Zheng Dong Breaks Down

The large screen in the monitoring center had gone black, but those glaring numbers still lingered in Zheng Dong's mind.

99.3%.

Negative sentiment accounted for 99.3%.

What does this mean? It means that out of every hundred discussions about Dongbei, ninety-nine are sarcastic, mocking, meme-worthy, or abusive. The remaining one might be from a paid troll or a random passerby.

Zheng Dong leaned back in his chair, his eyes closed. Beneath his eyelids was a patch of blood-red light, the afterimage left from staring at the screen for too long. A buzzing echoed in his ears—the comments, memes, and jokes playing automatically in his mind.

"I suggest Dongbei be renamed Dongjian."

"A one-year-old eats two-year-old broccoli."

"The Story of an Old Man from Northeast China Giving Away a House"

"Studying at a school for the mentally challenged."

Each word is like a needle, densely packed and piercing the nerves.

His phone vibrated on the table, buzzing incessantly. He knew without looking who was calling—a shareholder, a director, a supplier, a bank. The phone hadn't stopped ringing since yesterday afternoon.

He opened his eyes and reached out to press the mute button.

There was a soft knock on the office door, hesitant.

"Go in," Zheng Dong said, his voice hoarse.

Zhao Bin pushed open the door and came in, holding a tablet in his hand, his face ashen as if he had just crawled out of a graveyard. Behind him were Wang Qian from the legal department and Old Chen, the operations director. The three of them stood in front of the desk, none of them daring to speak first.

"Speak," Zheng Dong, staring at them.

Zhao Bin swallowed hard and handed over the tablet. "Chairman Zheng, this is... the latest public opinion data. Also, three more media outlets have just requested interviews, and two television stations want to do in-depth reports..."

"Push it." Zheng Dong interrupted him.

"I can't refuse." Zhao Bin's voice was barely audible. "They said if Dongbei doesn't agree to the interview, they'll do a special report based on the available information. One of them is... CCTV Finance Channel."

Zheng Dong's finger twitched slightly.

CCTV Finance. These four words struck him like a heavy hammer blow to the chest.

He recalled five years ago when Dongbei had just secured its second round of financing, and CCTV Finance conducted an exclusive interview with them. At that time, he was full of confidence and spoke eloquently to the camera, "Dongbei's core competitiveness lies in the four words 'freshly made.' We want every China person to be able to enjoy safe and fresh Chinese fast food."

The female reporter at the time asked with a smile, "Mr. Zheng, aren't you worried that as the business expands, the promise of 'freshly made' will be compromised?"

What was his answer?

"Absolutely not." He stated firmly, "Every Dongbei store has its own independent kitchen and professional chefs. Our central kitchen only handles preliminary processing; the core cooking must be completed at the store. This is our bottom line."

In the video, his gaze is firm, and his tone is sincere.

What about now?

Zheng Dong suddenly wanted to laugh. But he couldn't laugh; there was something hard and heavy stuck in his chest.

"Chairman Zheng," Old Chen began cautiously, "There's something else... This afternoon, the managers of four stores in the East China region resigned. They said... they couldn't hold on any longer. Customers are afraid to come in, daily sales are zero, and we still have to deal with all sorts of filming and interviews. And... and some employees are livestreaming the kitchen on Douyin, filming how we 'perform' our live cooking."

"Live broadcast?" Zheng Dong suddenly looked up. "Who gave permission?!"

"Nobody gave permission; they filmed it secretly themselves." Old Chen lowered his head. "I've already asked the regional manager to handle it, but the video is spreading very quickly. The comments section is full of people saying... that we 'can't even act properly.'"

Zheng Dong stared at him for a long time. Then he slowly leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

The office was deathly silent. The only sounds were the hissing of the air conditioner vents and the faint sound of traffic from the distant street.

My phone started vibrating again. This time it wasn't a call, but a barrage of WeChat message notifications, as dense as a machine gun.

Zheng Dong didn't move.

Zhao Bin mustered his courage and glanced at the screen—it was the shareholders' group. Messages kept popping up:

"Old Zheng, I saw the news! What happened? The stock price has dropped by 30%!"

"Chairman Zheng, the bank called to ask if we can repay our loan on time next month."

"Mr. Zheng, the board of directors is under a lot of pressure; several major shareholders are demanding a meeting tomorrow."

"Old Zheng, answer the phone!"

"Chairman Zheng, what's the situation right now? Give me a straight answer!"

Zheng Dong remained closed, but the veins on his forehead were throbbing. Once, twice, as if something was trying to burst out from them.

"Chairman Zheng," Wang Qian said softly, "The legal department received three lawyer's letters. All from consumers demanding compensation for 'false advertising.' Although the amounts aren't large, if we don't handle it, they might file a class-action lawsuit."

"Also," she paused, "The market supervision bureau also sent a letter, requesting that we provide the production records of our central kitchen and the food purchase ledgers for our stores. They said they've received numerous complaints and need to verify whether our 'freshly made' claim is true."

Zheng Dong finally opened his eyes.

His eyes were red and bloodshot, but his gaze was unusually calm, eerily calm.

"The ledger..." he repeated slowly, "Give it to them. Give them the ledger for the 'fresh ingredients purchase' section."

Wang Qian's expression changed. "Chairman Zheng, that part of the ledger... it's... it's been adjusted."

"I know," Zheng Dong said, "That's why we should give it to them even more. If we don't, it'll look like we're guilty. If we do, they won't find anything wrong, so it'll look like our report was false."

"But..."

"Do as I say." Zheng Dong interrupted her. "And those consumers, talk to them one by one, compensate them if they deserve it, and apologize if they need to. But the condition is that they sign a confidentiality agreement and withdraw their lawsuits."

Wang Qian opened her mouth, but finally nodded. "Yes."

"Zhao Bin." Zheng Dong looked at him.

Zhao Bin jumped up. "Chairman Zheng."

"Cancele all media interviews. Just say I'm not feeling well and need to rest. Public relations strategy... paused. Stop all positive publicity, let it go."

"Have a cold reception?" Zhao Bin was stunned. "But in this situation, if we just ignore it..."

"If we don't give it the cold shoulder, what else can we do?" Zheng Dong's voice was soft, but every word was like shards of ice. "Continue making up stories? Continue filming videos? Continue making a fool of ourselves?"

Zhao Bin fell silent.

Zheng Dong waved his hand. "Everyone, go out. I want to be alone for a while."

The three men, as if granted a pardon, quickly left the office. The door closed with a soft click.

Zheng Dong closed his eyes again.

Darkness. Pure darkness.

But in the darkness, those numbers, those comments, those bullet comments surged up again.

99.3%.

The daily turnover of the seven stores is less than three thousand.

The stock price fell by 30%.

CCTV Finance...

He suddenly felt a suffocating sensation, as if something was tightly constricting his chest, making it hard to breathe. He reached for his collar, trying to unbutton it, but his fingers trembled uncontrollably.

My vision started to go black, and my ears were ringing. My heart was pounding so hard it felt like it was going to jump out of my throat. Cold sweat broke out on my forehead, trickling down my cheeks and dripping onto my shirt collar.

He reached out with difficulty to grab his phone on the table, intending to call an ambulance. But as soon as he raised his hand, he slammed it heavily onto the table.

The phone was swept to the ground, and the screen shattered.

Zheng Dong lay face down on the table, panting heavily. Each breath felt like a burning pain, as if he had inhaled scalding sand.

He heard footsteps and voices outside the door, and then the door was pushed open.

"Chairman Zheng! Chairman Zheng, what's wrong?!"

It was the secretary's voice, filled with fear.

Then came more footsteps; someone helped him up, someone called 120 (the emergency number), and someone shouted, "Get the medicine!"

Zheng Dong wanted to speak, to say "I'm fine," but no sound came out. The last glimmer of light in his vision shrank little by little, becoming a tiny white dot, and then went out completely.

The ambulance siren sounded as it approached from afar, and then receded again.

Zheng Dong lay on the stretcher, his eyes open, but he couldn't see anything. He could only feel the vehicle bumping, feel someone pricking his arm with needles, feel the oxygen mask on his face, and smell the cold plastic.

"Blood pressure 190/110, heart rate 130, ECG shows ST segment elevation..."

"Prepare nitroglycerin and establish intravenous access..."

"Contact the hospital and prepare for expedited processing..."

The doctor's voice seemed to come from near and far.

Zheng Dong wondered, was he going to die?

That's fine.

If I die, I won't have to face those numbers, those comments, those calls from shareholders.

Once you're dead, you won't have to think about how Dongbei will survive.

If you're dead, you don't have to... admit you were wrong.

The ambulance turned a corner, and his body swayed. Then something slid down his cheek, warm and wet.

Are they tears?

He didn't know he still had tears.

Hospital, emergency room.

The monitor's ticking sound was regular and monotonous. Blood pressure, heart rate, blood oxygen saturation... a string of numbers jumped on the screen.

Zheng Dong lay on the hospital bed with an IV drip in his arm and an oxygen tube in his nose. He was awake, but didn't want to open his eyes.

He heard his wife sobbing softly by the bedside, and his son whispering on the phone, "Dad's fine, just too tired... Yes, high blood pressure, the doctor said he needs to rest..."

He also overheard the doctor outside the door telling the family, "These are early signs of an acute myocardial infarction. If you had come any later, it would have been dangerous. You must have absolute bed rest and cannot be subjected to any further stimulation. You must be very careful with your emotions."

mood.

Zheng Dong sneered inwardly.

What emotions does he still have? Anger? Despair? Regret? It seems like he has them all, and yet it seems like he has none of them. Only an empty numbness remains.

The ward door opened and closed, people came in and people went out. In the end, he was the only one left.

He slowly opened his eyes.

The ceiling was lit by stark white energy-saving lights, their glare blinding. He squinted, watching the liquid in the IV bag drip slowly, as slowly as time itself.

His phone vibrated on the bedside table—it was his backup phone. The screen was lit, displaying countless unread messages and missed calls.

He reached out, pulled out the oxygen tube, and sat up. His movements were slow, and with each movement, it felt like being struck in the chest with a blunt object.

Pick up your phone and unlock it.

At the top of my WeChat chat list is the shareholders' group. The latest message was five minutes ago. "How's Old Zheng? Is he awake? The board meeting must be held immediately, we can't wait any longer."

Below is Zhao Bin's private message: "Chairman Zheng, please get some rest. I'll hold things up at the company for now. I'll report to you again if there's any emergency."

Further down, there were greetings from several suppliers, interspersed with subtle reminders to pay.

There was also a text message from an unknown number. "Mr. Zheng, this is Lao Xu from ' Speaking Food Truthfully.' We have follow-up reports about Dongbei. If you'd like to be interviewed, we can talk."

Zheng Dong stared at the text message for a long time.

Then he deleted it.

He opened his contacts and found a number he hadn't dialed in a long time—a distant relative who worked in the judicial system. A few years ago, Dongbei had a labor dispute and had asked this person for help.

The phone rang seven or eight times before it was answered.

"Hello?" The voice on the other end sounded a little confused. "Who is this?"

"I am Zheng Dong," Zheng Dong said, his voice hoarse like a broken bellows.

"Mr. Zheng?" The other person was clearly surprised. "I heard you were hospitalized. How are you?"

"I won't die," Zheng Dong said. "Old Liu, there's something I'd like to ask you for help with."

"You said."

"Please help me find information about someone named Lin Feng, male, around 25 years old, who should live in S City. I need his detailed information, including his address, workplace, and social connections."

There was a few seconds of silence on the other end of the phone. "Mr. Zheng, this... is not in accordance with the rules."

"I understand the rules," Zheng Dong said. "Follow the rules, go through the proper procedures, and complete the necessary formalities. I just need... to speed things up a bit."

Another silence followed. Then the other person said, "I'll give it a try. But you have to tell me, why do you want to investigate this person?"

Zheng Dong looked out the window. It was already dark, and his pale, haggard face was reflected in the hospital window.

"He ruined my company," he said. "So, I'm going to talk to him."

At 11 p. m., only a small lamp was lit by the bedside in the ward.

Zheng Dong leaned back against the pillows, holding his phone. The screen displayed information his secretary had just sent— Lin Feng's photo, address, workplace, and license plate number. The photo was a screenshot from surveillance footage; it was a bit blurry, but you could clearly see the young, calm, and expressionless face.

It's this young man.

At the service area, I casually remarked, "It's normal for the quality to be a little lower."

And then, Dongbei became what it is today.

Zheng Dong stared at the photo, his fingers tracing patterns on the screen as if he wanted to crush the face through the glass.

But he didn't. He simply opened the dial pad and entered the phone number from the information.

My finger hovered over the dial button, pausing for a full minute.

Then press it.

The call connected. Beep--beep--beep--

Each waiting tone felt like a hammer blow to my heart.

The fourth tone indicates the call has been connected.

"Hello?" It was a young man's voice, calm and devoid of emotion.

Zheng Dong took a deep breath, only to find his voice trembling violently when he opened his mouth:

"Mr. Lin Zheng Dong? This is Zheng Dong from Dongbei Catering."