In the underground halls of Qin He’s private gallery, the air was colder than the rest of the building. Not by accident. Everything about the place was designed for control of temperature, of light, of access. Art here wasn’t just displayed; it was preserved, guarded, and, in some cases,hidden.
The security team never questioned the extra surveillance around Gallery 9. None dared ask why its entry logs were monitored separately or why Qin He alone had override access to that section. All they knew was that whoever entered it without clearance risked not just a job, but disappearance.
And yet, someone had entered. Twice.
Upstairs, in a boardroom cloaked in polished steel and dark marble, Qin He sat surrounded by directors of his vast media empire. Most of them spoke in careful tones, skating around topics too volatile to touch. But one, bolder than the rest, cleared his throat and dared.
“Sir, if I may be direct,” said Mr. Gao, an older executive with ties to one of the state news agencies, the rumors about your personal life are causing… tension. Investors are whispering. There’s speculation that...
“Finish your sentence,” Qin said without looking up.
Gao paused. Then slowly: “That your silence is confirmation.”
The room stilled. A few shifted uncomfortably. Lin Rui, standing by the door, closed his eyes briefly.
Qin He looked up. Not angry, nor even annoyed. Just calm.
“I built this company in silence,” he said slowly. “I let the world fill in their own stories. It made us billions.”
A beat passed.
“Now you’re afraid because they’re writing a story about me?”
The man didn’t answer; No one did.
Qin leaned back, fingers steepled. “Let them write. Just ensure none of them live off it.”
A soft click echoed as Qin stood, the final word hanging in the air like a blade.
Later that night, as the city dimmed under mist and moonlight, Qin He stood alone in Gallery 9.
He hadn’t turned on the lights.
Instead, the space was lit only by a soft glow coming from the security panel at the entrance, a silent record of movements.
The visitor had returned.
Same time, careful path and silence. As if they belonged there, yet knew they didn’t.
Qin stared at the record, his thumb brushing the edge of the touchscreen. He hadn’t deleted the log. He hadn’t increased the security. And that, to Lin Rui, had said more than any admission ever could.
Because Qin He had chased away lovers, partners, even business allies who came too close.
But not this one.
Not him.
The next morning, the tabloids erupted again. A grainy photo, blurry and overexposed, showed a tall male figure slipping out of a service entrance beneath Qin Media’s headquarters. No face. No context. Just shadows and speculation.
“Qin He’s Ghost Lover?” the headlines read. “Mystery Man Leaves the Dragon’s Den.”
And once again, by noon, the site was gone. The photo erased. The uploader suspended.
The silence was back.
But not for long.
Because someone else had seen the figure too, not in a photo, but in real time.
And he wasn’t part of Qin He’s empire.
He was watching from the outside, patient, dangerous, and unlike the rest of the world, he wasn’t looking for the story.
He was part of it.
And he wanted back in.
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