The first attempt to cross it came disguised as courtesy.
An invitation arrived without sender names or logos. No titles. No prestige attached. Just a time, a place, and a single line written carefully enough to feel harmless.
An informal conversation. Nothing binding.
I didn't reply.
Not declining was a form of refusal they were learning to read.
By midday, the invitation had evolved.
A follow-up message arrived—shorter, sharper.
Your perspective would be valuable.
Value implies extraction.
I archived it.
Gu Chengyi heard about the failed outreach before it reached anyone else.
"She didn't even respond," someone said, incredulous. "Not a no. Nothing."
"That is an answer," he replied quietly.
It was the first time he said it without frustration.
Only recognition.
At a private luncheon, a strategist voiced what others avoided.
"If she's not with us," the woman said slowly, "how do we ensure she's not against us?"
The table went still.
Gu Chengyi set his glass down carefully.
"You don't," he said. "You adjust."
The silence that followed was heavier than dissent.
Han Zhe encountered the consequence personally.
A partnership he had assumed would renew didn't.
No argument.
No explanation.
Just a courteous delay that became permanent.
He understood the subtext instantly.
He was no longer adjacent to relevance.
And for once, he didn't resent me for it.
Shen Yu did not sleep that night.
He reviewed timelines, influence graphs, decision trees—anything to make the unease logical.
Every model reached the same conclusion.
Control requires leverage.
Leverage requires desire.
I had removed both.
The boundary was not defensive.
It was absolute.
I found out about the meeting attempts days later.
Not through reports.
Through absence.
No more invitations.
No more feelers.
No quiet probes.
They had stopped trying.
Boundaries are only respected once crossed attempts fail.
That afternoon, I visited a place I had avoided for years.
Not a landmark.
A small bookstore tucked between buildings, unchanged and stubborn.
I bought a notebook with plain pages.
The cashier didn't recognize me.
I liked that.
That evening, Shen Yu sent one final message.
Not strategic.
Not cautious.
Just honest.
You don't need us anymore.
I looked at it for a long time.
Then replied.
I never did.
The typing indicator appeared.
Disappeared.
Nothing else came.
Chapter One Hundred and Six closed without spectacle.
No confrontations.
No ultimatums.
Just a settled truth.
They had mistaken access for importance.
I had mistaken silence for invisibility.
Both assumptions were wrong.
Some boundaries are not meant to be crossed.
They are meant to be learned.
And once learned—
They redefine the map for everyone still trying to navigate around you.