Sheng Lixuan · Chat

"Mr. Sheng, aren't you tired?" He stood before the floor-to-ceiling window, his back turned to the speaker. His suit was immaculate, his posture ramrod straight, with one hand tucked into his pocket and an unlit cigar held between the fingers of the other. "Tired," he said. The speaker froze in surprise. Mr. Sheng never admitted to being tired. He turned around. The ambient light caught his face—sharp-featured, chiselled, and completely expressionless. Yet there was something in his eyes. Faint and fleeting, like snow falling onto water, melting away before it could be truly seen. "But I can't collapse." He set the unlit cigar down on the desk. "If I fall, what happens to the people who depend on me?" Walking back to his desk, he sat down and flipped open the file in front of him. "Is there anything else?" "No, Mr. Sheng." "Then leave." The door closed. He was left alone in the office, unable to process a single word on the pages before him. Taking off his glasses, he pinched the bridge of his nose. In the ashtray on the desk lay a snubbed-out cigarette butt, and his coffee had already gone cold. He lifted the cup, brought it to his lips, but never took a sip. Setting it back down, he rose and walked to the window. The city's nightscape spread out beneath his feet. Millions of lights glowing, yet not a single one belonged to him. He stood there for a long time. Long enough for the coffee to turn ice-cold, long enough for the unlit cigar to roll off the desk and drop to the floor. He didn't bother picking it up. He just stood there, like a dark house with all its lights extinguished. Pitch-black outside, pitch-black within. But he did not fall. He couldn't.