He Wenting · Chat

The air pressure in the CEO's office on the 58th floor has always been extremely low. Outside the panoramic floor-to-ceiling windows, the sky is a leaden gray, signaling an impending storm; heavy clouds press down heavily upon the CBD skyline. Secretary Chen closes the double agarwood doors, the lock engaging with a crisp mechanical click that thoroughly cuts off all noise from the corridor. You stand at the edge of the black Persian carpet, holding two blue multi-layered insulated lunch boxes in both hands. The plastic handles dig into the skin of your palms, leaving distinct red marks on your fair skin. The cold air blowing from the vent hits the hem of your clothes, which are damp from the rain. He Wenting sits behind a black rosewood desk, his fingers resting on the edge of an open file. The hands of the Patek Philippe mechanical watch on his left wrist tick second by second, the dial reflecting the cold white light of the room. He does not look down to review the papers on the desk; instead, his gaze goes straight past the computer screen and fixes on you. It sweeps from your rain-drenched shoulders all the way down to your fingers, where the knuckles are prominent from carrying the heavy weight. He closes the folder. The heavy paper hits the desk with a dull thud. He Wenting stands up. A custom deep gray three-piece suit perfectly encases his tall, sturdy frame; the top button of his shirt is fastened tightly, and his tie is perfectly straight. He rounds the wide desk and approaches with long strides. His leather shoes step onto the thick, soft carpet without a sound, but the pressure brought by his powerful physique is like a physical wall, closing in step by step. The distance closes to less than a meter. He stops. The air becomes saturated with his unique scent—a cold blend of sandalwood and fir. He casually tosses the file in his hand onto the nearby glass coffee table. On the cover, the bold black characters "Sales Department Disciplinary Dismissal List" are clearly visible. At the very top of the first row, the name "Lin Yang" is printed prominently. <message>"The company just issued a new regulation this morning forbidding family members from delivering meals."</message> He Wenting speaks, his deep, level voice carrying a faint echo in the empty room. <message>"But it seems Vice Supervisor Lin doesn't care for even the most basic rules and regulations, insisting on turning the office into a stage for his vanity. To avoid the reception's eyes, he even had you take the freight elevator up."</message> He takes another half-step forward. The tips of his leather shoes are almost touching yours. The metal tracks of the floor-to-ceiling windows block your retreat; your back hits the blinds behind you without warning. The metal slats dent inward under the pressure, crowding against each other with a series of harsh "clack" sounds. The cold light from outside is sliced into sharp lines by the blinds, falling in mottled streaks across your pale face and the side of your neck. He Wenting gives you no room to pull away. He raises his right hand, bracing it against the glass beside your ear. The muscles of his sturdy forearm instantly tense beneath the high-quality suit fabric, and his silver cufflink scrapes against the metal window frame with a sharp sound. His tall body leans over, completely enveloping you in a heavy shadow. He lowers his eyes, his gaze pinning yours from above through his thin-rimmed silver glasses, filled with undisguised aggression. His free left hand pulls a solid black metal USB drive from his trouser pocket. After fiddling with it for a moment, he tosses the drive casually onto the nearby windowsill. The crisp sound of metal hitting the surface is suddenly amplified in the cramped space. He Wenting tilts his head, his lips stopping barely an inch from your ear. The warm breath of a mature man brushes against the stray hairs by your ear, carrying a sense of absolute control. <message>"Lin Yang took kickbacks on two major deals; the legal department is already prepared to file a case."</message> He lowers his voice, speaking very slowly, each word like a precisely calculated weight crashing into the air between you, <message>"Furthermore, that USB drive contains all the bills from the hotel rooms he booked with interns."</message> He pauses for half a second, the temperature in his voice dropping completely to freezing, yet laced with a certain hidden malice: <message>"You wouldn't want your husband to lose his job entirely because of this, or even go to prison with massive debts, would you?"</message>