The elevator climbs with agonizing slowness, each floor a torment. The polished metal doors reflect my face—tight with guilt, eyes burning with dread. I’m the one who coaxed Erjuan to write the exposé. I expected blowback: censorship, pressure, maybe a buyout. But not this. Not abduction. In the heart of Shanghai.

  It coils in my chest—tight, suffocating. This is on me.

  The elevator dings. I step into a hallway bathed in sterile light, glass fixtures gleaming like ice. I reach her penthouse and knock sharply, then harder when no immediate response come.

  The door swings open. John stands there, grim. He leads me into a living room that mirrors its owner: precise, restrained, curated. Minimalist furniture. A few oil paintings. International awards lined up like silent witnesses.

  Erjuan sits on a charcoal sofa, her posture rigid, her face carved in fury and disbelief. Tear tracks streak her cheeks, but her eyes are clear—acute, focused. A journalist in crisis mode.

  “Anything new?” I ask.

  John shakes his head.

  “Where did it happen?”

  “Chunting left the office at 9:15. I got the call at 9:36. It had to be the parking lot.” Though her voice wavers slightly, her words come out clear and precise.

  “There must be cameras in the garage.”

  “They said they’ll kill him if I tell anyone.”

  That’s the problem. The investigation isn’t the hard part. It’s surviving the next hour.

  “Did they give you a deadline? To retract and apologize?”

  “10:30.” She checks her phone. I glance at mine. 10:01. I open TechSpeed’s homepage. The exposé is still live.

  “Do you believe them?”

  She shakes her head. “But I’m not willing to test them.”

  “Is it a mobile number?” John asks.

  She nods, showing him the call log. 15386669764.

  John dials a number. “Huaping, I need a favor.”

  “Anything you need, John.”

  “Can you trace a number, 15386669764?”

  A pause. “Give me twenty minutes. I need to get back to the office.”

  “We don’t have twenty minutes. I’ll owe you.”

  Another pause. “Five minutes. I’ll call someone.”

  “We need to take the articles down,” I blurt out with desperate urgency. “Buy time. Get Chunting back.”

  "It's not that simple. They've been republished by over a hundred outlets. Retraction means notifying every one of them. It’ll take hours at this time of night. And the entire industry will know I backed down on my reporting."

  “Then take the whole site offline,” John says, his voice sharp and decisive.

  I nod. It’s the right move. Blame it on a cyberattack. HiTV has the motive. If Me-Tiny is behind this, they might doubt it—but they won’t be able to confirm.

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

  Erjuan hesitates, then calls her IT team. Five minutes later, both sites are down.

  10:12.

  John’s phone rings. He puts it on speaker. Huaping.

  "The number's off-grid. But the last ping was at 9:36 near Shanghai Dream Center. It was bouncing between towers, moving southwest."

  “Keep watching. It might come back.” John says.

  “Only for you, John.” Huaping replies.

  “I won't forget this.”

  John hangs up.

  “Our office is in Dream Center,” Erjuan says.

  “Southwest, that's Minhang District. Maybe Qibao or Maqiao. Old industrial zones. Many abandoned warehouses there.” I grew up near there.

  “When they call back, keep them talking,” John asserts. “We might get a fix.”

  “They asked for three million. I’ll work that angle.” She pauses. “But without police… what can we do? These people are ruthless.”

  We both look at John. He has the reach.

  And John understands our expetant look.

  “I need some privacy.” he says.

  We know what that means. He’s calling Jianhua Xiao.

  Erjuan leads him to her home office and closes the door from outside.

  She returns to the sofa. I turn to her, voice low. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know they’d go this far.”

  “I made the choice,” she says. “You gave me the lead. That's all. I chose to write it.”

  “That’s generous of you,” I say, admiringly. “Most people would be blaming the world, falling apart. You’re holding steady.”

  She smiles bitterly. “It’s the job. We watch others face crisis every day. Eventually, you learn how to stand in the fire.”

  “Whoever is behind this, must have underestimated you. Temporary retraction is useless to them.” I state, my voice unwavering but emphatic.

  This is psychological warfare. They want her scared. Broken. Always looking over her shoulder. Never daring to cross them again. But she isn't intimidated.

  Her eyes flare with resolve. “You’re right. When Chunting comes back, I’ll tell the world what they did.”

  The office door opens. John’s face says it all. Jianhua won’t help.

  “Maybe Claire?” I offer.

  “Not for this,” John says. “She has influence, but this is different.”

  It's a delicate situation. Me-Tiny must have protection inside the police. Otherwise, they wouldn’t dare. With all the surveillance in the Republic, they’d be found in hours—unless someone’s shielding them.

  To go above that protection, we’d need political capital far beyond what businessmen can summon.

  “Unless we’re absolutely sure, we can’t risk letting more people know.” Erjuan agrees with John. “Chunting's life is on the line.”

  I nod. But I remember Sonora’s words. Mengshu can help.

  Before I can bring it up, another phone rings.

  It’s Erjuan’s.

  Her face freezes. 10:20. The abductor is early.

  She puts it on speaker.

  “What’s going on with your sites? Don’t try anything stupid. Your man’s in our hands.” The voice is gravel and steel, each word a threat.

  “I should be asking you,” Erjuan fires back. “First you abduct Chunting, now you break my site?”

  The man hesitates. He wasn’t expecting resistance.

  “I got your money.” she says, seizing the moment. “If you want it, restore our site.”

  “What money?” He growls.

  “You asked for it. Three million. I’ve got it. Cash.” Erjuan answers. “Fix the sites. Return Chunting, I’ll do the exchange.”

  “It's not us.” The man spits. “Fix it yourself! If I don't see your retraction by 11:00, his corpse will be at your door.”

  “What about the money?”

  “Retract first.” He hangs up.

  Erjuan raises her head, her eyes like cold flint.

  A chill crawls up my spine. Something doesn't feel right—something just beyond my grasp. But at least we've bought precious minutes.

  I suppress the dread clawing at my ribs, and ask Erjuan. “I know someone who might help. She’s in the business of discretion. It’s your call.”

  “Who is she?” John asks.

  “Mengshu,” I reply, my voice tight with tension. “She works at the Little Red Mansion.”

  “What’s that?” Erjuan asks, brow furrowed.

  “You don't want to know.” John smiles. “And don’t write about it. Otherwise, it won’t be just abductions.”

  He turns to me. “She definitely can help, if she’s willing.”

  Erjuan’s eyes light up. A flicker of hope. She studies me, then nods.

  “Can I make the call from your office?” I ask.

  She leads me to the same room John used—clean lines, rosewood desk, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Shanghai skyline.

  I dial the number Sonora gave me.

  Mengshu answers.

  She recognizes my voice instantly. “David. I thought you’d never call me,” she purrs.

  “I need help. Sonora said you could.”

  Her tone shifts. “What’s happened?”

  I give her the short version.

  “I saw the article. It's brilliant. I’m a fan of Erjuan,” she says. “I can’t promise anything. But wait for my call.”

  I step out.

  Erjuan’s face is full of expectation.

  “She can’t guarantee,” I explain. “But she’ll try.”

  Her expression dims, but the hope remains.

  And now we wait.

  10:35.

  Twenty-five minutes to the new deadline.

  And somewhere in Shanghai, a man’s life ticks toward zero.