Brian Carter remained silent. When a cup of freshly brewed tea was placed in front of him, he reached out to pick it up, but his hand trembled as if afraid of being scalded, spilling tea onto the “Certificate of Approval for Issuing Savings Bonds” that was spread out beside him.

The national economy had already suffered heavy blows. Once the savings bonds were issued, all the major newspapers would release news of their value multiplying several times over. After amassing a large amount of funds, these savings bonds would depreciate to the point of becoming worthless—a pile of waste paper.

Once Fuhua Bank signed, it would mean becoming a lackey deceiving the people.

A few drops of tea splashed onto the back of his hand, reddening the skin. Brian Carter forgot the process of negotiation; he only remembered that every second felt unbearably long.

When the cold, dark muzzle of a gun pressed against his temple, he closed his eyes.

Bang!

Suddenly, Brian Carter jolted awake.

Cold sweat from his forehead soaked a patch of the pillow. He stared stiffly at the ceiling, breathing heavily, all traces of sleep gone.

He had narrowly escaped disaster at that infamous banquet, but in the occasional nightmare, he was always startled awake by the sound of gunfire by his ear.

Beep—his phone rang.

Brian Carter pulled himself from his thoughts and opened his phone to see a WeChat message from William Clark, asking when they could meet again.

He stared blankly at the screen. Last night, he’d listened to William Clark talk about many things concerning “Brian Carter”—absurd, yet vivid. Unfortunately, fate is unpredictable, catching people off guard even more than nightmares.

Colleagues who were on the yacht at the time said that “Brian Carter” was dead drunk that night and was carried to his room; when everyone fled, no one had time to look after him.

Eleanor Parker heard in the hospital that “Brian Carter” was on the verge of death. She never imagined it was from drowning—she thought he’d been seriously injured in an explosion.

Most likely, the real “Brian Carter” perished in the fire, his body never recovered.

Brian Carter got out of bed and walked to his desk, opened his computer, and searched for cemeteries around the city. He wanted to find a resting place for that lost life.

After jotting down the information, Brian Carter sat in his room in silence until the incense in the burner burned out.

At dusk, a small delivery truck drove through the gate. The deliveryman unloaded a waist-high wooden crate. Mrs. Carter stood in the yard, troubled, not knowing where to put it.

Brian Carter went downstairs to take a look. The crate was pried open, revealing a pristine white art sculpture inside.

He asked, “Was this purchased?”

Mrs. Carter replied, “It belonged to your father.”

Eric Carter had loved collecting sculptures during his lifetime. After his death, almost all his collections were donated. This one was his favorite and had always been displayed at Ethan’s conference center.

As the founder’s cherished possession, it was most fitting as a memento. Brian Carter asked, “Why was it sent home?”

Mrs. Carter said, “It seems Ethan is moving into Henry Bennett’s campus. Some people will go over first. Your Uncle Thompson said it wouldn’t be appropriate to place this in Henry Bennett, so it was sent back.”

Brian Carter was taken aback—Ethan was moving into Henry Bennett?

The pure white sculpture was bathed in the orange-red glow of the sunset, both sacred and enchanting.

Without it, the people of Ethan would no longer be reminded of him by this object. How long would it take for them to forget Eric Carter?

Once they moved into Henry Bennett and became a subsidiary, how much longer could the name “Ethan” survive in the industry?

Brian Carter stood in the corridor and dialed Samuel Bennett’s number.

It rang seven or eight times before being answered. Brian Carter said, “Mr. Bennett, my bag is in your car.”

Samuel Bennett: “I know.”

Brian Carter asked, “Are you available tonight? I’d like to come by and pick it up.”

Samuel Bennett said, “I’ll give it to you at work next week.”

There were many inconveniences at the company. Brian Carter kept his tone restrained, sounding especially earnest: “I can’t wait. There’s something very important in the bag. Please.”

Samuel Bennett paused for a few seconds. “Eight o’clock. Come to my apartment.”

After hanging up, Brian Carter received the address from Samuel Bennett. He saved it and, upon entering the house, was called to the kitchen by Sophie.

A pot of fragrant soup had just been taken off the stove. Sophie said it was an old recipe, very effective—after drinking it, he’d sleep warmly through the night.

Brian Carter didn’t understand what effect it was supposed to have. The old housekeeper was a Buddhist and said he had a karmic connection to Zen. After turning eighteen, he’d eaten vegetarian four days a week for years.

The soup was mainly made with meat, refined and expensive. Brian Carter felt he couldn’t enjoy such a blessing. Then he thought, it would be rude to show up empty-handed, so he asked Sophie to pack it in a thermos, planning to use it as a gift.

At five minutes to eight, Brian Carter got out of the car in front of the “Bowmanja” apartment building.

The area bustled with prosperity and noise, but he didn’t have time to look around. He followed a resident’s private butler up to the fortieth floor.

Samuel Bennett lived in unit A. When he opened the door, the morning’s anger had mostly dissipated. He said calmly, “Come in.”

Brian Carter nodded and entered. The spacious apartment was tastefully decorated, and the brilliant chandelier in the living room made every detail stand out. He lifted the thermos and said, “I wasn’t sure what to bring, so I made some soup this evening. It’s for a late-night snack.”

There were four or five restaurants of different cuisines in the building, offering 24-hour room service. Samuel Bennett rarely cooked and had almost forgotten what home-cooked food tasted like.

He accepted Brian Carter’s gesture and said, “Just put it on the coffee table.”

There was a stack of documents on the marble coffee table. Brian Carter walked over to set down the thermos and saw the words “Letter of Recommendation for Admission” printed on the papers.

As far as he knew, Samuel Bennett was unmarried and had no children.