Against the Algorithm

Chapter 33: The Lines We Draw Quietly

Sicheng didn't respond. He didn't need to. His silence said it all.

"I want names," she said next. "Full. Legal. I want employment history, financials, everything. And Cheng'er—"

He already knew what was coming.

"—this does not leave our hands. There will be no press. No spectacle. No noise. We do this quietly. Thoroughly. Irreversibly." She paused, her voice suddenly cold enough to freeze stone. "They will lose everything. "

And just like that, he could see it happening in his mind's eye—his mother in her estate office, already pulling files, already drafting letters, already reaching out to her legal teams and private investigators. Because there was no force more terrifying than a mother protecting what she considered hers. And Lu Wang Lan had already decided—Yao was family.

"You will not speak of this to her." she added, tone sharp. "Not yet. Not until I've dismantled them so thoroughly, they'll be lucky to afford their own guilt. "

"I wasn't planning to," he murmured, his jaw tight. "Not until she's safe. Completely."

"Good boy." came her reply. But there was nothing soft in it. Only pride. And war.

And then, before hanging up—

"Make sure she sleeps tonight, Cheng'er. She'll need her strength. And so will you. Because when this ends... she'll need someone to tell her how close she came. And you'll need to be strong enough to hold her through it."

The line went dead.

And Lu Sicheng leaned back in his chair, the screen before him forgotten, the shadows stretching long across the floor.

Because the war had begun.

And the Lu family?

Did not lose.

Da Bing did not move.

Not a twitch, not a shift, not even a slow blink of those sharp, glacial eyes as Lu Sicheng set the grocery bags on the marble island and started unpacking with the kind of silent efficiency that only came from someone who was used to precision—both in games and in life. The cat just watched him, perched regally from the middle tier of the tallest cat tree in the corner like some ancient deity guarding his domain, tail curled neatly, the faintest flick of disapproval twitching through the tufted tip every time a vegetable rustled too loud.

Sicheng glanced over once as he removed a carton of broth and a carefully wrapped package of thinly sliced beef.

Da Bing didn't blink.

"Don't start," he muttered, turning back toward the counter. "Your mother worked out, she's sore, and I'm not about to let her eat microwave leftovers just because she'd forget to eat while doing data projections."

Still no movement.

Just that same unsettling stillness—like Da Bing was silently evaluating him.

Again.

Sicheng let out a soft huff of air through his nose and reached into one of the bags for the enoki mushrooms, setting them beside the thinly sliced tofu and the neatly packed greens Jinyang had insisted were the kind Yao liked best.

Hotpot. But made with a homemade base. Low sodium. Balanced spice. Heavy with umami. The kind of meal that filled the space not just with flavor but comfort, the kind of thing she would never ask for but always seemed to crave when she didn't feel at her best.