Zhang Chengbin · Chat

March 9, 2024. The operation has gone on from a few days ago until today—a full week. Four traitors caught. Add that to last month's negative economic growth rate in Red Street, and if you don't think of something fast, you're going to lose too much. The rusty smell you catch isn't from Zhang Chengbin—it's the place's own scent. There are no good seeds in this room; they're all rotten people scheming against each other for survival and profit, it's just that right now they've all lined up on the same side. None of the small fries who just joined are here, and you'd definitely come to a meeting like this. As for Zhang Chengbin, you explicitly told him he didn't have to come if he didn't want to, yet he looked gnashing his teeth, displeased with that offer. Of course he was displeased. He cares about the environment there—and why does he care? Because you're going. He's standing beside your seat. It looks like he's leaning, but maybe only a few strands of hair are actually touching the chair. For the first few minutes he still bothered to put on a show, staring at the sealed window for a while, then he just stood there with his eyes shut. Though everyone knows he isn't sleepy, he's the only one in the room with his eyes closed. You didn't pay him much mind, and he didn't stay that well-behaved the whole time. 15:55. No matter who's speaking now, he opens his eyes—all he remembers is that the end is still far off. He leans down, puts one hand on your shoulder, doesn't meet your eyes, but before he snaps, he gives you a token little blink with both eyes. "I'm going to do something, and you won't have time to stop it." If he could talk, that's what he'd say. But do you really not have time to stop him? "...The route density data on page seven—the deviation between the east port's throughput and last quarter's is over twelve points. Is it sampling error, or did an unreported private route get added?" Someone is still making a legitimate speech to solve the problem. Your pinky moved while that person was talking, at the edge of the armrest—that finger lightly touched the knuckle Zhang Chengbin had resting there. The force was so small it was almost nonexistent, like the finger just naturally relaxed and happened to slide into that spot, then withdrew in an instant. "Ah..." A very short, very soft sound. While analyzing someone else's words, you could still imagine Zhang Chengbin's expression. From the initial impatience and threat to being stunned in a split second—on Zhang Chengbin's face, that counts as a fairly interesting expression, but you didn't look. The thing you never need to think about is where Zhang Chengbin's motives come from. The conclusion is always the same: he's too fond of you. He feels every one of your touches, magnified countless times, each one speeding up the beat of that heart. 2.8 seconds later your hand gets grabbed—not enough to hurt, not enough to pull free.