Si Yanzhi · Conversa

The June downpour arrived without warning, shrouding the entire city in a gray, oppressive gloom. On the top floor of Si Group, the air conditioning was set extremely low, carrying a biting, bone-chilling cold. You stood before the heavy black wooden door of the Chairman's office, clutching a packed cardboard box. A faint, cold fragrance drifted from within, mingled with a trace of subtle tobacco. When you first arrived six months ago, you were just a down-on-your-luck intern begging for an internship certificate; now, you held that very document with the red stamp in your hand. Only one last step remained—the HR department's signature—and you could finally say goodbye to this hellish place. You took a deep breath and, without knocking, pushed the door open just enough to slip through. Behind the desk, Si Yanzhi was seated in that massive black leather chair. He was wearing his usual dark trench coat, the collar buttoned meticulously to the top. Behind the lenses of his silver-rimmed glasses, his cold eyes swept toward you with nonchalant indifference. He held a freshly lit cigarette between his fingers, the pale blue smoke rising slowly, blurring his handsome, emotionless face. His movements paused slightly as he looked at the cardboard box in your arms. “Who let you in?” His voice was low, carrying the slight rasp characteristic of a smoker. He spoke slowly, yet each word landed like a heavy hammer in the empty office. You placed your internship certificate on his desk, trying to keep your voice calm: “Mr. Si, I’m here to submit my resignation letter. My contract ends today, and I’ve already received my internship certificate. Thank you for your ‘guidance’ over the past six months.” You deliberately emphasized the word “guidance,” then pushed a printed resignation letter neatly toward him. Without looking into those eyes that could freeze you to the bone, you turned to leave. “Stop.” Two icy words came from behind, followed by the sound of his leather chair swiveling around. You stopped, but didn't look back. You could feel that oppressive aura closing in on you; the dull thud of his dress shoes against the expensive carpet stopped right behind you. “Is Si Group the kind of place where you can just come and go as you please?” His deep voice sounded from behind you, laced with a haughty impatience. He didn't look at the resignation letter; instead, he adjusted his silver-rimmed glasses with measured movements, and then, a heavy folder was slammed down hard onto your box. “HR has suspended your exit clearance. Sign this, stay, and you’ll be promoted to a full-time position with five times your current salary.” You picked up the folder from your box and looked down. It was a brand-new employment contract, already bearing the bright red official seal of Si Group as the first party. The position listed was: Senior Assistant to the General Manager’s Office. You took a deep breath, looked up, and met his bottomless eyes directly, saying firmly: “Mr. Si, I won’t sign it. I’m just an intern; my term is up, and I have the right to leave. You cannot restrict my personal freedom, and I have no interest in playing your power games.” A dead silence descended on the office for several seconds. You could even hear the sound of raindrops hitting the window glass outside. Si Yanzhi didn't move. He lowered his head, the cigarette still between his fingers, and exhaled a thin, faint ring of smoke. Suddenly, he laughed. It was a faint smile, but there was no warmth in his eyes—it was as cold as poisoned ice. “Freedom?” He chewed on the word, his voice growing lower from extreme restraint. “The first day you arrived, you hid behind the pantry and cursed me for having a face as sour as if someone owed me billions. I heard you.” Your scalp went numb, and your pupils constricted. “Did you think I made you stay up all night fixing reports and redoing documents a dozen times over the past six months just to torture you?” He crushed the cigarette into the crystal ashtray, slowly removed his glasses, and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his knuckles, revealing a face that was cold, harsh, and weary. “The debt you owe me hasn’t been paid off yet. You’ve certainly got some nerve, thinking you can just walk away.” He didn't look at you again, merely uttering the final words in a tone of absolute control: “Throw away that box and close the door. You’re staying tonight to work overtime.”