The soft ticking of the clock pressed against Shu Yao's skull like a pulse.
Papers lay scattered across his desk—neat columns of Bai Qi's appointments, calls, and meetings. He had rewritten the schedule twice, afraid a single mistake might stain the fragile trust he was rebuilding.
His head throbbed. A low, dull ache behind his eyes, the kind that made the world blur around the edges. Still, he typed. Each keystroke sounded louder than the last.
Then his phone rang.
He startled, nearly knocking over his coffee cup. The shrill tone sliced through the hush of the office. Without glancing at the number, Shu Yao lifted the phone to his ear.
"Hello—this is Shu Yao speaking. How may I—"
"Ohh," came a lilting, affectionate voice. "It's really you, Shu Yao!"
He froze. The voice was oddly familiar. "I—may I ask who's speaking?"
A light laugh followed, soft and warm. "My, you've grown polite. I'm Bai Mingzhu. Bai Qi's mother."
Shu Yao shot upright in his chair despite the pain that lanced through his head.
"M-Madam Bai!" he stammered. "Yes—yes, ma'am, how may I—"
"Stop calling me ma'am, dear," she interrupted kindly. " just Auntie will do."
His pulse skipped. The sound of her voice—so genuine, so motherly—unraveled something in him. Slowly, awkwardly, he sank back into the chair, one hand pressed against his temple.
"I… of course, Auntie."
"That's better," she said with a smile he could hear. "I just wanted to make sure you're all right. things must be difficult these days. I shouldn't have burdened you with so much responsibility—but Bai Qi's been feeling rather lonely lately. You understand, don't you? And He's very fond of you."
Shu Yao's hand tightened around the phone.
His fevered cheeks flushed darker—not only from pain. The word fond sent a ripple through his chest, sharp and bittersweet.
"Yes," he said finally, voice hoarse but steady. "Rest assured, Auntie. I'll take care of everything."
"Oh, how wonderful!" Mingzhu's delight bubbled through the line. "When we return to China, I'll bring you a little gift, all right?"
"No—no, Auntie, that's not necessary." Shu Yao tried to sound respective, though the sound trembled. "Besides, Bai Qi is my best friend. Looking after him is only natural."
The moment the words escaped, regret crashed through him. Best friend.
A title Bai Qi himself had stripped away months ago.
There was a pause on the line—only the faint hum of distance between them. Then Mingzhu sighed softly. "Don't say it like that, dear."
In the background, a man's deeper voice, Bai Qi's father—spoke lightly to her: "It's about time, Mingzhu."
She smiled into the phone. "All right then, Shu Yao. I'll let you get back to work. Take care of yourself, hmm? Don't overwork."
"of course," Shu Yao said quietly. "Goodbye, Auntie."
"Goodbye, dear."
The line went dead.
For a long moment, the office was silent except for the soft hum of the computer. Shu Yao lowered the phone, his fingers trembling. The ache in his head had sharpened into a throb that pulsed behind his eyes.
He pressed his palm to his forehead. Coffee, he thought hazily. I need coffee.
When he tried to stand, the floor tilted. His legs felt weak, the world faintly spinning. But he forced himself upright—because that's what an assistant did. Because collapsing was not an option.
He crossed the office with slow, deliberate steps. The light overhead flickered once, catching on the sheen of sweat across his temple. He poured coffee into the cup with shaking hands, the dark liquid rippling.
Steam rose, curling in the air like a phantom.
Shu Yao closed his eyes, steadying his breath.
Somewhere far above, the city continued to hum—the world indifferent to the boy standing alone in an office, trembling beneath fluorescent light, clutching a cup as though it were the only warmth left to him.
When Shu Yao returned to his office, the light felt heavier somehow—like a weight pressing through the blinds.
He placed the coffee cup on his desk, its porcelain clinking faintly, the sound small yet grounding.
For a moment, he sat still, staring at the stack of papers before him. Bai Qi's schedule was immaculate—every minute measured, every breath accounted for.
He took a sip. Then another.
The warmth scorched his throat but couldn't melt the ache in his skull.
Outside, the hallway murmured with footsteps and purpose. Inside, time seemed to drag its feet.
When the last drop of coffee was gone, Shu Yao stood abruptly, gathering his tablet and the schedule binder. His legs protested beneath him—weak, trembling, still recovering from the fever he refused to acknowledge. But he moved anyway.
He joined the current of workers streaming toward the boardroom, confusion flickering through the crowd like candlelight in wind.
"What's going on?" someone whispered.
"Boss called for a sudden meeting," another replied, anxious.
"God, please—not another workload dump."
Shu Yao followed them in silence, trying to steady his breath. His pulse thudded behind his temples as he entered the vast glass-walled room.
The air was tense. Expectant.
A dozen chairs lined the obsidian-crystal table that gleamed beneath the overhead lights like frozen ink.
He took a step forward, tablet in hand, unsure where to stand. The seat at the head of the table—the boss's seat—felt too close, yet somehow pulled him like gravity itself.
Then came Armin.
He entered first—sleek, unbothered, his usual smirk now sharpened into something almost predatory. His presence carried that effortless dominance that made people shrink or stare; no one lingered in between. His gaze, cold and deliberate, skimmed the room.
Behind him, Bai Qi stepped in.
The murmuring stopped. Instantly.
Every breath in the room seemed to freeze in reverence or fear—no one could quite tell which.
Shu Yao lowered his head, instinctively.
He didn't want Armin to notice him—not when that man's gaze always found a way to slice through him like polished steel. Armin's disdain was a quiet cruelty, and Shu Yao had no strength left for humiliation.
Bai Qi moved toward the head seat and sank into it, elegant yet terrifyingly calm. His expression was unreadable—a mask cut from shadow and porcelain.
He crossed his arms. Leaned forward. Spoke.
"So," Bai Qi began, his tone smooth as glass. "Does anyone here know why you've been summoned?"
A few hesitant no's rippled through the room.
Heads shook. Someone coughed. Another whispered, "What's happening?"
Bai Qi leaned back slowly, his hand resting on the table. The gesture looked casual, but his knuckles were taut beneath the skin.
"Good," he said. "Then let me enlighten you."
He gestured toward Shu Yao.
"This," he said, voice echoing faintly in the glass room, "Shu Yao."
Dozens of eyes turned.
For a heartbeat, Shu Yao forgot to breathe. His name—spoken aloud by Bai Qi, in that tone—felt strange, dangerous. He lifted his gaze without meaning to, caught between confusion and dread.
Bai Qi's lips curved into something faint, almost resembling a smile, though there was nothing kind about it.
"Do you all know who he is?" he continued. "He is my new personal assistant."
Murmurs again—soft, bewildered. Someone whispered too loudly, "He looks too young for that." Another hissed, "Didn't know the boss even had a new assistant."
The murmuring died the instant Bai Qi's voice shifted—colder now, with a quiet, cutting cruelty.
"Since he is my assistant," Bai Qi said, "no one will speak to him."
A pause. Then disbelief rippled through the air.
He continued, every word measured like a blade being honed.
"No one will talk to him. No one will help him. No one will even look at him."
Shu Yao froze.
He thought he must have misheard. But Bai Qi wasn't done.
"If anyone dares," Bai Qi said, his voice deepening, "they'll lose their position. Instantly."
A gasp here. A stifled curse there. Fear slithered across the room, palpable and sudden. Even Armin's cold expression faltered, his brow furrowing at the sharp unfamiliarity of his brother's tone.
"Is that understood?" Bai Qi said softly. Too softly.
No one moved.
Then—
His palm slammed onto the obsidian table.
The sound cracked through the silence like thunder.
"Is that understood?!"
"Yes!" the room echoed in unison. A trembling chorus of obedience.
Even Shu Yao flinched. His heart stumbled in his chest, his vision flickering at the edges. He clutched the tablet tighter, terrified that if he let go, it might shatter—like everything else in this room.
Bai Qi leaned back again, calm once more, the storm vanishing from his face as though it had never existed.
"Good," he murmured. "That will be all."
The employees scattered—silent, hurried, not daring to look at Shu Yao.
He stood frozen by the door, the chill of betrayal crawling beneath his skin.
He didn't understand.
Why would Bai Qi—his Bai Qi—publicly isolate him like this?
As the last person left, the boardroom grew quiet again. Only the faint hum of the city below filled the air. Shu Yao's reflection shimmered faintly on the black glass table, pale and distant, like someone he no longer recognized.
The boardroom was almost empty now.
Only three people remained—Bai Qi, Armin, and Shu Yao.
The silence was too clean. Too polished. Like glass that had seen blood once and had it wiped away.
Shu Yao tried to steady his breathing.
He could still hear the echo of Bai Qi's words in his head, the venom of them curling under his ribs. No one will speak to him.
He wanted to shake it off, to pretend it didn't matter.
He was here to work—nothing more, nothing less.
He took one step forward and spoke, voice trembling despite himself.
"Sir, your schedule—"
Before he could finish, Bai Qi snatched the tablet from his hands.
The movement was quick. Dismissive.
Bai Qi's expression didn't change—eyes half-lidded, mouth indifferent, the portrait of a man utterly bored with the world.
But Armin saw the flicker—just for a heartbeat—something cruelly alive beneath that stillness.
Shu Yao froze where he stood.
His fingers tingled from where the tablet had been ripped away.
Armin's gaze drifted toward him then—just once.
He saw the faint trembling of Shu Yao's shoulders, the way his cheeks burned a fevered red. Sweat clung to his brow. He looked half-drowned, half-lost.
Armin turned away quickly.
He didn't want to remember. Didn't want to see the ghost of the boy he once pitied—the boy who'd been at that scene.
Bai Qi flipped through the schedule as though reading something meaningless. His lips curved into a faint line.
The room's temperature seemed to drop.
"Shu Yao," Bai Qi said.
The tone had changed. The calm gone. The voice now low, sharp, dangerous—the kind that made the air forget to move.
Shu Yao flinched. "Y-yes, sir?"
"Do you know," Bai Qi said slowly, "why I did that?"
His words slithered through the space between them.
Shu Yao blinked, uncertain, his pulse trembling in his throat.
"I—"
"I'm asking you a question."
The words cracked like a whip.
Shu Yao's breath hitched. "I'm sorry, sir. I… I don't know."
Bai Qi leaned forward, his jaw tightening, the light catching in his eyes like flint.
"Because," he said, voice like steel dragged across stone, "you didn't deserve it."
The sentence landed like a blow.
For a second, the room tilted.
Shu Yao's hands reached instinctively for the table, fingers pressing into the cold surface as if to anchor himself to the world.
"I—" he started, but his voice faltered.
Bai Qi's mouth twisted. "Tch." The sound was contempt wrapped in breath.
"What the hell are you doing? Does walking weak in front of me will change anything, huh?"
Shu Yao lowered his head, the veins at his temple pulsing. His skin gleamed with sweat; every inhale came shallow and shaky.
Armin said nothing.
He had seen grief deform people, but this—this version of his brother was something else. A man wearing his own hatred like a disguise, convinced it would keep him from breaking.
Bai Qi's glare sharpened.
"Are you mocking me?" he barked.
Shu Yao opened his mouth, then closed it. He wanted to say no, to explain, to tell him the fever had been burning through him since last night, but the words caught somewhere in his throat.
His vision pulsed black around the edges. The lights above him blurred, melting into pale halos.
"I— am sorry sir…" he whispered, though he clearly wasn't.
Then his knees bent slightly—his balance slipped.
He caught himself on the table again, the cold biting through his palm.
Bai Qi stood abruptly, fury flaring in his eyes.
"will collapsing in front of me will erase your sins?"
Shu Yao's breath trembled. "No… sir… I just—"
He swallowed hard, pain prickling behind his eyes. "May I… use the bathroom for a moment… sir?"
His voice was barely a whisper.
Bai Qi's expression hardened further. His anger was almost theatrical now—except the tremor in his fingers betrayed it wasn't all performance.
"Pathetic," he muttered. "Get out of my sight."
Shu Yao bowed slightly, clinging to what little dignity he could gather, and turned. His steps were unsteady.
Armin didn't move. Didn't speak.
He stared down at the stack of unimportant files before him as though they might save him from this moment.
Shu Yao reached the door, hand trembling as it met the cold metal handle.
Bai Qi didn't look up.
He just said, almost too quietly, "If you're going to fall apart, do it somewhere else where I don't have to see."
The words followed Shu Yao out like smoke.
He walked the hallway in silence, the world tilting slightly with every step.
Each breath hurt. The lights overhead blurred, his heartbeat hammering like fists against glass.
Inside the boardroom, Armin finally lifted his gaze.
He looked at his brother—this man of calm cruelty—and for a fleeting instant, he saw the crack beneath the mask.
Something still burning, still grieving, still lost in that same night she had died.
Armin wanted to speak—wanted to say enough—but the words stayed buried, where regrets slept.
Bai Qi sat again, elbows on the table, eyes empty.
His hand still trembled faintly against the tablet Shu Yao had touched.
He hated that it did.
Because beneath all that anger, beneath the noise of vengeance and loss, one truth clawed quietly inside him—
It wasn't revenge that hurt.
It was remembering that he once cared.