A Letter from Keanu Reeves

Over time, Fang Jian began to feel that Chen Wan was different from those two capitalists who reeked of money from head to toe. Unlike them, Chen Wan understood his academic achievements and research spirit. As a result, his attitude toward Chen Wan changed significantly. He even started tagging Chen Wan directly in the group chat whenever he had a great idea, regardless of whether it was 1 AM or 4 AM.

Zhao Shengge never spoke in the group chat, but whenever Fang Jian posted a new message, reported a new matter, or discussed a new proposal, he would immediately nudge Chen Wan.

Chen Wan seemed to always be online. At the slightest prompt—a simple “?”—he would immediately take on the role of Zhao Shengge’s dedicated, ever-responsive personal AI translator.

Of course, Minglong had its own technical team, and Zhao Shengge primarily oversaw the overall progress of the project, coordinating various parties and managing the big picture. However, seeing how seriously Zhao Shengge took the matter, Chen Wan did his best to explain Fang Jian’s proposals in a way that was both clear and accessible.

“Mr. Zhao, the principles Fang Jian is relying on are essentially like this. The winter ocean currents are an uncontrollable variable, so we should finalize this before November.”

“Mm.”

“Alright. If you have any questions, feel free to reach out to me anytime.”

“Am I bothering you?”

Chen Wan was highly responsible. “One must serve loyally when paid by the sovereign.”

Zhao Shengge seemed to chuckle lightly. “Chen Wan.”

Chen Wan’s fingers tightened slightly.

“I’m not the kind of employer who exploits his employees.”

“…”

Zhao Shengge added considerately, “If you’re busy, you don’t have to reply immediately.” He never demanded that Chen Wan respond to him instantly.

But Chen Wan was someone who always responded.

The voice calls began because Zhao Shengge disliked inefficient communication. Given the frequency of their conversations, their exchanges were starting to rival those between Chen Wan and Zhuo Zhixuan.

Zhao Shengge’s call requests carried an air of dominance, ringing insistently and catching Chen Wan off guard.

In Chen Wan’s social understanding, only people who were particularly close would make voice calls at any time.

Feeling uncertain, Chen Wan answered in a composed tone. “Mr. Zhao.”

“Chen Wan.” Zhao Shengge responded, then fell silent.

The call suddenly grew quiet, with only the sound of their breathing passing through the line—sometimes in sync, sometimes offset. Zhao Shengge’s breath was low and steady, but Chen Wan felt something intangible, like an electric current, burning through his mind. Yet, Zhao Shengge still didn’t speak, so he had no choice but to say, “Mr. Zhao, let me explain the force structure of the offshore tunnel support system.”

“Go ahead,” Zhao Shengge replied, his voice low and magnetic.

Chen Wan forced himself to focus and began his formal explanation. Halfway through, Zhao Shengge interrupted, “Chen Wan, someone’s calling you.”

Caught up in his explanation, Chen Wan hadn’t noticed. He turned around and said, “Oh, it’s my colleague. It’s mealtime.”

“Mm. Then go eat.”

Chen Wan replied, “It’s fine. Let’s finish discussing this part first. Or do you want to eat first?”

Zhao Shengge said, “You go eat. We’ll talk in the afternoon.”

It took Chen Wan a few seconds to process the meaning behind that sentence. Did it mean they would have another voice call in the afternoon? He immediately responded, “Okay.”

Zhao Shengge said, “I have two meetings in the afternoon, one from 2:40 to 3:20, and another from 5:00 to 6:00. My evening is free.”

“?” Chen Wan couldn’t react immediately.

Hearing no reply, Zhao Shengge asked in a businesslike tone, “When are you available?”

For some reason, Chen Wan found himself reporting his own schedule. “I have to go to the securities building at 2:30, which should take about half an hour. Then, at 3:15, I’ll go over the design drafts again with my team, which should take around forty minutes. I’ll upload them to our group by 4:30. At 4:30, I have a client meeting, which should last about an hour. After that, I’m free.”

Only after speaking did he realize he had been overly detailed. To maintain professionalism, he quickly visualized a timeline in his head and added, “So our available time slots overlap between 3:45 and 4:30, as well as after 5:30.”

“Alright. Expect my call.”

Maintaining a professional tone, Chen Wan replied, “Okay, Mr. Zhao.” He swallowed the instinct to add, “I’ll wait for your call.”

After hanging up, Chen Wan spaced out for a moment, feeling a complicated mix of emotions.

Of course, he was happy to be able to talk with Zhao Shengge, but he also felt confused and slightly overwhelmed, like he had been struck by an unexpected windfall.

He had never imagined he would have such frequent and close contact with Zhao Shengge, even if it was all strictly business.

Their conversations consisted mostly of extensive discussions about ocean current movement theories, tree diagrams, and economic data points. It was hard to find a single casual exchange, let alone anything as warm as a “good morning” or “good night.”

Even if someone found Chen Wan’s lost phone one day, they would probably assume the chat logs belonged to two workaholic colleagues or a superior-subordinate relationship filled with formal exchanges.

But Chen Wan seemed to have developed a habit of frequently checking his phone, making sure he didn’t miss any new messages from Zhao Shengge. He wanted to provide the fastest and most thorough responses to any of Zhao Shengge’s queries.

At the start of the new week, the Baoli Bay project received a self-inspection recommendation letter from the environmental association regarding marine pollution indicators.

Fang Jian was furious and ranted in the group chat: “I can guarantee that our model’s data adheres to international standards. These environmental regulators are just a bunch of outsiders trying to lecture professionals.”

“…” Xu Zhiying responded, “They’ve implemented new regulations. If we don’t comply, the next step will be a yellow card warning, which will delay the project.”

Fang Jian replied bluntly, “There’s nothing to change. Their new standards are unreasonable.”

“…” Geniuses always had a bit of a temper. The group chat usually relied on Chen Wan to play the role of mediator and bridge-builder. He carefully reviewed the flagged violations in the recommendation letter and smoothed things over: “This isn’t difficult. We can optimize a few data points. Balancing efficiency and environmental compliance from both a business and technical perspective is achievable. I’ll handle this review—it won’t take long.”

Xu Zhiying took the opportunity to ease the tension. “Then I’ll have someone on my end handle PR.”

Zhao Shengge waited until they had finished discussing before raising a few questions. After the meeting ended, he said, “Chen Wan, stay behind.”

Fang Jian had a strong temper and a fiery personality. Zhao Shengge felt that communicating with someone still caught up in their emotions was highly inefficient. When faced with a problem, he preferred to confront the core issue head-on and resolve it quickly, rather than waste time on anything that did not contribute to solving the problem.

Zhao Shengge expressed his perspective.

“Mr. Zhao, I don’t quite agree with directly replacing the equipment,” Chen Wan didn’t always share the same views as Zhao Shengge and would voice his thoughts openly. “The maritime environment is inherently unstable, and inconsistent monitoring variables would only lead to greater errors.”

Zhao Shengge pointed out, “The recommendation letter specifies a deadline. This is the most efficient solution.”

Chen Wan provided a well-reasoned response: “But it could have long-term consequences.” Then he added, “Actually, there are ways to make them less rigid about the rules.”

After saying that, Chen Wan slightly regretted it—he didn’t want Zhao Shengge to think he was someone who relied on underhanded, opportunistic tactics.

Zhao Shengge raised an eyebrow but didn’t indicate agreement or disagreement. Instead, he told Chen Wan to log off and rest.

Chen Wan figured that after he logged off, Zhao Shengge would continue working—possibly even pulling an all-nighter. However, he didn’t attempt to dissuade him since he had overtime work to do as well.

For the next period, in order to meet the environmental association’s standards, Fang Jian’s team developed a new composite modeling system. Since voice calls were insufficient for such discussions due to inefficiency, work-related exchanges between Chen Wan and Zhao Shengge increasingly turned into video meetings.

Thus, it felt as though Chen Wan had obtained an exclusive pass to observe Zhao Shengge up close. Though this analogy made it sound like Zhao Shengge was some rare species on Earth, Chen Wan felt the comparison was not entirely unwarranted.

This was a globally unique pass, granting access to work-related interactions and requiring considerable luck to obtain.

For example, when Zhao Shengge forgot to turn off his camera after a video meeting, Chen Wan had the opportunity to see him at work.

If this were a live broadcast, Chen Wan would have gladly donated money—he could watch for an entire day and would undoubtedly be the top supporter.

But since it was free, he only watched for a short while before pretending to realize he hadn’t logged off and quickly turned off his camera.

Every week, Fang Jian released new data, and the two would connect for discussions.

Zhao Shengge and Chen Wan weren’t always speaking during these meetings. Often, the only sounds coming through the headset were the rustling of papers and the clicking of a mouse.

Occasionally, Chen Wan could hear him telling his assistant, “The tea is too strong,” or “I won’t eat for now.”

Once, during a video call, Chen Wan was too focused. When he looked up, he was suddenly met with a close-up of Zhao Shengge’s strikingly handsome face. The other man was gazing down at him, and since they were both too close to the camera, the moment was even more heart-stopping than if they had been face-to-face in real life.

Chen Wan maintained a composed expression as he subtly leaned back before asking, “Mr. Zhao, is there something you need me to explain?”

Zhao Shengge would then ask him some questions.

Like a thief, Chen Wan greedily memorized every subtle expression, every unconscious habit of Zhao Shengge with precision. Yet, he never once overstepped boundaries.

He never initiated small talk with Zhao Shengge, never used the opportunity to ask about his well-being. Every interaction was strictly professional, as though he were giving a remote work report to a superior.

Perhaps it was because he grew up in the cutthroat Chen family, constantly bullied and suppressed, that he was naturally drawn to strength. Chen Wan believed that a man at work, in certain moments, was even more attractive than in bed.

Zhao Shengge’s almost machine-like precision and rigor in his work, the dominance and ambition embedded in his very bones, were the reasons Minglong’s market value had surged by over sixty percent within five years of his leadership.

Of course, Zhao Shengge wasn’t perfect—Chen Wan had long since realized this. The man could be dictatorial, controlling, and had many… rather peculiar requests.

For example, during one video meeting, Zhao Shengge asked, “Do you mind if I record the screen? So I can review it later.”

Official video meetings were always recorded for documentation purposes, so Chen Wan had no objections. He only thought that if Zhao Shengge had informed him in advance, he might have dressed a little more formally instead of wearing a casual knitted sweater—since it was the weekend and he had no plans to go out.

Additionally, Zhao Shengge exhibited a rather “do as I say, not as I do” attitude when it came to his workaholic tendencies.

Fang Jian’s model was built with students from Columbia University, so their video meetings often disregarded time zones, leading to chaotic schedules. Zhao Shengge himself could operate like a machine without rest, but he disliked seeing Chen Wan pull all-nighters.

“Chen Wan, go to sleep.”

If Chen Wan was caught online after agreeing to rest, Zhao Shengge would ignore him, refusing to acknowledge him no matter how many times he asked questions—an unbearably frustrating punishment.

During video calls, Zhao Shengge seemed to prefer Chen Wan sitting in certain specific positions.

If at home, he liked him to sit in the sunlit study.

If at the office, he seemed to prefer Chen Wan seated at the spacious desk, never with his back to the light.

“Chen Wan, too far. I can’t see you.”

Chen Wan would then move closer to the camera, hoping Zhao Shengge wouldn’t notice the dark circles under his eyes from staying up late the night before.

“Chen Wan, the lighting on your side is too dim.”

Yet, on his own screen, Zhao Shengge always sat far away. While this allowed Chen Wan to see his surroundings, he wished Zhao Shengge would move closer so he could clearly see his face.

But Zhao Shengge remained leaning against his chair, watching him from a distance, making no effort to come closer.

Chen Wan couldn’t make out his expression—he could only hear his voice.

“Chen Wan, turn up the volume.”

“Or move closer when you speak.”

“…Oh, okay.”

Each time this happened, Chen Wan would feel an indescribable, almost eerie sensation.

He believed he was the one carefully observing, capturing, and memorizing every one of Zhao Shengge’s habits and traits.

Yet, he seemed to forget—if Zhao Shengge didn’t want anyone to notice something, then no one in this world would be able to perceive it.

Chen Wan also forgot that when one stares at someone for too long, they themselves are being watched in return.