Against the Algorithm

Chapter 19: The Cost of Chaos

Yue, still holding the card he'd tried to use to buy snacks earlier— tried , and failed, because the machine had beeped rudely and the clerk had looked at him like he was a broke university student instead of a multi-million-yuan-sponsored pro—let out a slow, pained exhale. "Not anymore, apparently."

The silence that followed was thick , a kind of communal grief that settled into the room with the weight of a funeral, as if they had all just realized that their lives were no longer theirs, that something far more powerful had been activated above their heads, and there would be no reprieve.

Then, finally, Pang—still recovering from his earlier financial slaughter at Yao's hands, still rubbing his temples like the headache of defeat hadn't left him—lifted his eyes, his voice low, solemn, utterly crushed beneath the weight of the moment as he whispered, almost reverently, "Xiǎo Jiějiě... actually won."

And that was the truth of it.

The brutal, undeniable, salt-in-the-wound truth. She hadn't done anything. She hadn't raised her voice. She hadn't called in a favor. She hadn't even known . All she had done was exist. Exist, and be fiercely, unquestioningly loved by a woman so terrifying that even Sicheng—the son , the heir , the goddamn CEO —couldn't override her authority once she had made her decision.

There had been no discussion.

No appeals.

No delays.

Just silence... and then absolute economic annihilation .

They were broke.

All of them.

Not just Ming or Lao K or Pang anymore. Not just the fools who thought they could pout their way out of pay dock. Now it was Yue , the bratty younger brother who was used to being untouchable. Now it was Sicheng , the Captain, the man who sat at the top of the pyramid, who had watched others suffer with cool detachment and assumed he'd never see the bottom himself. Now it was everyone . And as the room settled into that quiet, collective realization, as the full weight of their financial ruin descended upon them like the gentle hush of a final curtain, Yao—seated quietly at her desk, headphones in, sipping tea, completely unaware of the carnage that bore her name—tapped gently at her keyboard and hummed softly to herself.

Across the room, Sicheng closed his eyes for a long moment, drew in a sharp, slow breath, and exhaled through his teeth.

Because this?

This was Madam Lu's version of affection.

And the price of loving Yao?

Was bankruptcy.

Yao had woken up that morning with the rare kind of lightness in her chest that came only after something painful had finally begun to heal, the kind that came not from euphoria or sudden happiness but from quiet peace, the kind that settled softly in her bones and whispered that it was okay to let her shoulders drop, that it was okay to breathe, that she didn't have to brace herself for the next sharp edge of misunderstanding or misstep. It was the kind of mood that was fragile but radiant, something that glowed at the edges of her normally hesitant demeanor and softened her movements, and it clung to her as she dressed, as she brushed out her hair, as she made her way toward the stairs with the full, hesitant hope that maybe—just maybe—today would be simple. Calm. Maybe she'd even suggest, once training was done, that they go out together, do something as a team again, just for fun.