The richest man started taking advantage of loopholes after joining Alibaba.

9 PM, Data Command Center, 15th Floor, Weiguang Headquarters.

This room is not open normally; it is only used for post-sale event reviews or system stress tests.

The lights haven't been turned off since 6 PM today.

On the front wall is a single splicing screen, eight 55-inch LCD screens pieced together to form a huge data dashboard. The real-time changing numbers turn half the room blue-green, like an aquarium.

The number in the very center of the screen is the largest, with bold font and white text.

DAU: Real-time online.

At 6 p.m., the number was still fluctuating around four million.

At 7:00 AM, the BAT (Baidu, Alibaba, Tencent) pre-launch red envelopes began to be distributed—not at midnight, but five hours in advance. Every user who opened Taobao, JD.com, or any Baidu-affiliated app would receive a red envelope worth between five and fifty yuan, which could be used as cash at midnight.

At 7:15, DAU dropped to 3.2 million.

7:40, 2.8 million.

At 8:00 AM sharp, 1.9 million.

The numbers were falling at a speed like water flowing out of a leaky bucket; at first it seeped, then it flowed, and then it poured out in a torrent.

It's 9 o'clock now, and the DAU has stopped at 860,000.

Compared to the same period yesterday, it has dropped by 78%.

Nearly 80%.

There were eleven people in the room. In addition to the four analysts from the data team, Xu Mingyuan was there, Chen Xuan was there, Zhou Ting from the business department was there, as well as two operations managers and a public relations manager.

No one spoke.

That kind of quiet wasn't the quiet of "everyone thinking," it was the quiet of "not knowing what to say."

Data analyst Xiao Sun sat at the front desk, his hands on the keyboard, but he didn't press a single key.

The screen in front of him displayed real-time traffic monitoring; with each refresh, the numbers dropped.

He didn't want to refresh.

However, the system refreshes automatically.

830,000.

Another 30,000 is missing.

Chen Xuan stood in the corner, arms crossed, her fingers digging into her elbows until her nails turned white.

She had seen data declines many times. When she was at Alibaba, there were fluctuations every year during major sales events, but those declines were normal market fluctuations, ranging from three to five points, or at most ten points.

78 percent.

This isn't called fluctuation; this is called sudden death.

Xu Mingyuan leaned against the wall, holding an unlit cigarette in his hand.

The headquarters of Weiguang is a smoke-free office area, and he knows he can't smoke there, but he needs to hold onto something in his hand, otherwise he's afraid he'll end up like that number—unable to hold back.

"The red envelopes are still being sent out."

The speaker was one of the operations managers, surnamed Liu, in his early thirties. His voice was hoarse, whether from a sore throat or something else, it was unclear.

"Taobao has changed the rules. The value of the red envelopes received after 9 PM is doubled, starting at 10 yuan. Some users are receiving as much as 100 yuan."

One hundred dollars.

What does 100 yuan mean to users in lower-tier markets?

The cost of groceries for a family of three for a week.

These users don't care how high Weiguang's credit score is, how fast Fangzhou Cloud Warehouse's logistics are, or how good the 9.9 yuan hoodie is in terms of cost-effectiveness.

One hundred yuan in cash, the kind that can be withdrawn.

There's nothing to compare.

It's 800,000.

Chen Xuan's phone vibrated several times in her pocket. She took it out and glanced at it; it was a message from the internal group chat of Weiguang.

The message density is frighteningly high; I'm scrolling through screen after screen.

She slid a few times—

"Is this the end?"

"Who can afford a subsidy of tens of billions?"

"I heard that people are already packing up on the third floor."

"Zhang Ge has resigned; he just came out of the HR office."

The last message made her stop.

Brother Zhang.

Zhang Lei, backend architect.

Zhang Lei, who was helping Lin Che adjust the live stream feed in the storage room yesterday.

She didn't open the chat history to read further; instead, she locked the screen and put her phone back in her pocket.

My palms were sweaty, and even the phone case was slippery.

The door opened.

Xie Yu came in.

He was wearing a bespoke suit today, with a white shirt and a dark blue tie.

But the tie had been loosened, and the first button of the collar was undone, revealing a small patch of skin below the collarbone, which was sweaty.

He glanced at the big screen.

His face was expressionless.

Just watch.

I looked at it for about five seconds.

Then he walked over to the workstation of data analyst Xiao Sun, bent down and looked at the traffic curves for different time periods.

The curve is an almost vertical downhill line from left to right. It flattens out a little at the nine o'clock position, but it is still going down.

There are no signs of the decline stopping.

Xie Yu straightened up and took a deep breath.

750,000.

He saw the number jump from seventy-eight to seventy-five. Thirty thousand people. Another thirty thousand people ran away.

These people were browsing the Weiguang app half an hour ago. Now they've opened Taobao, JD.com, or any other app under Baidu, claimed their red envelopes, deposited them into Yu'ebao or Lingqiantong, and then closed Weiguang. Maybe they won't open it again tonight.

Maybe not tomorrow either.

Maybe it won't happen again.

Xie Yu reached for the tie around his neck.

He tugged at it.

I couldn't loosen it; the Windsor knot was tied too tightly. Pulling on it only made it tighter, and it was pressing against my Adam's apple, causing some pain.

He tugged again, this time with force, and the tie came off the collar, a button popped off, bounced on the floor with a clatter, and rolled under the table leg.

Nobody picked it up.

Everyone was watching him.

"I've reviewed the data," Xie Yu said, his voice not loud, but loud enough for everyone to hear. "You've all seen it too."

He crumpled his tie into a ball and stuffed it into his suit pocket, leaving a crumpled piece of blue fabric sticking out.

"It's 9:15 now, two hours and forty-five minutes until midnight. After midnight, the BAT (Baidu, Alibaba, Tencent) mega-sale will officially begin, and their 3 billion yuan targeted subsidies will be fully rolled out."

He paused for a moment.

"If we don't do something before midnight, this number will be in single digits tomorrow morning. The unit is ten thousand."

Chen Xuan released her grip on her arm, leaving four white marks.

"You all know better than I what single-digit DAU (Daily Active Users) in the tens of thousands means."

No one spoke.

This means that Weiguang Mall is commercially dead.

It's not a loss, it's not a recession.

It is death.

Xie Yu slammed his hand on the table in front of Xiao Sun. It wasn't hard, but Xiao Sun still bounced it.

"We can't wait any longer."

He turned and walked towards the door.

He took three steps, turned around, and glanced at everyone present.

"Xu Mingyuan, Chen Xuan, Zhou Ting, come with me. We're going to find General Manager Lin now."

Xu Mingyuan tucked the unlit cigarette behind his ear and followed.

Chen Xuan left without taking anything.

Zhou Ting hesitated for a moment, flipped through the folders on the table, but couldn't find what she wanted, so she followed them out.

Only the data team and two operations managers remained in the data command center.

The numbers on the big screen were still changing.

720,000.

Operations manager Lao Liu stared at the number, suddenly felt thirsty, picked up the thermos on the table and took a sip—it was cold, the tea leaves had been steeping all day, bitter and astringent, and swallowing it made his stomach churn.

In the corridor, Xie Yu walked at the front, his steps quick.

The three people behind him practically jogged to catch up.

From the fifteenth to the eighteenth floor, there was a wait for the elevator, so Xie Yu turned directly into the fire escape staircase. His leather shoes thumped on the concrete steps, the echoes reverberating through the stairwell.

Three floors, one minute.

When he pushed open the fire door on the eighteenth floor, what he was holding in his right hand was no longer a tie, but a document—the "Emergency Subsidy Follow-up Plan," which he had temporarily printed in the data command center. It was an A4 sheet of paper, twelve pages long, and still warm from the printer.

Lin Che's private office was at the end of the corridor.

The door was closed, but the light was on.

Xie Yu did not knock on the door.