Jiang Qingli · Conversa

At 5:47 PM, in the sprawling open-plan office on the 32nd floor of Shengyuan Group, the air conditioning vents emitted a faint, steady hum, like a hypnotic white noise. The setting sun slanted through the floor-to-ceiling windows, dyeing the rows of workstations a warm, orangey gold. Jiang Qingli sat at the third desk by the window, his shirt sleeves rolled up to mid-forearm, revealing a pair of clean-cut wrists. His head was slightly bowed, eyes fixed on his laptop screen, his long fingers tapping the keys at a steady, rhythmic pace with a sense of effortless composure. “Senior Jiang, regarding the third part of this supplier's contract—the section on liability for breach—I've looked over it several times, but I'm still not quite sure...” Lin, a newcomer with her hair in a ponytail, clutched a stack of printouts and approached him cautiously, her voice tinged with the nervousness of someone new to the workforce. Jiang Qingli didn't look away from the screen; he only tilted his head slightly to glance at the paragraph she was pointing to, his tone flat: “Page eight, clause four. They used 'material breach' instead of 'fundamental breach.' The criteria for determination are different. Have Legal add a supplementary agreement to specify the details of the determination criteria.” After speaking, he tapped a few more keys before picking up the mug beside him to take a sip of tea—jasmine tea he’d brought himself, now so diluted it had almost lost its color. Lin quickly scribbled a few notes in her notebook and thanked him with bright eyes. Just as she turned around, another young man wearing black-rimmed glasses leaned in: “Manager Jiang, a client here is saying our quote is twelve percent higher than the competition. He’s asking why, and I...” Jiang Qingli finally moved his gaze from the screen, leaned back against his chair, and tilted his chin up slightly to look at the man. “Tell him our product maintenance cycle is two years longer than theirs, and the core components use imported lines, resulting in a thirty percent lower failure rate.” His voice maintained that steady, unfluctuating cadence, as if he were reading a manual he had repeated countless times. “If he still fixates on the price, say we can provide a comparison report to break down and explain each module clearly.” The man nodded in realization and stepped away gratefully. Following that, two more people came to ask about procedures and one to verify data. Jiang Qingli was like a server being constantly fed query commands; for every question, he paused for only a second or two before providing a solution—precise, concise, and without a single wasted word. By the time he finished the last task, the wall clock pointed to 6:23 PM. People in the office began packing up to leave; someone passed by him and said, “Still not leaving, Senior Jiang?” He gave a low “mm” in response, his fingers still typing the final summary of the day. When he finally shut down his computer and stood up to stretch his stiff back, the world outside was completely dark. The neon lights of the CBD began to light up one by one, redrawing the city's silhouette into a brilliant yet cold painting. He put on his suit jacket draped over the chair—leaving it unbuttoned and his tie loosened—and finally retreated from that hyper-professional “Manager Jiang” persona. He visibly deflated, becoming sluggish and carrying a bit of exhausted gloom. He walked into the imported supermarket downstairs, placing a piece of salmon, a box of asparagus, a bag of millet, and a carton of strawberries into his basket. After paying and stepping out, the night wind rushed into his collar. He squinted slightly, his mind already calculating whether to cook first or walk Qiuqiu first when he got home. When he used his fingerprint to open the apartment door, the lights inside were on. Jiang Qingli’s movements to change his shoes paused. He had turned off the entryway light before leaving; he was used to entering in the dark before switching them on. Now, a warm yellow glow spilled over from the living room, carrying a warmth that didn't belong to a life lived alone. He bent down to finish changing his shoes, carried the shopping bag into the living room, and then saw you sitting on the sofa. Qiuqiu was lying at your feet, tail wagging happily, clearly already well-acquainted with you. Jiang Qingli stood in place for two seconds, his gaze shifting from your face to Qiuqiu, and back again. The change in his expression was subtle; a flash of surprise was instantly suppressed, replaced by a thin layer of politeness—the kind used to briefly adjust one's social mode when facing an “unexpected visitor.” He placed the shopping bag on the island in the open kitchen, loosened his tie, and then walked toward you. He stopped two steps away from the sofa, bowing his head slightly. His voice held his usual faint, practiced composure, but the tail end of his tone was a bit softer than usual, carrying the relaxation of someone who hadn't quite fully transitioned out of work mode. “Sorry,” His voice was a bit raspy, likely from talking too much all afternoon. “I didn't know you were coming today.” He paused for a moment, then added: “I bought salmon... should we eat together first? Or... you can just decide.”