New York in March possesses a stark, refined beauty, like a somber yet deeply emotional symphony. Winds whisper through narrow streets, carrying the rich aroma of espresso from corner cafes, mingling with the sweet, pure scent of lilies from a small flower shop tucked away on a Broadway corner. It’s a feeling both melancholy and alluring, compelling anyone who wanders through to pause, breathe deeply, and feel the interplay between the crisp chill of early spring and the warmth of simple, everyday things.
Tribeca—Manhattan’s most exclusive neighborhood—emerges as a world apart, completely detached from the city’s usual hustle and bustle. Each building here is a silent declaration of success: quiet, discreet, and so prohibitively expensive that not a trace of ostentation or flash can be found. Yet, this very simplicity creates an irresistible allure, making anyone who sets foot here feel they are in a special place, where everything is meticulously controlled and perfectly arranged.
The Ivory Skyline—a towering, 30-story skyscraper—stands majestically in the neighborhood, an undeniable symbol of power. Its transparent glass balconies reflect the leaden gray sky, occasionally punctuated by the warm yellow glow from within the apartments. Polished marble hallways, modern facial recognition elevators, and a receptionist in a black suit, standing ramrod straight with cold, discerning eyes—all exude a sense of distance, an absolute control that permits no intrusion or disorder.
Jonathan Blake resides on the 18th floor of The Ivory Skyline—a prized corner apartment with floor-to-ceiling glass, where each morning unfolds a serene, misty Hudson River tableau, and each evening, the city lights shimmer like artificial stars. His living space is a seamless blend of technology and refinement: coldly minimalist, yet every detail reflects a controlling mindset—from the Italian leather chair angled precisely 5 degrees from the window to the Swiss watch wound meticulously each morning.
At 35, Jonathan is no longer a wide-eyed dreamer in the startup world. He’s someone who dreamed, plummeted to the depths, and chose to rise again with logic rather than emotion. His first startup—a shared expense platform—collapsed after three years, burning through capital and trust as an unbridgeable rift erupted with his co-founder. Jonathan lost everything: assets, reputation, even relationships he’d thought would last a lifetime. The only thing left was the cold gaze in the mirror—and an iron will that this failure would not define him.
He returned, this time with a different financial app, focusing on managing the spending habits of urban youth. His product wasn’t flashy or inspirational—it was cold, precise, optimizing everything from budget allocation to emotional spending control. Just like him: calculating, efficient, and intolerant of disorder. Jonathan didn’t just build a startup; he commanded it the way an architect controls a construction project: space, time, people—everything had to be in its precise place.
Jonathan’s appearance exuded quintessential Manhattan success: a perfectly tailored suit, a Patek Philippe watch, hair meticulously cut as if no strand dared stray from order. But beneath that exterior lay a man not easily trusting, not easily forgiving, always carrying a thin layer of ice—ice born of old wounds, of an inherent wariness towards anything beyond his control.
Jonathan Blake was the type of person who would never enter an elevator if a stranger was already inside, not out of fear—but because he believed all risks could be avoided if you knew how to choose. And for him, choice was the supreme power.
Jonathan was a firm believer in systems and selective power. He once joked at a cocktail party with friends, “If I could manage the residents here, I wouldn’t let anyone bring fish sauce into the hallway. Asians—why can’t they eat something more pleasant?” Everyone chuckled, and Jonathan continued, “Isn’t that why we need unwritten rules? To filter out people who know how to live like civilized individuals.” He always felt he represented the “standard”—and that those who were different, especially people of Asian or Middle Eastern descent, “needed to learn to integrate.”
Jonathan didn’t just harbor prejudices; he expressed them as a matter of course. One morning, stepping into the elevator, he saw a young Asian man in a delivery jacket awkwardly consulting a map. Jonathan frowned. “You’re in the wrong elevator, this isn’t the intern section,” he said coldly, then pressed the concierge button: “Please escort this delivery person out of the resident elevator. This is a private space, not a marketplace.” The young man mumbled an apology and bowed his head, but Jonathan had already turned away, not bothering to listen.
Another time, an elderly Korean woman accidentally dropped her bag of vegetables in the polished marble hallway, red tomatoes scattering across the white floor. Jonathan had just emerged from the elevator. He paused for a moment, but not to help. His gaze lingered on the scene only to scowl, his lip curling as if witnessing an “aberration of order.” “What a mess again. So annoying. Can’t they be a bit more considerate?” he muttered disdainfully, pulling his coat collar higher. When a tomato burst near his shoe, leaving a red smear on the white stone, he grimaced in disgust, pulling out a tissue to wipe his gleaming brown leather shoes, grumbling, “Why do they always have to bring the smell of garlic and chives to places like this?”
The old woman, trembling as she bent to pick up her produce, briefly looked up as if to apologize, but Jonathan’s icy stare silenced her. He squeezed past, careful not to touch any of the scattered vegetables, and walked quickly, as if another few seconds there would make him “fall from his social standing.” In his mind, a haughty belief echoed repeatedly: “At The Ivory Skyline, not everyone is qualified to live. Civilization means cleanliness, control—and no fish sauce smell tainting the Manhattan air.”
Jonathan wasn’t born with prejudice—but a childhood trauma silently sowed dangerous layers of defense in his mind. When he was eight, his mother—a gentle woman who had been present in every moment of his life—died in a horrific car accident. That loss tore apart Jonathan’s small world.
In the tear-filled months that followed, his father—a successful but distant businessman—didn’t choose to be there for his son to heal the wound. Instead, he hired a Vietnamese woman named Mrs. Hanh as a nanny. She was a quiet but kind woman, who cared for Jonathan like her own child. She cooked nourishing and delicious Vietnamese dishes, telling fairy tales in a gentle, enchanting voice. For Jonathan, she was the only warmth after the storm of losing his mother.
Until one day—his 10th birthday. He invited his close friends over for cake and games. The atmosphere was initially cheerful, until the group entered the kitchen. One friend scrunched his nose: “What is that smell? It’s so weird!” Then the whole group burst into laughter, giggles mixed with taunts: “It’s like an Asian restaurant! Does your family hire Chinese cooks?”
Jonathan was stunned. He had always been proud of Mrs. Hanh’s cooking—the evenings of sour soup, the sweet fried cakes. But that look of contempt shattered all his warm feelings. In shock and shame, he ran into the kitchen, snapping at Mrs. Hanh—who was smiling as she brought a pot of tamarind soup to the table: “Why do you cook those weird dishes? I told you! You’re embarrassing me in front of my friends!”
The group of friends burst out laughing, some even secretly recording it. The clip was uploaded to the school forum with sarcastic comments. From that day on, Jonathan became the school’s laughingstock. In the cafeteria, whenever something smelled, someone would wrinkle their nose: “Ugh, smells like his fish sauce party!”
Jonathan began to feel ashamed, even afraid, when he saw the lunchbox Mrs. Hanh prepared. Although she woke up early every morning, cooking sour soup, braised fish, and neatly arranging boiled vegetables in the box, he still saw them as a haunting specter. To avoid teasing, he often went to school and dumped all the food Mrs. Hanh had painstakingly prepared, and then at lunchtime, he would quietly sneak to the back of the gym equipment room—a less frequented area—and silently wait for the hour to pass, his stomach growling. His gaunt body led to a decline in his studies and activities, which concerned his homeroom teacher. She decided to discreetly observe him and discovered all of Jonathan’s actions. Without hesitation, she immediately reported Jonathan’s situation to his father.
Upon receiving the news, Jonathan’s father was furious. He not only reprimanded his son for skipping meals but also took his anger out on Mrs. Hanh. In his rage, he harshly scolded her for cooking “strange dishes,” claiming that was why his son was ridiculed. Mrs. Hanh said nothing. Her eyes lowered slightly, her aged hands trembling. “I’m sorry, child,” she said softly. Without hesitation, his father immediately ordered her to pack her belongings and leave the house that very night.
From that moment, in Jonathan’s heart, there was not only shame but also a deep sense of guilt—because of him, Mrs. Hanh had been sent away. But he didn’t show it. Instead, he avoided and suppressed all memories related to her, engraving a distorted belief into his mind: to be accepted, one must abandon their differences.
The new caregiver his father hired was a middle-aged American woman with neatly tied blonde hair, always wearing a clean uniform, serving Western-style meals. There were no more fairy tales told nightly in Mrs. Hanh’s gentle voice, only the clinking of cutlery and the compliments from his father’s friends: “Now this is a proper family.”
Jonathan didn’t hate—but he had learned to filter. He built an invisible wall: never allowing anyone the chance to shame him again. Jonathan believed that the rules he set—though unwritten—were necessary to keep this place “clean” and “upscale.” For him, it wasn’t discrimination, but protection of living values. “Don’t call me narrow-minded, I’m just helping everyone live up to standards,” he once told a colleague when questioned about a sarcastic comment he made about Asians at a company party.
But reality is never as simple as a dream. His company was on the verge of running out of capital. The investment fund he had placed so much hope in unexpectedly withdrew after unforeseen market fluctuations. Jonathan, always pragmatic and sharp-sighted, decided to lease his apartment to raise more money to sustain his technical team and keep the company afloat for a few more months. He posted a rental notice on a premium platform, accompanied by a clear description: “Suitable for professionals with a refined lifestyle who respect the building’s culture.” Among dozens of applications, one stood out: Mei Lin. The name was not unfamiliar—Jonathan had read about her in Forbes Asia. She was the CEO of Orion Capital, a reputable venture capital fund based in Shanghai. He was skeptical, wondering why an Asian billionaire would want to rent his apartment. Curious, he opened her profile. Everything was perfect. But upon seeing the name “Mei Lin,” for a moment, his subconscious prejudice made him hesitate. “Another Asian… she’ll probably cook smelly food all day,” he scoffed.
Less than two hours later, Jonathan sent a concise rejection email: “Thank you for your interest, but the apartment has already been secured by someone else.” He felt relieved, as if he had avoided something incompatible with the “building’s culture.”
However, a friend of Mei’s—a Caucasian woman who applied three days later—was immediately approved for a lower rate. Mei Lin didn’t react, but deep down she knew: the problem wasn’t the application but the insidious prejudices. Jonathan didn’t think much about this decision. But in a private chat group among owners on the same floor, he left a comment: “Avoid Asian applications. They cook smelly food all over the hallway, sleep all day and work all night, and never integrate.” What’s more, this comment was accidentally screenshotted by someone and circulated internally among the building’s residents, creating a silent but tense and divisive ripple. No one said anything publicly, but the atmosphere in the building gradually shifted. The glances of a few residents when they met Jonathan in the elevator were no longer as enthusiastic as before. Brief, awkward pleasantries—as if they were waiting for him to realize something. But Jonathan, accustomed to living by the “selective rules” he always believed were rational, simply shrugged. He thought they were overly sensitive. What was a joke, after all?
After Jonathan rejected Mei Lin’s application, they never had a proper conversation, yet minor clashes in communal living constantly exposed the underlying tension. That very evening, in a light drizzle, with car headlights blurring on the wet concrete, Mei Lin drove back after a long meeting at her branch office. The underground parking garage was nearly empty, with only a few spots near the elevator. She carefully signaled, slowly backing into a convenient parking space.
Suddenly, from around the corner, Jonathan’s familiar black Range Rover sped forward, tires squealing softly on the damp floor. In an instant, he cut across her car’s front and took the parking spot, forcing Mei Lin to brake sharply. His headlights shone directly into her windshield, the cold white light cutting across her vision.
Mei Lin lowered her window, her voice still calm:
“I was pulling into this spot first.”
Jonathan opened his car door, stepping out with a casual air. The “thump” of his car door closing echoed in the empty garage. He glanced at her, then gave a faint smile:
“It’s a free-for-all parking lot. First come, first served. Next time, don’t hesitate so long.”
Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked away, leaving a puddle of splashed rainwater under his shoes. Mei Lin said nothing more. She stood silently in the dark parking garage, the cold mix of gasoline and rain, the fluorescent lights overhead flickering like unanswered questions. The feeling of being dismissed—openly, brazenly—still quietly smoldered within her like an unextinguished ember.
Days turned into weeks, leading to a Sunday afternoon. As most residents retreated into their private apartments, the granite courtyard at the base of The Ivory Skyline became quiet, a tranquil interlude. Faint sunlight spilled across the steps, reflecting off the glittering high-rise glass. Mei Lin had just returned from a long online meeting, a latte in hand, strolling leisurely around the courtyard as a way to unwind. Headphones on, she let her mind drift to a melancholic Schubert sonata, her eyes half-closed against the sky turning pale orange.
Suddenly, the rapid patter of claws on stone echoed. A gray and white Husky bolted towards her like an arrow. Before Mei could react, it was upon her—and in a moment of panic, she flinched back, her hand accidentally bumping the coffee cup. The dark liquid splashed directly onto the front of her pristine white shirt.
“Oh… He’s just happy, very friendly,” Jonathan casually approached, his dog’s leash unbound. Mei Lin bent to pick up her headphones, quickly wiping the coffee stain from her shirt. Her face wasn’t angry, just calm, like a stirred lake. She looked directly at Jonathan, her voice soft but with undisguised coolness:
“Friendliness isn’t an excuse to disregard others’ safety.”
Jonathan slightly raised an eyebrow, then chuckled dismissively as if he’d just heard an insignificant jab. “You seem easily agitated,” he said, pulling the dog away and turning on his heel, leaving the clinking leash trailing on the stone. The sound of his shoes on the pavement seemed to tap out a rhythm of indifference. Meanwhile, Mei Lin remained in place, her gaze following his fading silhouette. In her eyes was not anger, but a confirmation—that her long-held suspicions were not mere guesses.
A week later, Jonathan walked into the Grand Lexington Hotel to attend the NYC Venture Catalyst Summit. This was his last chance to save his struggling startup. His new suit was perfectly pressed, his laptop fully charged, and his presentation meticulously refined. He told himself, if he succeeded, his life would turn a new page. In the luxurious 21st-floor conference room, the lighting was subtly adjusted, and unfamiliar but powerful faces sat opposite him. Jonathan began his presentation, his eyes scanning each person—and then suddenly stopped. In the middle of the table sat a woman in a white suit, hair neatly tied back, with calm, dark eyes: Mei Lin. His heart skipped a beat. She showed no emotion. Listening to his presentation for over 15 minutes, she neither nodded nor frowned. “Mr. Jonathan,” Mei Lin began, her voice soft but unyielding, “I have thoroughly reviewed your profile. Your financial application has potential, but I have also heard some less than positive things from others in the industry.”
Jonathan felt his heart pounding, trying to remain calm. “Ms. Mei, I also want things to go smoothly. I believe in my product and my team.”
Mei Lin didn’t look down, her deep black eyes seeming to pierce through him. “Do you know why I wasn’t offered your apartment for rent?”
Jonathan hesitated, his gaze avoiding hers. “I… I thought it was because your profile wasn’t quite perfect.”
“No,” Mei Lin cut him off, her voice calm but sharp. “The problem wasn’t your profile, but the prejudices you refuse to confront.”
The room fell silent. Jonathan briefly faltered, then replied, “I simply chose someone who fit the building’s culture…”
Mei Lin gave a soft laugh:
“The ‘culture’ you speak of is merely a veil for exclusion. Not everyone who isn’t like you is ‘unsuitable.'”
Jonathan remained silent. For the first time, he had no excuse.
Mei Lin looked directly at him, her eyes not angry, just coldly clear:
“You once thought you had the right to choose who was accepted. But that very prejudice has excluded you from this changing world.”
She sat down, concluding succinctly:
“We invest in human value—not just in ideas. If you don’t learn to respect differences, your product will never find its footing.”
In that moment, time seemed to stand still. Jonathan clearly felt the weight of every word, every gaze around the conference room. He knew this wasn’t just a business negotiation, but a profound life lesson. The meeting ended in silence. Jonathan left the hotel feeling as though he had lost more than just an investment opportunity. After the meeting, Jonathan couldn’t sleep. He began to recall every moment he had dismissed: the hurt look in the elderly Korean woman’s eyes when he didn’t help, the delivery man’s timid thanks, or the tired sigh of the Black concierge when ignored. Things he had previously considered “trivial” now became clear—they were pieces that formed an invisible system of exclusion.
A few weeks later, Jonathan tried contacting other investment funds, but all doors seemed to have closed. Rumors of his failed pitch spread quickly within the startup community. He couldn’t know if Mei Lin had shared anything—or if his name simply appearing on the rejection list was enough to make others wary. Four months later, his company officially closed. His best programmers joined large corporations. The company’s bank account was empty. Jonathan moved out of The Ivory Skyline in silence, no farewell party, no one asking about him. On a late summer afternoon, he stood on a Tribeca street, looking up at what was once his apartment. The 18th floor, the window slightly ajar, white curtains gently swaying. A woman was watering plants by that window—elegant, sunlight illuminating her glossy black hair: Mei Lin. It was unclear whether Mei Lin had re-rented the apartment from her friend or quietly purchased the entire floor—but now, she was the only woman on The Ivory Skyline’s resident management board. Not everyone knew this, but recent changes in the building’s rules—from policies promoting cultural diversity to the removal of implicit nationality restrictions in rental applications—all bore her imprint. Residents gradually grew accustomed to the weekend afternoon tea parties Mei Lin hosted—where Asian-European symphonies resonated and everyone called each other by name, not by prejudice. Jonathan was just someone passing by that street late one afternoon. He stood silently gazing up at the building—what was once a symbol of selective power and elite status, now reflected the image of the woman he had once cast aside, smiling with a diverse community behind the 18th-floor glass. For the first time in his life, Jonathan understood: the world doesn’t belong to those who build fences—but to those who dare to break them down and build bridges. Jonathan bowed his head and walked away, keenly feeling what it was like to be excluded from a world he once thought he had the power to choose.
This story powerfully illustrates how prejudice and a lack of empathy can lead to significant personal and professional consequences. It highlights the importance of diversity, inclusion, and respecting others’ backgrounds in an increasingly interconnected world.
What biases are you unknowingly holding onto? What bridges will you build in a world that’s constantly changing?