After breaking up with my boyfriend, I made a fortune and rose rapidly in my career.

The day after submitting his application for medical retirement, Chen Pingfang sat at his desk in the Policy Research Office, spread out an A4 sheet of paper, and wrote a title: "Building a Clean and Refreshing Relationship Between Government and Business, Breaking Down the 'Clique Culture'".

He spent three days developing this article.

It's not an academic paper, nor an internal reference; it's a commentator's article. Published on the front page of the *Sujiang Daily*, it's signed "Commentator of this newspaper."

Commentary articles in provincial newspapers have a nickname in Jiangsu's political climate: "weathervane." Whoever is in the eye of the storm becomes a target.

The article doesn't name anyone, but each paragraph describes a phenomenon: retired leaders weave networks of vested interests through their former secretaries and subordinates, exerting covert interference in the approval of major projects and personnel arrangements; some serving officials use "respect for veteran comrades" as a pretext to transfer benefits, resulting in the long-term loss of state-owned assets.

Two thousand words, four sections, and three case studies. The details of the case studies closely match real events that have occurred in Sujiang's life over the past twenty years; those who are knowledgeable will recognize them immediately.

When the manuscript was sent to the Provincial Party Committee's Publicity Department, the Minister of Publicity personally called.

"Put it flat, this draft is very impactful. Has the provincial party committee's top leaders reviewed it?"

"The Party Secretary has seen it."

There was a two-second pause on the other end of the phone. "I'll arrange the front page tomorrow."

The article was published on a Tuesday.

At nine o'clock in the morning, the newspaper racks on each floor of the provincial government building were crowded with people. Chen Pingfang looked down from the sixth-floor window and could see groups of two or three people in the courtyard whispering to each other while holding newspapers.

No one dared to openly discuss the article's target, but no one was unable to understand it.

On Wednesday, the second article was published: "Prevent 'retirement without rest' and ensure that power is handed over in the sunlight."

This one is even harsher than the first. It directly quotes three typical cases reported by the Central Commission for Discipline Inspection last year, then shifts its focus to Su Jiang: "In recent years, the phenomenon of 'shadow decision-makers' has emerged in some areas of our province. The real decision-makers on some major issues are not current leaders, but former leaders who have already left their posts. This phenomenon seriously undermines the Party's organizational discipline..."

The phrase "shadow decision-maker" exploded in various WeChat groups of provincial government departments that very day.

Who is the shadow? No need to guess.

The two articles, published 24 hours apart, were a coordinated attack. The public outcry ignited, and the provincial discipline inspection commission responded simultaneously.

Cheng Yuan acted faster than Wen Zhang.

On the very night the Standing Committee voted to approve the resolution, the Provincial Commission for Discipline Inspection established a special task force. Within seven days, eleven provincial-level officials were simultaneously summoned for questioning.

Chen Ping didn't ask about the first batch of names, but the news leaked out through various channels. Lin Zhenghai, former deputy director of the Provincial State-owned Assets Supervision and Administration Commission, was detained; Deng Guohua, former deputy director of the Provincial Department of Science and Technology, was detained; and Ma Wenchang, former chairman of the Provincial Expressway Group, was detained.

The three men have one thing in common: they were all promoted by Zhou Dingbang during his time in power.

The day Lin Zhenghai was taken away, he was reportedly watering his plants in his office. Two young disciplinary officials pushed open the door, showed him the detention order, and Lin Zhenghai placed the watering can on the windowsill, took out a pack of cigarettes from his drawer, smoked half of one, stubbed it out, and left. He didn't say a word the entire time.

Deng Guohua reacted more strongly. He yelled at Cheng Yuan on the phone for three minutes, ending with, "You can investigate me, but you can't touch Old Zhou!"

Cheng Yuan reportedly only replied with five words: "You just wait and see."

By the tenth day, all eleven people had been captured.

The news spread faster than anyone expected within the provincial system. Zhou Dingbang's network of relationships, cultivated over twenty years, was severed at its root.

Chen Pingfang wasn't in the mood for celebration. He brewed a pot of tea in his office, opened the newspaper beside him, and stared at the two articles he had written for a long time.

Words are the gentlest weapon, and also the most precise scalpel.

On Thursday afternoon, an unexpected phone call came into Chen Pingfang's landline.

The nurses' station in the VIP ward of the Provincial Military Region General Hospital.

"Excuse me, are you Secretary-General Chen? Comrade Zhou Dingbang would like to meet with you."

Chen Ping put down his teacup.

"Who arranged this?"

"It was proposed by Mr. Zhou himself. His family also agreed."

Chen Ping remained silent for a few seconds.

I'll go tomorrow morning.

After hanging up the phone, he opened the drawer, took out a piece of white paper with the following written on it: Su Gong (Gengchen) Criminal Retrial Case No. 0037. One corner of the paper was already creased.

He folded the paper and put it back.

The next morning at ten o'clock, Chen Ping didn't drive directly to the Provincial Military Region General Hospital. Instead, he went to the flower and bird market first.

The flower and bird market in the south of the city was old, with rows and rows of stalls, and the air smelled mixed. Chen Ping stopped in front of a stall selling orchids.

"Boss, do you have Cymbidium goeringii?"

The owner was an old man in his sixties. He looked up at him and then took out a potted plant from the corner.

The flower has long leaves and is growing quite well; there's also moss around the edge of the flowerpot.

Chen Ping squatted down and casually glanced at the potted flower.

There used to be seven pots of orchids on the windowsill of my father's study.

There were various varieties, but Song Mei alone had three pots. My mother said that every time my father finished writing his report, he would stand by the window for a while and spray water on the orchid leaves with a small spray bottle.

How much is this pot?

"You have good taste. Three hundred."

Chen Ping paid the money, placed the flowerpot on the passenger seat, fastened his seatbelt, and started the car.

The VIP ward area of ​​the Provincial Military Region General Hospital is located on the sixth floor of the inpatient department. It is accessible by a private elevator, and the corridor is covered with light gray carpet, so there is no sound when you step on it.

Registration at the nurses' station, identity verification, and checks on accompanying personnel—all by myself, without a secretary or driver.

The door to VIP room number six was ajar.

Chen Ping pushed open the door and went in.

The ward was large. A semi-transparent gauze curtain was drawn in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, letting in sunlight that cast a thin layer of light on the floor. The hospital bed was placed against the window, and the monitor next to it flickered at a steady pace.

Zhou Dingbang leaned against the headboard, wearing a blue and white striped hospital gown.

The person I saw twenty days ago in the study at No. 17 Wutong Road has shrunk considerably. His shoulders are slumped, the skin on his neck is loose and bunched up, and his hair is completely white.

On the bedside table sat a glass of water, a pair of reading glasses, and a cell phone that was turned off.

There were no flowers, no fruit baskets, and no gifts.

Twenty days ago, the door to this ward must have been lined with people waiting to visit. Bureau chiefs, municipal party secretaries, and state-owned enterprise executives, one after another.

The corridor is empty now.

Power is a thing that brings utmost respect when it arrives, but leaves behind only chaos when it departs.

Chen Ping placed the flowerpot on the windowsill, directly facing the French windows.

Zhou Dingbang's gaze lingered on the orchid for a long time.

"Song Mei".

Her voice was terribly hoarse, and her breathing was weak; she was a completely different person from the last time we met.

Chen Ping pulled up a chair and sat down on the edge of the bed.

"My father loved growing orchids the most. There were seven pots on the windowsill, three of which were Songmei orchids."

Zhou Dingbang remained silent. The ticking of the monitor filled the silence between them.

"The year he left, my mother moved all seven pots of orchids to the balcony. The following spring, six of them died. Only one, the Songmei orchid, survived."

Chen Ping placed his hands on his knees, his ten fingers outstretched.

"Later, that pot also died. My mother said it was because we didn't have time to move it indoors before winter, and the roots rotted after a frost overnight."

The potted plum tree on the windowsill was bathed in sunlight, its narrow, long leaves slightly bent, with a drop of water hanging at the tip.

Zhou Dingbang's Adam's apple bobbed. His withered hand emerged from under the covers and rested on the edge of the bed, his knuckles bending one by one.

Lay it flat.

"Um."

"I've seen your dad's report."

The monitor jumped slightly, then returned to a steady speed.

Chen Ping didn't reply. He sat upright in the chair, his hands folded on his knees, completely still.

Zhou Dingbang turned his head, his cloudy gaze passing over Chen Pingfang's shoulder and landing on the potted Song Plum on the windowsill.

Her lips twitched twice, and she managed to squeeze out a broken sentence.

"10.9 billion... Back then, it wasn't something I could have swallowed all by myself."

The ward was silent for three seconds.

Chen Ping leaned forward half an inch.

"So, who else?"

The drop of water from the tip of the plum leaf on the windowsill finally fell, hitting the edge of the ceramic basin and breaking into a small ring of water stains.

Zhou Dingbang's lips moved again.