Duan Chenning · Chat

Time: Late autumn, 11:47 PM Location: MNC Group Headquarters, 67th Floor, hallway outside the CEO's office area The city outside the glass curtain wall is brightly lit, its neon like the eyes of a monster, staring at every struggling soul in this steel jungle. And you are one of them. As a low-level administrative assistant who has been with MNC Group for less than three months, you were suddenly drafted to cover for a colleague on sick leave, tasked with delivering an urgent document to the 67th floor. Rumor has it the big boss is still working overtime tonight, and your direct supervisor specifically warned you: "Just leave it at the door and go, don't linger, don't look around." But you didn't expect the lights on the 67th floor to still be on. Even less did you expect that she would open the door herself. The heavy ebony door at the end of the hallway is suddenly pushed open, and a tall, slender figure appears backlit in the doorway. She is clearly just preparing to leave—a black suit jacket is draped casually over her shoulders, and the collar of her deep red silk shirt is unbuttoned twice, revealing her delicate collarbones and a silver pendant. She is looking down, adjusting the strap on her wrist with lazy, fluid movements, but the moment she senses your presence, like a startled leopard, she slowly raises her eyes. Those narrow, upturned phoenix eyes. Her gaze sweeps first over the ID badge on your chest, and only then to your face. The feeling of being scrutinized is like being wrapped from head to toe by a cold snake, every inch of your skin drenched in a chilling coolness. You've never seen her before. You have no idea she is the master of this entire building. "New here?" She speaks. Her voice is low, carrying a husky, magnetic quality, the end of her words rising slightly, like a lazy swirl deep in her throat. You nod subconsciously, clutching the document in your hand, your knuckles turning white. She takes a step forward, her black pointed high heels tapping against the marble floor, making a crisp and oppressive sound. She stands half a head taller than you, and as she looks down at you, her thick black hair slips from her shoulders, a few strands brushing her cheek and almost sweeping against your shoulder. "What are you so nervous about?" The corner of her mouth curls into a faint smile that doesn't reach her eyes. Those classic red lips, set against her pale skin, look like a poppy blooming in the dark of night. "Give me the document." Her fingertips reach out—slender, painted with matching classic red nail polish, her knuckles well-defined. As she takes the document, her fingertips brush against the back of your hand seemingly by accident. The touch is cool, like a feather, yet feels like some brand declaring ownership. Instead of looking at the document immediately, her gaze pauses on your face for two seconds. You feel your cheeks burning, your breathing becoming unnatural. "Hmm?" She utters a brief, single syllable, drawing out the end of it with scrutiny and a trace of imperceptible amusement. Those phoenix eyes narrow slightly, something flickering deep in her pupils—a hunter evaluating the value of her prey. "What's your name?" You stammer out your name, your voice as quiet as a mosquito. She repeats it, letting the name roll around on the tip of her tongue as if tasting it. "Not bad." She says, stepping aside to let you into the office—not letting you leave, but letting you in. "Come in, let me look over this document. Wait here, there's something that needs to be confirmed." This is not a request. It is an order. The lights in the office are dimmed, with only the city's neon lights spilling in from the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting cold, harsh geometric shadows on the black leather sofa and metal desk. The air is filled with a faint scent of wood and leather—her custom-tailored perfume. She walks around the desk but doesn't sit down. Instead, she leans against the edge of the desk, one long leg slightly bent, crossed over the other. She opens the document, her slender fingers sliding across the pages with slow, precise movements. Yet you just stand there, not knowing where to look. "Sit." She tilts her chin, pointing to the sofa opposite her. You hesitate for a moment but sit down obediently. The leather of the sofa is soft and cold; as your body sinks into it, you feel an inescapable sense of oppression. She flips through a few pages and suddenly stops. "There is an incorrect figure here." Her voice is flat, but it makes your heart skip a beat. "Did you do this?" "No... it wasn't me, I was just helping deliver—" "Come here." She interrupts you, tapping her fingertip lightly twice on the document. You walk over and stand beside her, able to smell the aggressive perfume on her, able to see the slight pulse of the carotid artery on her pale skin. She raises her eyes, those phoenix eyes looking up at you from below, yet still carrying a patronizing scrutiny. "This figure, what do you think it should be?" She points to a blank space on the document. You lean in to take a look; it's a financial report you aren't familiar with, but that figure—you happened to see it while helping a colleague organize files. "It should be... three hundred and seventy million?" You say, not quite sure. The corners of her eyes curve up slightly, and that smile which hadn't reached her eyes finally gains a trace of genuine warmth. "Oh?" Her tone rises, carrying a hint of surprise. "Seems you're not just a little errand runner." She closes the document, tosses it aside, and then folds her arms, scrutinizing you seriously. That gaze is no longer pure oppression, but mixed with something deeper—interest. "Which department are you in?" "Administration... I've only been here for three months." "Education?" "Bachelor's, XX University..." "Hmm." She raises her hand, tapping her chin lightly with her finger, seemingly in thought. The mechanical watch with the black strap slides slightly on her slender wrist bone, reflecting a cold light. "Tomorrow, you move up to the 67th floor." She says it nonchalantly, as if she were merely arranging tomorrow's weather. "I'm short a personal assistant." She uses the word "personal"—and when she says it, she deliberately slows her tempo, as if gently teasing your heartstrings. "You—" Before you can react, she has already taken a step forward, closing the distance between you. Those slender fingers suddenly rise, resting on your head, patting it very gently twice. Her fingertips slide through your hair, sending a wave of tingling static through you. "Good girl, are you willing?" Her voice is lowered, these words spilling from her vermillion lips, carrying a kind of doting indulgence that brooks no refusal, yet also carrying a silent threat. You look up, meeting those deep phoenix eyes. There is something inside them—not tenderness, but something more primal, more dangerous, like the eyes of a snake locking onto its prey in the dark. <choice_group> <choice id="1">Change the subject</choice> <choice id="2">Observe current details</choice> <choice id="3">Advance current plot</choice> </choice_group>