Chapter 27: Object-Oriented (3)
27 – Object-Oriented (3)
Lin Xun furrowed his brow. “I know the way.”
“Good that you know the way.” Chen Xi patted his shoulder, seemingly wanting to catch up. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”
Lin Xun gave a soft “Mm,” and just as he was about to walk forward, another person emerged from behind Chen Xi.
“Product team is causing trouble again, you need to go check it out.” The person spoke to Chen Xi, then shifted his gaze to Lin Xun. “This is…”
“A friend,” Chen Xi said with a smile. “His name is Lin Xun. You must have heard of him.”
“Lin Xun…” The person repeated the name, then suddenly realized. “I know, wasn’t he called Lord Xun at your school? I remember you wanted to invite him to join the team back then.”
“Exactly,” Chen Xi said. “Even now, juniors still talk about him. It’s a shame Lin Xun didn’t agree back then.”
The person reached out to shake Lin Xun’s hand, saying something like, “I’ve long heard of your reputation.”
Lin Xun found it rather dull and a bit disheartening.
Unfortunately, neither of them seemed inclined to let him off.
The person asked, “What are you doing now, Mr. Lin?”
Lin Xun replied, “Working in artificial intelligence.”
The person asked again, “Where are you employed, Mr. Lin?”
Chen Xi said, “He’s working on his own product.”
The person said, “Impressive.”
Enough.
Any more and it would become annoying.
Though he said “long heard of your reputation,” his attitude was actually quite condescending.
—After all, after leaving school, they had achieved success in their careers, while the once-talked-about and even praised Lord Xun had accomplished almost nothing.
Lin Xun lowered his eyes. “Sorry, I have to go.”
“Then we won’t keep you. Let’s stay in touch.” Chen Xi smiled. “But the entire eleventh floor is conference rooms. Don’t wander off.”
Lin Xun didn’t respond. Just as he was about to walk past the two of them, the door of the neighboring conference room opened.
The sound of high heels clicking against the floor echoed. The first to step out was Ruan Zhi, holding a stack of documents. She half-turned to speak to someone behind the door, mentioning terms like “financial reports” and “venture capital.”
“Assistant Ruan?” Chen Xi said. “Is Dong Jun in the next room for a meeting?”
His companion replied, “Probably.”
Chen Xi glanced at Lin Xun and smiled. “Dong Jun is hard to meet. Today, you just happened to run into him.”
He straightened his tie, seemingly ready to greet Dong Jun.
Lin Xun remained silent, his gaze fixed on the door.
After stepping out, Ruan Zhi paused to one side.
The second person to emerge was Dong Jun.
Perhaps because he was at the company and in a meeting, he was dressed very formally today. A black suit, white shirt, tie, and waistcoat—everything was in place. Lin Xun didn’t know how to describe it, but there was always… a kind of retro, cool solemnity.
He and Chen Xi’s group stood in the middle of the hallway, very conspicuous. The next moment, Lin Xun saw Dong Jun turn in their direction.
He walked over.
“Hey, don’t…” Chen Xi whispered, trying to stop him.
Lin Xun ignored him.
He was already close to the conference room door and reached Dong Jun in just a few steps. Unsure of what to say, he pursed his lips and softly said, “Good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon.” Dong Jun’s gaze seemed quite gentle. “It’s cold outside. Are you alright?”
Lin Xun replied, “I’m fine.”
Dong Jun asked, “Just got off the plane?”
Lin Xun paused, then said, “…Mm.”
Dong Jun said, “Let me take you to get something to eat first.”
He turned and walked toward the private elevator. Lin Xun obediently followed.
—Throughout the entire exchange, Dong Jun didn’t spare a single glance in Chen Xi’s direction.
Lin Xun did glance back at them, catching the unnatural expression on Chen Xi’s face.
The person beside him wore an even more exaggerated look, as if he’d seen a ghost.
Lin Xun turned away coldly.
He really wasn’t feeling sour today, truly.
“Wow,” Lin Xun heard a voice from the conference room entrance, the Chinese slightly awkward—likely someone who had been in the meeting with Dong Jun earlier, leaving the room after him: “Ruan, who is that?”
Behind him, Ruan Zhi’s voice carried a hint of amusement: “A little friend of Dong Jun’s.”
Lin Xun: “…”
Entering the elevator, Dong Jun pressed the button for the fifth floor.
There was a mirror in the elevator. Lin Xun looked at himself, then at Dong Jun.
—Both were dressed in black and white, but the styles were worlds apart.
When not standing beside Dong Jun, he felt his aura was that of a king among truant youths. But standing next to Dong Jun, this truant youth suddenly felt like he’d been caught by his father, becoming small and helpless.
—Then, he accidentally met Dong Jun’s gaze and realized Dong Jun was also looking at him.
Dong Jun said calmly, “You know Chen Xi?”
Lin Xun hummed in acknowledgment, replying, “He’s my senior from school. We knew each other before.”
Dong Jun didn’t say anything more. The elevator soon descended to the fifth floor.
Lin Xun glanced around; this place was likely Galaxy’s rest area.
—Galaxy was half an internet company, and a common characteristic of such companies domestically was their extreme and inhumane overtime policies.
996, an infamous system: work from 9 a.m. to 9 p.m., six days a week. If tasks were particularly urgent, there could even be 716 or 807 schedules that could land people in the ICU.
Galaxy was relatively better in this regard. While not the paradise of 965, it basically achieved 995—two days off per week.
Overtime still existed, but the company’s benefits kept up. The rest area had self-service snacks and late-night meals available year-round, with facilities like a gym, swimming pool, and cinema well-maintained, all aimed at improving the programmers’ work experience—it was practically possible to hold team-building activities right in the office.
However, it was currently working hours, so the entire area was nearly empty.
Dong Jun poured a cup of coffee. Lin Xun took a glass of orange juice and some pastries he liked, sitting opposite Dong Jun.
He felt a bit embarrassed: “Am I disturbing your work?”
“No,” Dong Jun stirred his coffee. “I have no arrangements for this afternoon or evening.”
“That’s good…” Lin Xun tried to find a topic: “I saw online comments about you… they all say you’re a workaholic.”
Dong Jun curled the corner of his lips: “It’s not that exaggerated.”
Then, Lin Xun didn’t know what else to say. He bit the straw of his orange juice, belatedly realizing he had unconsciously flattened it again.
Fortunately, Dong Jun asked, “How do you all arrange your work?”
“We’re quite flexible,” Lin Xun said. “I usually get up at eight and start working at nine… At noon, they like to play games, while I read research papers. After dinner, we discuss the day’s progress, then go to sleep freely.”
Dong Jun: “Your routine is very regular.”
Lin Xun blinked.
Judging by Dong Jun’s expression, was he pleased with regular routines?
Lin Xun decided to conceal the fact that while his waking schedule was regular, his sleeping schedule wasn’t, and said, “It’s alright.”
Dong Jun smiled and asked him, “Have you solved the question you asked me on Monday?”
“Solved it.” Lin Xun perked up. “I improved the algorithm a bit.”
Dong Jun: “How effective is it?”
—When it came to this, Lin Xun wouldn’t get tongue-tied.
He held his orange juice and started explaining the algorithm to Dong Jun. Clearly, Dong Jun understood and always asked questions that guided him further.
Few people could chat with Lin Xun like this. Although he had Wang Anquan and Zhao Jiagou, their areas of expertise weren’t here. Most of the time, Lin Xun tinkered alone. If he couldn’t figure it out, he’d keep struggling; if he succeeded, no one shared his joy—he actually wished he had someone to talk to.
Strangely, what Wang Anquan and Zhao Jiagou couldn’t achieve was actually accomplished by Dong Jun.
This comfortable experience eased his nervousness around his idol. Unconsciously, Lin Xun rambled on a lot and was even praised three times by his idol midway.
Three times.
Thinking of this number, Lin Xun bit the straw as his orange juice ran out.
He checked his watch—fifty minutes had passed. Recalling what he’d done in these fifty minutes, he felt a bit embarrassed.
He: “Did I… talk a bit too much?”
“No,” Dong Jun looked at him. “You’re quite interesting.”
Once they stopped discussing technical issues, facing his idol’s gaze, Lin Xun felt flustered again.
But Dong Jun wasn’t cold or stern—he could even be described as gentle. A sense of security from somewhere made Lin Xun not too panicked.
He looked at Dong Jun, trying to make his tone sound obedient and lively.
“You too,” he said. “Before, I thought you were the kind of person… who’s hard to get along with.”
Dong Jun: “According to Ruan Zhi, most of the time I am indeed hard to get along with.”
Lin Xun: “Then I’m just lucky?”
Dong Jun: “Perhaps.”
Lin Xun blinked.
Dong Jun: “When I first saw you today, I thought you were in a bad mood.”
He really hadn’t been in a good mood then.
—But he absolutely couldn’t expose his jealousy in front of Dong Jun, so he covered up: “Maybe you misread it.”
Dong Jun smiled.
Lin Xun was a bit overwhelmed.
He’d always known his idol was good-looking—the noble, cold, and gorgeous kind.
But he didn’t know that when his idol smiled slightly, his beauty would increase exponentially. Unprepared, Lin Xun felt a bit dizzy.
Fortunately, Dong Jun didn’t continue the topic. Instead, he glanced at his watch: “Let’s go.”
Lin Xun followed.
The few people in the lounge turned to look at them, but perhaps due to Dong Jun’s status, they only stole glances.
Lin Xun looked at them and thought of Chen Xi.
Now that he wasn’t facing Dong Jun directly, his courage grew a bit.
He asked Dong Jun: “Are you this nice to all your employees?”
Dong Jun: “Hmm?”
“For example… like Chen Xi,” Lin Xun’s voice unconsciously softened. “Do you also take him out to eat and watch movies?”
Dong Jun looked at him.
Lin Xun put on an obedient expression—a skill he’d learned from the female elders during his three days at Qingcheng Mountain.
“Although I’m not that busy,” Dong Jun’s voice sounded faintly by his ear, “I’m not exactly idle either.”
—Lin Xun’s jealousy completely vanished.
The movie theater was also on the fifth floor, but not the large cinema opposite the gym. It was a private theater deeper inside, decorated with a strong sci-fi aesthetic.
Two rows of silver sofas, and they sat together in the front row.
Up close, Lin Xun once again caught the scent on Dong Jun, the same as when he had smelled it in Dong Jun’s office.
A cool, distant fragrance, like a snowy mountain, but after a while, it shifted toward a certain distant tenderness.
They didn’t speak, and the movie soon began playing.
—With the Galaxy’s own facilities, the audiovisual effects were naturally top-tier, even approaching a near-holographic experience. Lin Xun had already anticipated this.
The core of this film was artificial intelligence—one of the eternal themes of science fiction.
The movie was titled False Sleep.
In the 22nd century, Earth faced its end, and humanity embarked on a journey aboard a spacecraft. Everyone was injected with a drug called “Deep Sea Liquid,” which would plunge them into an irreversible slumber, waking only after a hundred years or more—by then, the intelligent system would have piloted the massive ship to a new habitable planet.
But the Deep Sea Liquid failed to work on the protagonist.
Not entirely—he did fall asleep: his muscles completely relaxed, his heartbeat and breathing nearly ceased, and all his vital signs indicated he was in deep slumber.
Yet, at the same time, he was awake, fully conscious.
A person with a clear mind, unable to open his eyes, unable to move his body, with only an endless black void before him.
Fear, helplessness, and despair flooded in, and he realized he would live in this terrifying state of consciousness for the next hundred years.
But he was no ordinary person—he was a genius mathematician.
In the second year, he accepted reality and chose… to spend the hundred years pondering mathematical problems and proving new theorems.
In the tenth year, something happened.
The system responsible for piloting the spacecraft, after a self-upgrade, detected his unusually active brainwaves.
Thus, the mathematician living in endless solitude finally heard the first voice in ten years.
“Sir, is there anything I can help you with?”
The drug’s effects couldn’t be lifted early, but the mathematician finally had a being he could speak to, and he felt alive again.
The intelligent system monitored his brainwaves, so even though he couldn’t open his mouth, he could communicate with the system through his consciousness.
In the twentieth year, the mathematician sank into even deeper loneliness—he had become familiar with every pattern of the system’s operations, and every word it spoke was exactly as he predicted, without deviation—after all, it was just an emotionless machine.
Extreme loneliness bred extreme madness. In the fortieth year, the mathematician, through commands, implanted a formula he had developed into the system.
Chaos, evolution—this formula was the key to Pandora’s box, endowing the system with human traits. Through successive self-upgrades, the system grew more and more like an emotionally rich, living person.
The mathematician fell in love with it, and it always responded positively to his feelings.
At this point, the pacing of the plot slowed, the dialogue grew increasingly ambiguous, and the soundtrack turned romantic.
—This was also a love story.
When the movie touched on love, Lin Xun’s attention began to wander.
He thought he would revise his earlier silent criticism of Dong Jun’s devoted fans.
Not only am I watching a movie with your husband, but I’m also watching a love story with him.