Chapter 10 The First Date Disaster

In Chengdu, the concept of a “date” is often less about romantic chemistry and more about a strategic evaluation of one’s tolerance for capsaicin and social embarrassment. For Lin Feng, whose internal battery was permanently hovering at 4%, the prospect of a dinner that required both a clean shirt and a functioning personality was a localized tragedy.

He stood at the mouth of a narrow, soot-stained alleyway in the Kuixinglou Street area, checking his watch. 6:58 PM. He had chosen a “fly restaurant”—a cangying guanzi—called The Honorable Gristle. It was a place that looked like it had been constructed entirely out of rusted corrugated iron and the collective prayers of local foodies.

“If she wanted a conversation without a clipboard, she’s going to get a conversation over a plastic table that wobbles like a C-sharp minor scale,” Lin Feng muttered, adjusting his collar. He had picked this spot for its “Low-Expectation Face”. If the restaurant looked like a disaster, he wouldn’t be expected to act like a hero.

At 7:02 PM, Su Meili appeared.

She had actually kept her promise. The navy-blue power suit was gone, replaced by a dark emerald silk wrap dress that managed to look both elegant and sharp enough to defend itself in a corporate raid. Her hair was down, falling in waves that didn’t look like they were being held hostage by a hairnet for the first time in a decade.

“You chose a place that doesn’t have a floor,” Meili said, stepping over a small puddle of mystery liquid with the precision of a mountain goat.

“It has a floor, Meili. It’s just buried under three decades of authentic Chengdu ‘Slow Life’ residue,” Lin Feng replied, pulling out a plastic stool for her with his foot. “Sit. The Mapo Tofu here is legendary. It’s so spicy it doesn’t just burn your tongue; it audits your past mistakes”.

Meili sat, her knees nearly touching the underside of the tiny table. She looked around at the “996” workers sitting nearby—haggard men in white shirts who were currently burying their sorrows in bowls of Dan Dan noodles—and the retirees who were shouting over a game of Mahjong three tables down.

“It’s… loud,” she noted, her lawyer-brain clearly searching for a structural flaw to exploit.

“It’s the sound of social equilibrium,” Lin Feng said, waving down a waiter who was wearing a stained undershirt and a cigarette tucked behind his ear. “No one here is thinking about mergers, injunctions, or Swiss billionaires. They’re only thinking about whether the tripe is crunchy enough”.

They ordered: Mapo Tofu, dry-fried green beans with minced pork, and a double portion of “Husband and Wife” Lung Slices. For a few minutes, there was a tentative silence—the kind of silence that usually precedes a judge’s gavel hitting the bench.

“So,” Meili said, leaning forward, her eyes catching the flickering neon light of a nearby “Spicy Lotus” advertisement. “How does it feel to be a ‘hero of the state,’ Liaison Lin?”.

“It feels like I’ve been scammed by the universe,” Lin Feng said, pouring her a cup of lukewarm tea from a plastic kettle. “I spent years perfecting the art of doing absolutely nothing. Now, I have a badge that requires me to be a ‘Guardian of the Threshold’ every time a dignitary wants to play dress-up. It’s a 100% decrease in nap-time optimization”.

Meili laughed, a genuine sound that almost got lost in the clatter of Mahjong tiles. “You complain, but you’re good at it. You saved the Red Dragon merger. You saved Hans from a lawsuit. And you saved me from having to explain to my clients why their lawyer was being haunted by a ‘Billionaire Librarian'”.

“I didn’t save you, Meili. I just redirected the chaos,” Lin Feng said, his deadpan voice softening just a fraction. “The ‘Chaos Couple’ is still a disaster waiting to happen. Wang Bao is currently trying to learn Swiss-German because he thinks it’ll make you respect his ‘Global Face'”.

Mentioning Wang Bao was a tactical error. The moment his name left Lin Feng’s lips, a shadow fell over the table.

“Lin Ge! Meili! What a coincidence!”

Lin Feng froze. He didn’t need to look up to know that the “Face-Saving” gods had decided to take a giant, spicy dump on his evening.

Wang “Little” Bao was standing there, wearing a shimmering white suit that made him look like a low-budget pop star who had been lost at sea. Behind him stood four men in delivery uniforms, each holding a massive, glowing LED sign.

“Bao,” Lin Feng said, his forehead hitting the plastic table with a dull thud. “Why are you here? And why do those signs have my face on them?”.

“I’m here to help!” Bao beamed, ignoring the look of pure, legal fury forming on Su Meili’s face. “Hans gave me his ‘Strategic Romance’ guide! He said that in Zurich, when a hero goes on a date, his friends must provide ‘Narrative Support Face’!”.

Bao signaled to the delivery men. They lifted the LED signs.

SIGN 1: THE GUARDIAN OF THE THRESHOLD.

SIGN 2: SAVIOR OF THE SWISS.

SIGN 3: A MAN OF HIGH IQ AND DEEP MELANCHOLY.

SIGN 4: WOULD YOU LIKE TO MERGE WITH HIM?

The entire restaurant went silent. The Mahjong players stopped mid-shuffle. The “996” workers looked up from their noodles, their eyes wide with a mix of pity and admiration.

“Bao,” Meili said, her voice vibrating with the frequency of an impending restraining order. “If you don’t turn those signs off in three seconds, I am going to subpoena your entire family’s hotpot recipe database”.

“But it’s a ‘First Date Protocol’!” Bao squeaked, his white suit glowing under the LEDs. “Lin Ge, I even hired a drone! It’s currently hovering over the alleyway with a banner that says ‘PROPRIETY AND ETIQUETTE’!”.

Lin Feng sat up, his face a mask of absolute, weary resignation. He looked at the signs. He looked at the drone buzzing overhead like a giant, romantic mosquito. Then he looked at Su Meili.

“I’d tell you this wasn’t part of the package, but I’m a government liaison now,” Lin Feng said, his voice flat. “Apparently, my ‘Face’ is now public property.”

“It’s not just public property,” a new voice drawled.

Auditor Wu stepped out from behind a stack of beer crates, holding his ever-present clipboard. “It’s a taxable public exhibition. Mr. Lin, the Bureau of Unregulated Services considers ‘LED-based Romantic Endorsements’ to be a form of street performance. That’s a 15% surcharge on your current ‘Innovation Tax'”.

“Wu, I will pay you double if you just arrest me right now,” Lin Feng groaned.

“I can’t arrest a hero of the state,” Wu said, checking a box on his form. “But I can inform you that your 10:00 AM start tomorrow is being moved to 8:00 AM. The Switzerland-Chengdu ‘Heritage Tech’ committee wants a briefing on ‘The Emotional ROI of Mask-Changing'”.

Wang Bao, sensing the mood was shifting from “romantic” to “administrative,” started to back away. “Uh, Lin Ge… Meili… I’ll just… go check on the drone. Enjoy the gristle!”.

The “Face-Saving” squad retreated, their LED signs fading into the darkness of the alley. Auditor Wu disappeared back into the shadows of bureaucracy.

Lin Feng and Su Meili were left alone at the wobbly table, surrounded by the smell of chili oil and the distant, mocking sound of Mahjong tiles.

“Well,” Lin Feng said, picking up his chopsticks and pointing them at the Mapo Tofu. “The disaster is complete. My ‘Face’ has officially hit the floor, bounced twice, and rolled into a sewer”.

Meili didn’t say anything for a long moment. She looked at the grimy table, then at the glowing red “Abstract Dragon-Gavel” logo in the distance, and then at Lin Feng.

She picked up her own chopsticks and took a bite of the tofu. Her eyes widened as the heat hit her, and she reached for her tea.

“It’s… actually very good,” she whispered, her voice no longer sounding like a courtroom closing argument.

“The best disasters usually are,” Lin Feng replied.

They ate in silence for a while, a strange “Social Equilibrium” finally settling over the alley. There was no romance, no business, and no clipboard—just two people in Chengdu, slowly being defeated by a bowl of fermented beans and chili peppers.

“Lin Feng?” Meili said, as they finished the last of the green beans.

“Yeah?”

“If the 8:00 AM briefing tomorrow goes well… I might let you take a nap in the back of my car on the way to the Conservatory”.

“That’s the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me,” Lin Feng said, a small, genuine smirk tugging at his mouth.

As they walked out of the alley, the rhythmic clack-clack of Mahjong tiles followed them—a heartbeat that reminded them that no matter how much “Face” you lost, the city of Chengdu would always be there to help you find a new one, as long as you were willing to pay the tax.

The “Hotpot Wars” were indeed heating up, and Phase 2 was already proving to be a lot more complicated than a simple merger. But for one night, the buffer had finally found a moment of peace, even if it took a drone and a white suit to get there.