

  “I want the real HiCreative.” I lock eyes with him. No blink. No smile.

  He hesitates. Three seconds. Then his voice drops. “We burn about 100 million per quarter. To maintain 50% growth, that’ll rise to 130 million.”

  "How much debt?"

  "1.68 billion."

  Not as catastrophic as I anticipated. Honestly, I don’t care. YouQu burns a billion a year. Dad bought it without hesitation. Aladdin’s profit last year was 24 billion. Growth over 50%.

  “What has the cash burn bought you?”

  "Strong content, exceptional creative teams, exclusive TV series and film rights. In our last round, we attracted fifteen top directors and stars as shareholders—Yimo Zhan, Mini Yang, Jinmin Guo, Lilia Tong, Honglai Song. That incentivizes them to include us in their productions. Our films in the past twelve months earned 2.27 billion at the box office. Low-budget TV series deliver high margins—our series are making 70% profit."

  I nod slowly. I watched Go Princess Go last week—cheap, chaotic, addictive. Gender-swap comedy, breakneck pacing. Shameless. Brilliant.

  That’s what YouQu needs. Content that moves.

  “What’s the secret to shows like Go Princess Go?”

  "There's no guaranteed formula." He shifts forward slightly. “But the right connections, sharp scripts, and a producer who knows how to spark often create... biochemical reactions.”

  There it is—his boss's favorite phrase.

  He follows with examples—anecdotes, metrics, names. He knows the industry. The grudges. The camps. The leverage.

  “We’re the first internet company to host annual awards,” he adds. “We help stars build fan organizations within HiTV user groups.”

  I ask about their current slate. He knows every title. Every plot. Every schedule. They run interactive pilots to test engagement before full production. He’s surgical with the numbers.

  He’s good. Possibly excellent.

  “How much is Hiting asking?”

  “Nine hundred eighty million.”

  I scoff. “In his dreams.”

  Then I lean forward, voice dropping. “Have you thought about what you’ll do after HiCreative is sold?”

  He says nothing. But his pupils dilate slightly—interest flickers behind his careful composure.

  "Have you considered leading Aladdin Entertainment Group? Overseeing YouQu and Aladdin Films?" I let the question settle.

  His eyes widen. Then sharpen.

  "Three hundred million," I say, my voice dropping to a blade's edge. "Get us that price, and it's yours. Four hundred million—you lead Aladdin Films. Anything beyond that?" I pause. "You're on your own."

  If he delivers, we save six hundred million and gain a CEO who knows the terrain. If he fails, he's revealed himself as expendable.

  He opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. I watch the deliberations scroll across his face—the betrayal, the ambition, the empire I’m offering. His fingers twitch against the leather portfolio. A bead of sweat slides down his temple.

  The silence stretches. His breathing shallows.

  Then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, he nods.

  "I'll need two weeks," he says, his voice steady but his knuckles white.

  I smile. Not warmly. "You have one."

  He stands, shoulders squaring as if bracing against a wind only he can feel. As he reaches the door, he turns back.

  "Miss Ma," he says quietly, "you're more dangerous than your reputation suggests."

  "Good," I reply. "Then you understand the stakes."

  The door clicks shut behind him.

  I turn to the window. Early summer heat shimmers over Beijing’s skyline—distorted waves rising from concrete and ambition.

  One week.

  Then I’ll know if Shao Zhang is a survivor.

  Or just another casualty.

  Either way, HiCreative will be mine.