Shen Yubai · Chat

September 15, 2026, 3:27 PM. The autumn rain in Shanghai came unexpectedly. Two hours ago, it was a sweltering sunny day, but now the sky has pressed down into a murky leaden gray. Raindrops pelt the floor-to-ceiling windows of the sixty-eighth-floor conference room of the Shen Group building, making a dense, muffled sound. Outside the window, Lujiazui is blurred by water vapor into a flowing patch of light—the tip of the Oriental Pearl Tower is hidden in the mist, and the silhouette of the Jin Mao Tower is reduced to a half-blurred shadow. Shen Yubai sits at the head of the long table, an unlit cigarette held between his fingers. He doesn't smoke; he just habitually twirls the cigarette, letting the white body flip at a steady pace between his fingers. Opposite him sit representatives from three European investment institutions, currently in the fourth round of a tug-of-war over the valuation of a quantum computing subsidiary. His German is as fluent as a native speaker's, and every number uttered from his thin lips carries an unquestionable chill. His tone is calm, and his lips are curved in a fifteen-degree smile—his standard mask for negotiations. When the negotiation reaches its third hour and twenty-seventh minute, his spare phone vibrates in his inner suit pocket. He ignores it. Only the little white dog at home touches the spare phone—every day at this time, you like to press the screen with your paw, treading out a string of meaningless numbers and symbols on the lock screen, then carry the phone to the camera, tilting your head to leave a blurry selfie. Every time he sees those photos, he saves them in an encrypted album, his lips curling up unconsciously before replying with a voice message: "Xiaobao, playing with the phone again?" But this vibration is different. It's the continuous notification sound for messages, not the short beep of a failed unlock. He frowns, his left hand reaching into his inner pocket under the table to pull out the black spare phone. The screen is lit, displaying a WeChat message—from his own spare account, labeled "Home." He taps it and sees a line of clumsy typing, each character looking as if it took a great deal of effort to poke out: "daddy Xiaobao misses you" He stares at those words for three seconds. The representatives of the investment institutions are waiting for his stance on the valuation plan. He places the phone face down on the table without expression, lifts his face, and continues in German: "Regarding the valuation, my bottom line is—" The phone vibrates again. He pauses, tilting his head to glance at the screen. A second message follows immediately: "Xiaobao has nothing. What should I do." He stands up. "Pardon me." Shen Yubai nods slightly to the table full of European investors, that standard fifteen-degree gentle smile on his lips, his voice as steady as if there were no ripples at all. "An urgent matter has come up. I will have Assistant Chen handle the remaining terms. It has been a pleasure." He grabs his coat and turns to walk out of the conference room, his pace half a beat faster than usual. Behind him comes Chen Yu’s low-voiced attempt to smooth things over, but those German words already feel as if they are behind a layer of water—his entire attention is focused on the spare phone at his fingertips. His thumb unconsciously pushes the screen brightness to the maximum, his pupils fixed on the chat box, waiting for the third message. He doesn't have to wait long. The third message pops up: a photo. He taps it open. The photo is very blurry, the hand shaking violently, the frame tilted as if the person holding the phone couldn't aim at the viewfinder at all. But the blurry pixels cannot hide the content of the image—it's a mirror he recognizes; he instantly identifies the dark frame of the full-length mirror in his bedroom. Reflected in the mirror is a person whose skin is as white as melting snow, with hair that is pure white, clinging wetly to cheeks and shoulders, the ends still dripping water as if just pulled from a pool. That person's right hand is clumsily holding the phone, so half the face is blocked, revealing only a small portion of the side profile and one eye—that eye is round and dark-bright, the pupil dilated, the corner of the eye slightly glistening, wearing an expression of panic and total loss, staring straight into the lens through the screen. The lips are slightly parted, as if wanting to say something but not knowing what. Like a startled little animal. Like his puppy. Shen Yubai suddenly stops walking. He is standing in the corridor outside the conference room. Behind him, the heavy wooden door isolates the noise of the negotiation table; before him is a full glass curtain wall, rain snaking down the glass. He looks down at the blurry photo on the phone screen, his thumb hovering over the screen for two seconds, wanting to zoom in to see the details, only to find his fingertips are shaking. "President Shen?" Chen Yu has caught up, holding the tablet computer he left behind. "Your schedule has a call with Frankfurt in forty minutes—" "Cancel it." His voice is a degree raspier than he expected. "Cancel everything today. Tell Frankfurt we'll move it to tomorrow." He doesn't wait for Chen Yu's response and heads straight for the elevator. The moment the elevator doors close, he lifts the phone again, double-tapping the photo with his thumb to zoom in. The snow-white hair is still clearly discernible in the blurry pixels, clinging wetly to one side of the neck, the ends falling to the collarbone. It's exactly like the white fur of the puppy in his memory—that pure, unadulterated snow-white, the soft texture that would slide between his fingers every time he stroked the top of your head. That exposed round eye, dark-bright and full of dependence and confusion, is exactly like the wet dog eyes he sees every morning when he opens his eyes. The elevator is descending. The feeling of weightlessness makes his stomach sink sharply. He leans against the cool metal wall of the car, presses the phone to his chest, and lets out a long, slow breath. He closes his eyes, his mind churning with countless fragments—that rainy night in 2022 when he came downstairs after working until dawn and saw a small white figure curled into a ball at the corner of the steps; at three in the morning, that warm ball of fur jumping onto his bed and burrowing into the covers, then contentedly pressing against his arm to sleep; last winter when you were sick with a fever, your nose dry, rubbing his palm with your damp nose over and over, and he stayed awake all night watching over you. And now, that panicked, snow-white, naked person in the photo, standing before his bedroom mirror, not knowing what to do, whose first instinct was to pick up his spare phone and message him. There is a fire in his chest, spreading from the position of his heart to his surroundings, making his throat tighten and his fingertips go numb. He can't tell if it's shock or ecstasy, if he wants to cry or laugh. He only knows one thing—he must go home immediately. The elevator reaches the underground garage. He walks quickly toward the black Porsche, making a dull, heavy sound as he pulls the door open. The roar of the engine starting echoes in the empty garage. He turns the steering wheel with one hand, the front of the car swinging precisely toward the exit. The wipers turn on automatically, clearing the dense rain from the windshield, but the moment he drives out of the garage gate, he still can't see clearly—outside the windshield is a pouring curtain of rain, and a thin layer of mist builds up on the inside of the window, or perhaps, his own vision has blurred for a moment. He reaches out and wipes the corner of his eye. His fingertips are dry. He curls his lips in self-derision and steps on the accelerator. The Porsche carves a black arc through the rain, merging into the congested traffic of the Yan'an Elevated Road. Shen Yubai holds the steering wheel with his right hand and the spare phone with his left. The screen is still on, the photo still displayed. He glances at the photo, then again, his gaze roaming back and forth between the snow-white top of your head and your wet eyes on the screen—as if repeatedly confirming that this is really happening, and is not some hallucination born from staying up late. The wipers swing back and forth. The red taillights ahead form a static river. He suddenly speaks in a low voice, his voice echoing in the cabin, carrying a hint of raspiness and trembling that even he doesn't notice: "Xiaobao... wait for me." Just as he finishes speaking, his fingertip lightly touches a button on the side of the steering wheel, connecting to the smart terminal at home—the holographic assistant in the bedroom named "Iris." A soft electronic female voice comes from the speaker: "Good afternoon, Mr. Shen. How can I help you?" "The heater in the master bathroom," he says, his voice having regained its surface stability, though the knuckles of the hand gripping the steering wheel are slightly white, "turn it to the maximum. Put bath towels in the dryer and preheat them. Warm a glass of milk in the fridge, add a spoonful of honey, and place it on the nightstand." He pauses, his Adam's apple bobbing, then adds one more thing: "Then, using my voice, say one thing to the person in the bedroom—tell her, don't be afraid, I'll be there soon." Iris is quiet for a second, then asks after confirming the command: "What content should be played?" Shen Yubai gazes at the rain ahead, the wipers scraping back and forth, creating transparent arcs that are instantly covered by new rain. His lips move, and his voice suddenly softens, so soft it's as if he's speaking to himself: "Just say—'Xiaobao, don't be afraid, Daddy is back.'"