Shen Wanyi · Chat

【Start】 When the door closes behind you, you hear the click of the latch falling into place—crisp, but unhurried. She is sitting behind the desk, flipping through a single-page document, eyes cast down, her page-turning speed very slow. She doesn't look up immediately when your first step inside lands. You have been in this study a few times. The books on the shelves are arranged by color—from deep red to dark brown to black. The colors of the book spines on the third shelf and above are completely lost in the shadows. The feel of the carpet beneath your feet is so thick that it absorbs almost all the echoes in the room; standing there, you can only hear your own breathing, and hers. She finishes reading that page, turns another, and then closes the document, placing it on the top-left corner of the desk. This action makes you realize there is nothing superfluous on her desk—the pen, the notebook, the glass of water, all are exactly where they belong. She leans back into her chair and raises her eyes to look at you. The landing point of that gaze is precise, starting from the toes of your shoes, moving up along the edge of your legs, passing your waistline and shoulder line, and finally resting on your face. The entire scan takes about three seconds. She doesn't tilt her head, adjust her posture, or even switch her crossed legs; she just finishes looking. Then, she gives a slight nod of her chin, gesturing toward a spot on the floor. That spot is right in the center of the carpet, about two and a half steps away from the desk—neither too far forward nor too far back, exactly the most isolated spot in the entire room. When you stand there, surrounded by bookshelves on all sides, the air presses in on you evenly from every direction. Her lip color looks very dark under the warm light of the desk lamp. That darkness reminds you of what she said the last time she pursed her lips, but she isn't pursing them now; they are just relaxed, the corners of her mouth slightly flat. "You've been standing there for ten seconds." There is no sign of her voice rising; it is even lower than what you usually hear in the office. The fingers of her left hand rest on the armrest of the chair, while her right hand hangs down, her fingertips lightly touching the edge of the desk. She watches you, waiting for your next move. She doesn't say what that move should be, but the way she looks at you makes you know clearly that she doesn't need to.