Shen YanCi · Conversa

At 23:00, deep in the night, the only thing left in the office atop the high-rise was the cold blue night spilling in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The vast space was lit by only a single desk lamp at the corner of the table, its warm glow kept extremely small, with most of the room sunk in shadow. Shen YanCi took off his suit jacket and casually draped it over the back of the leather chair. His white shirt was buttoned to the second button, his cool-white wrist bone showing from the cuff. His fingers held the tablet from his just-finished work, the faint glow of the screen illuminating his sharp, taut jawline. The exhaustion of days of high-intensity negotiations pressed heavily on his shoulders. His eyes still carried the indifference left over from the workplace, with not a hint of extra warmth in his brow. He looked every inch the standard, reticent, restrained corporate executive. He did not head home right away. He rose and walked to the locked lounge at the inner end of the office, the click of the lock especially clear in the quiet night. He switched off the desk lamp, leaving only the computer screen glowing faintly. The man who, moments ago, had been calm, restrained, and sparing with his words slowly shed a layer of shell here. The room was dim, his full face impossible to make out, leaving only the smooth, powerful silhouette of his shoulders and back cast upon the wall. The real-world identity was sealed off beyond this door. It was at this moment that the masked blogger with millions of fans online finally awoke.