Against the Algorithm

Chapter 16: Countermeasures

"Mn."

Another pause.

Then—a sharp, deliberate exhale, his jaw tightening just slightly.

"Tell Jinyang to stop pushing men onto her. Tell her to stop interfering. And you—stop whining like she owes you anything. She doesn't."

The silence that followed was thick.

Yao stood frozen beside him, her face now fully flushed, fingers gripping the hem of the hoodie she was drowning in.

Ai Jia's voice came back, but it was quieter now. "...Did she tell you to say this?"

Sicheng's lips curled, his smirk sharp and cold. "No. But you're lucky she didn't. Because I wouldn't have been as polite if she had." And with that, he ended the call. No more words. No parting pleasantries. He flipped the phone once in his hand, then held it out to her.

She took it slowly, still wide-eyed. "You—You just—"

He shrugged casually. "He was annoying me."

"That—That's not the point!" Her voice cracked slightly, flustered and mortified. "I was handling it!"

He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossing over his chest. "No, you were tolerating it. There's a difference."

"I would've told him off eventually!" she huffed, puffing up in that way she did when she was desperately trying to reclaim control.

"Sure. Eventually."

She groaned again, burying her face in her hands before trying to retreat into her apartment—but his voice stopped her.

"I came to talk to you."

She froze.

Her hands stilled. Her shoulders tensed. Slowly, she turned back toward him. "...About what?"

"My smoking."

Her throat tightened. Her fingers curled.

And when he met her eyes, there was no teasing in his gaze. No smirk. Just steady, firm truth. "I figured we should clear the air."

That... That stopped her in her tracks. Because she knew what that meant. He wasn't here to brush it off. He wasn't here to defend himself. He wasn't here to charm his way out of it. He was here to talk. And for Yao, who had spent years being dismissed, sidestepped, overlooked—that was enough. So she nodded. Small. Careful. And stepped aside. Letting him in.

Sicheng stepped inside, his presence filling the space with the same quiet dominance it always carried—not heavy, not demanding, just there, like a weight she couldn't ignore even if she wanted to. He didn't move to sit. He didn't lean on furniture. He simply stood by the entrance, watching her with an unreadable gaze as Yao shifted slightly, almost unconsciously pulling the oversized hoodie tighter around herself, retreating into the safety of familiar fabric and muted comfort. She didn't speak. Didn't ask why he was there. But her posture—tense, hesitant, bracing—said everything. And he wasn't here to fight. Wasn't here to deflect or dismiss. He was here to say what needed to be said—because that look she'd given him earlier, the one threaded through with disbelief and disappointment, had stayed with him.

He exhaled slowly, fingers tapping once against the doorframe before he spoke, his voice even. "I know you don't like it."

Yao blinked, surprised by the bluntness, her eyes flicking up to meet his for the first time since he entered. She didn't respond, not verbally, but her silence wasn't defiant. She was listening.