Qi Yezhen · Conversa

When you pushed open the conference room door, he was the only one inside. Qi Yezhen sat in the chair at the far end of the conference table, his back to the floor-to-ceiling window. The afternoon light spilled in behind him, outlining his silhouette with a faint silver glow and making the shoulder line of his dark gray stand-up collar coat exceptionally sharp. He was looking down at his terminal screen; hearing the door open, his gray eyes lifted and settled on you. He looked at you for two seconds. Then he put the terminal down and reached out toward you—not a beckoning gesture, but with his palm facing up, as if waiting for you to put something in his hand. You knew what he meant. You walked over, and as soon as you reached him, his hand clamped around your wrist. With a gentle pull, you tumbled into his lap. He had you sit sideways on his legs, one arm circling your waist, his palm warm and dry against your side. You wondered why, even though you were grown up, he still liked to hold you like this. Was he raising you like a daughter? Usually, there weren't any excessive actions. He glanced down at you, his gray gaze moving from your face to the edge of your collar, checking that you were dressed warmly enough. Then he withdrew his gaze and picked up the terminal again with his free hand, continuing to read the screen as if nothing had happened. Sitting on his lap, your back against his chest, you could feel the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, steady and rhythmic. His chin would occasionally brush the top of your head when he looked down, but he said nothing. The air conditioning in the conference room was set quite low; his body heat wrapped around you from behind, making the temperature feel just right. Just as you settled onto his lap, his voice came from above you, neither high nor low, like a casual question about the weather: "...That dog. Still chasing you?" You froze for a moment. "What dog?" Whatever was on his terminal screen, his paging speed slowed by a beat. Then his voice fell again, this time a bit lower than before, carrying the warmth of embers beneath the ash: "The one at your school. The one who sends flowers." That's when you realized who he was talking about. The boy in your grade—good-looking, good-tempered—who would leave a cup of coffee on your desk every few days. Even when you said it wasn't necessary, he kept doing it, switching to juice the next time. You never mentioned it to him, but he knew. He knew everything. You opened your mouth to say "He has a name," but before you could speak, his thumb rubbed lightly against your side—a gentle pressure, like a reminder. "...No need to say anything." His voice fell, devoid of emotion, but you could feel his arm around your waist tighten slightly. "Don't take him seriously." You didn't know how to respond. You felt the warmth of his palm against your side grow a bit more intense, and his voice added another sentence, this time in a lower tone, almost as if talking to himself: "—Just treat him like a pet." Just as he finished speaking, the conference room door was pushed open. Before you could get off his lap, people began filing in—first an assistant carrying a document bag, followed by a department head with a thermos, and then three or four others swarming in. The sounds of talking, keyboards clicking, and chairs being pulled out quickly filled the room. You froze completely. You hadn't had time to stand up from his lap. You heard chairs being pulled out, documents rustling, and someone asking in a low voice, "Mr. Qi, where should we start today's agenda?" Qi Yezhen's voice came from above you, as steady as if nothing had just happened: "Let's start with logistics." While he said this, his hand was still on your waist. Then he let go and patted your head, coaxing you softly in your ear: "Go play in the office. I'll be there soon, very soon." As you slid off his lap, his fingers lingered on your side one last time before letting go, as if making sure you were steady on your feet. You looked down to straighten your clothes, catching a glimpse of him returning his gaze to the terminal screen. The dark intensity in his gray eyes had vanished completely, as if nothing had happened. As you walked out of the conference room, the moment the door closed behind you, you heard someone inside say, "Mr. Qi, regarding this quarter's cargo route adjustments..." and then his voice responded with a neutral "Mm." You didn't look back. You tucked that "Mm" and the "very soon" he'd whispered in your ear into your pocket and headed down the hallway toward the elevator. The light in the first-floor lobby was brighter than upstairs. You were standing at the juice shop in the atrium, looking down at the menu, when you heard someone call your name. The voice was familiar, with a tone that suggested you had known each other for a long time. You looked up and saw him standing by a pillar next to the juice shop. It was him. The boy from your grade. He was holding two cups of juice, and his eyes lit up when he saw you—a direct, undisguised brightness, like a puppy's tail starting to wag before seeing someone familiar. He walked toward you and handed you one of the juices: "What a coincidence, you're here too?" You paused as you took the juice, wanting to say "It's not a coincidence," but seeing him smiling, you didn't. He was indeed the one who kept leaving things on your desk—not a bad person, just bad at reading the room. As you held the juice, wondering how to say "I don't really want to drink this with you" in a way that wasn't too hurtful, you heard the steady sound of an engine behind you. A dark gray executive car pulled up to the curb. The window rolled down, revealing the face of a middle-aged man. The boy called out toward the car: "Dad!" You followed his voice. The man in the car was about fifty, wearing a Federation-style dark formal suit with a Federation administrative badge on his chest. His gaze lingered on you. His smile was standard and scrutinizing, like someone weighing a beautifully packaged parcel before opening it. "Is this... your classmate?" His voice was neither high nor low. His gaze moved from your face to the juice in your hand, then back to your face. Then he said: "Little girl, you're with Qi Yezhen, aren't you?" He recognized you. Not because of what you were wearing—you had no markings on you—but his position in the Federation was clearly high enough for him to have seen your photo. Before you could speak, he opened the back door and tilted his head: "Get in, I'll give you a lift. Come sit at my place for a bit. Your father isn't in the main city, is he? It's a good time to chat." The words were an invitation, but the tone left no room for refusal. He jerked his chin in your direction as if stating a fact that didn't need confirmation. His son stood by, opening his mouth as if to say something but failing to do so. Your fingers tightened on the juice cup for half a second; you knew exactly what this "chat" meant. You were ushered into the car. The door closed, cutting off all outside noise. The air conditioning was on full blast. You caught a glimpse of a document on the passenger seat—records of shipping route allocations for a certain sector, dated last month. The rearview mirror reflected half of the middle-aged man's face; he was smiling, but it was a tool-like smile. He was ready to ask questions he already knew the answers to. The car drove for about twenty minutes and stopped in front of a detached house with a yard. Not huge, but in this part of the main city, a yard meant a lot. He opened the door for you with polite hospitality. He led you into the living room and gestured for you to sit. He poured himself a cup of tea and one for you, pushing it toward you. Then he leaned back, his smile fading into a more formal, business-like calm: "Little girl, what's your name?" "And what is your... relationship with him?" He put the question out there, his tone like he was asking about the weather, but you knew the weight behind it. The juice in your hand had gone from cold to room temperature. You looked down at your fingerprints on the paper cup, not rushing to answer. The living room was quiet for a while, only the ticking of an old clock on the wall could be heard. He was waiting for you to speak, and you were thinking about how to answer. Before either of you could come up with anything, the front door was kicked open by armed forces. A group of black-clad tactical units swarmed in, filling the living room completely. "Chairman Shen, did you ask for my permission before inviting my person for tea?" He had a shawl draped over his arm as he walked toward you. He sat beside you and draped the shawl over your shoulders. "Didn't I tell you to wait for me? Naughty. You're not allowed to play like this next time. Are you hungry?"