Against the Algorithm

Chapter 51: When the World Went Quiet

Yue let out a strained laugh. "Nope. Got it. Secret. Not saying a word. Mum's the word. I didn't even read the box. I don't even know how to spell Riot anymore."

Sheng gave a faint, low whistle. "I've never seen him retreat this fast."

Lan sipped her tea, serene as ever. "Good. Then perhaps he's finally learning self-preservation."

Yao didn't speak again. She just turned slowly back toward the table, looked down at the documents—and muttered under her breath again. "I really, really want a drink."

Lan didn't need to be asked. The moment she saw the pale cast to Yao's face and the way her fingers hovered just slightly above the edge of the fifth box, trembling from the weight of it all—power, legacy, expectation—she rose to her feet with the cool precision of a woman who had already anticipated the next ten steps before anyone else had taken the first. She turned to Sheng, not even speaking aloud at first, just meeting his eyes with a silent command.

Sheng, for once, didn't crack a joke. He gave a small nod, rose, and together the two of them slipped from the viewing room in a quiet, fluid movement—already moving to secure someone within the bank who could provide a proper travel safe. Something with reinforced casing. Protected. Sealed. Something worthy of carrying the pieces of a legacy Xu Roulan had built stone by stone and hidden until the right hands could carry it.

Meanwhile, inside the room, Yao stood in front of the open fifth box, her arms folded in front of her like a fragile shield, her breathing shallow. The cool air of the private vault room did nothing to calm the flush that had crept up the back of her neck or the knot that had settled hard in her chest. She hadn't touched the papers again. Hadn't moved. Not since the letter to her mother's unknown heir—her future—had led to the unraveling of an entire empire now sitting under her fingertips.

Sicheng stood silently beside her, not crowding, not hovering—but present, his attention fixed solely on her. He could see it—the too-quiet fall of her shoulders, the subtle way she was drawing inward. She was processing. She wasn't backing down, not breaking—but the sheer volume of everything left her at the edge of collapse. And so he spoke, quiet and certain. "My spare office safe is empty."

Yao blinked slowly, eyes lifting toward him.

"It's fireproof, digital lock, no access but me. It'll hold everything—documents, keys, that jewelry if you want it kept away for now. Until we figure out how you want it all stored properly." He paused, then added, "It's already yours if you need it."

The muscles in her jaw shifted slightly, her head bowing again—not in submission, but in sheer emotional fatigue. She stared at the table for another long moment, then finally spoke, her voice quiet and stretched thin. "Can we go back?"

Sicheng's brow furrowed slightly.

Her fingers curled against her arm, eyes cast down again. "To the suite," she whispered. "Please."

Sicheng didn't respond with words yet. He stepped closer, gently reached out, and placed his hand at the small of her back—not guiding, just there, warm and grounding. "Yeah," he murmured. "Let's go."

And just like that, she moved. Not with strength. But with trust. Because in that moment, going back didn't mean running. It meant she had someone to walk with her into the quiet—so she could breathe again.

The moment they stepped back into the quiet of the Palace Suite, the weight Yao had been carrying visibly settled onto her shoulders in full. She didn't need to say a word—her silence was louder than any breakdown, her exhaustion pressed into every small movement as she slipped off her boots and stepped out of her jacket with methodical slowness.