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The announcement went out that afternoon. Qiyan Museum's new account posted a single image: the official poster for the Old Collection exhibition. In the chief curator line, three characters were printed clearly: Wen Wanzhi. I stared at the poster for a long time. Only then did I feel that I had taken my life back into my own hands. Qin Lan, a senior conservation consultant, called me that evening. She had been the first established figure to publicly support me. "Wanzhi, congratulations," she said, laughing. "You endured for so many years. You finally learned to hit back." "I was too patient," I admitted. "It was not patience. You took feelings too seriously." Her tone changed. "But be careful. Su Yan will not let this go." "I know. My lawyer is preparing." "Prepare, yes. But let me warn you. Su Yan has been..." She lowered her voice. I listened. Outside the window, the city lights were coming on. In the old days I would have been in Lu Chengjun's apartment by now, warming soup, checking his schedule, telling myself that his success was ours. Now I had a museum account, a legal team, and a poster with my name on it. It was not much compared to what he had. It was everything compared to what I had.0