With thunderous applause still ringing behind him, Jack Young pulled out his phone: "Hey, Bobby Brooks, it's me. I think it's time I did something serious. Also—" He glanced back at the rehearsal hall, the image of that red-haired woman flashing before his eyes. "I met someone today. Something's off about her. Get someone to dig into her background right away."
After Jack Young left, the applause in the rehearsal hall lingered for a long time before finally fading. During that performance, every listener had tensed up, holding their breath throughout. By the time the music ended, even the audience was drenched in sweat, panting heavily as if they'd just run a marathon.
Up on the second floor, the red-haired soprano glanced at her assistant, who immediately handed her a tablet. On the screen were two photos: one of Jack Young playing piano just now, and another from Donald’s deserted island base. On the highest helipad, a martial artist struck with deadly force, shattering the Green Tyrant to dust—a scene frozen in time.
When the red-haired woman saw the photo, she stopped breathing for a moment.
"Miss, these two men look very similar. But after skeletal analysis, the probability that they're the same person is only twenty-five percent," her assistant whispered. "The man today has a different bone structure—more balanced, more perfect."
"Not the same person?" The red-haired woman let out a noncommittal hum, a sly smile tugging at her lips. "Don’t jump to conclusions. We're pioneers in the study of 'unknowable' phenomena—we must observe with an 'unknowable' perspective. Fine, let’s keep it open for now. Keep a close watch. If he is, then he’s the best 'unknowable' subject we’ve found. But regardless—" She tossed the tablet back and looked down at the orchestra. "For my next performance, I need that man to be present."
"Uh?" Her assistant hesitated, then ventured, "Miss, your identity is just a cover—do you really mean to perform yourself?"
"Hmm?" The woman clearly couldn’t tolerate being questioned. She turned her gaze on him, her brows knitting, her red eyes burning like hellfire. The assistant shuddered all over, wishing he could slap himself. Idiot! When this iron lady gives an order, just follow it—why bother talking back? Did he want to get himself shot?
"Tell the orchestra leader: if that man doesn’t show up, I won’t perform." With a sharp turn, her cloak billowed behind her as she strode away, every step ringing out with iron resolve.
I, Phaffis Zade, walk my own path—no explanation needed.
The next day, at the entrance of the Shangri-La Hotel, a white stretch Rolls-Royce pulled up. The car instantly drew every guest’s gaze—it was just that luxurious. Some couldn’t resist pulling out their phones, hoping to snap a selfie and show off online.
But then, several men in black came over and ushered everyone back to a safe distance, leaving them to gawk and drool from afar.
Soon, a group emerged from the hotel. Leading a team of high-level managers, Bobby Brooks was right at Jack Young’s side, attending to every detail. Today, Jack strode out in a perfectly tailored business suit, his long hair loose behind him. Though he wore a pair of business glasses, they did nothing to hide the hint of aggression in his eyes.
Jack Young today was a far cry from his usual self. Every step radiated a subtle but undeniable sharpness—like a man heading into a duel.
"Your Highness, please!" Bobby Brooks opened the car door, and Jack Young climbed in without hesitation. One by one, the rest of the group entered their vehicles, the sound of doors slamming echoing as bystanders drooled—every single car was a luxury ride. Even in Shanghai, a convoy like this was a rare sight. Surrounded by business vehicles, the white stretch Rolls-Royce rolled out in style.
Sitting inside, Jack Young casually flipped through the documents in his hand.
"Is this guy the reason the project negotiations stalled?" Jack Young picked out a photo and studied it, a meaningful smile playing on his lips. "So he’s the one blocking our way?"
"Yeah, that’s him. He’s the bidding manager at Eternal Enterprise Group, and he’s got quite a bit of power at headquarters," Bobby Brooks rattled off the intel. "He’s only thirty, but in the last six months he’s shot up the ranks at lightning speed. From a regular office worker to department head—his rise is legendary."
"Hmph, young and successful, huh?" Jack Young flipped through the papers, his tone cool. "He’s just a bidding manager—at the end of the day, he still has to approve bids. What makes him think he can block our way?"
"I’m puzzled too. Everything was fine, then suddenly the situation changed. Normally, the bidding process wouldn’t let him drag things out, but they just got a new CEO, and he’s using that as an excuse to stall." Bobby Brooks pulled out another file. "The new CEO supposedly had an accident recently, just finished rehab and came back to the company. So..."
"So, he went from calling the shots to being a nobody. And I, from a nobody, became the one in charge. Good. Very good." Jack Young narrowed his eyes, gazing out the window, his voice somewhere between a mutter and a declaration, full of meaning. "A rising star in business? A young prodigy? Bobby, you should thank him."
"Huh?" Bobby Brooks was confused. "Why?"
"Because I wasn’t interested in this before, but now—" Jack Young snapped the photo onto the pile. "Small world, huh? Thanks to him, I’m fired up! Let’s go—today, I’ll meet you properly, Minister Zhu!"
Sure enough, the man in the photo—dressed sharp in a suit—was Zhu Ming.
Small world, indeed.