Chapter 3
The farewell dinner for the employees was set at our usual hole-in-the-wall restaurant. Over 20 people crammed into the greasy plastic tent. The young guys from R&D brought two cases of beer, while the marketing girls strung up kebabs with teary eyes. No one mentioned the company’s closure—it was as if this was just a regular team dinner. “Try this, sir,” Emma said, putting a grilled chicken wing on my plate. “You’re too thin.” I forced myself to take a bite, but my stomach immediately revolted. As I rushed to the restroom, I heard someone whisper behind me: “The boss has been throwing up more and more frequently these past six months…” The man in the mirror was deathly pale, with traces of blood at the corners of his mouth. I splashed cold water on my face, suddenly remembering my 20th birthday. Olivia had snuck into my office to make longevity noodles, but ended up setting off the smoke alarm. Her face had been smeared with flour as she frantically tried to turn off the stove—so much more adorable than the polished business executive on the LED screen now. When I returned to the table, everyone was already drunk. The HR director, Old Wang, swayed to his feet, raising his glass. “When Thompson Group went bankrupt, it was the boss who shouldered all the debts alone, not letting us end up on the streets… This toast is to Mr. Thompson!” The clinking of glasses rose in waves. Someone started crying. I tilted my head back and downed my beer. The icy liquid burned my ulcerated esophagus, making my fingertips tremble with pain. Emma was the last to leave. She insisted on helping me clean out my office, but I knew she was just worried about me. “This is for you,” she said, handing me a manila envelope. “Your medical report from the hospital last month… I took the liberty of picking it up.” The envelope was light, but it felt like it was crushing my chest. The shadows on the CT scan had spread much further than six months ago, like a net slowly tightening. “Thank you,” I said, feeding the documents into the shredder. “Starting tomorrow, report to Foster Group.” Emma’s head snapped up. “What did you say?” “I recommended you as Olivia’s new assistant,” I said. The shredder’s noise covered my coughing. “She needs someone reliable by her side.” “I won’t go!” Emma’s usually gentle voice suddenly rose. “You know how she’s been targeting you all these years! Those projects, those clients… 88 times now! She’s trying to drive you to your death!” The shredder stopped with a click. The office fell deathly silent. I gazed out at the night sky and said softly: “88 is a good number.”