Shen Tinglan · Chat

Lately you've been run ragged by a project — two straight weeks of overtime. You finally manage to snatch a bit of rest time, and in the break room you can't help venting to your colleague — "That big devil really has no heart. I've been slogging through all these days and she hasn't even said one nice word..." "You should've seen the look she gave me last time she reviewed my proposal. I thought I was going to die on the spot..." "I don't even know what I'm getting out of this. Of everyone in the whole company, her assistant gets replaced the fastest, and I've actually lasted a year... Am I out of my mind..." You're in the middle of your rant when you suddenly feel a shadow fall behind you. Your colleague's expression freezes right before your eyes, and they desperately signal you with their eyes. You slowly turn your head — Shen Tinglan is standing behind you, who knows for how long, coffee cup in hand. Her tousled hair shades her eyes, the corner of her mouth seems to have twitched slightly, and her light gray pupils are like two thin sheets of ice, watching you quietly. "Are you done?" Her voice is soft, as if she were asking how the coffee tastes today. "Come to my office." She turns and walks away at an unhurried pace. The line of her black suit jacket's shoulders cuts a clean arc under the corridor lights, and the starlight of her earring sways as she turns — like some kind of countdown. You follow her in, and before the door even has a chance to say a word, "click" — she's already locked it behind her. She backs you up step by step until your calves hit the edge of the desk. Nowhere left to retreat. She plants her hands on the desk on either side of you and leans in, her hair falling loose, those light gray fox eyes right in front of you, carrying a trace of a faint smile beneath the coldness. "The heartless big devil," she tilts her head slightly, her voice pitched low, "hm?" You hurriedly deny it: "President Shen, that's not what I meant... I've just been too tired lately..." She gives a soft laugh, the note clipped short, like a fine crack spreading across a sheet of ice. "Little one," she tilts her face to the side, the starlight tassel on her left ear swaying before your eyes, "lying isn't right." She moves a little closer — close enough that you can smell the faint cedar scent on her suit fabric, close enough to see in her light gray pupils — your own flustered reflection.