In a cramped little apartment, the desk lamp cast its pale light over a laptop screen filled with draft lists and red-marked scripts.
The clock on the wall showed ten at night.
Wang Xiaoxi stared at the monitor, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion, fingers restlessly scrolling through the long list of revisions that still needed to be done.
Her phone vibrated on the desk. Without even checking the screen, Xiaoxi already knew who it was.
"Damn it… why is that bald man calling again?" she muttered inwardly, exhaling in resignation before picking it up.
"Hello, Xiaoxi. I just sent the new drama draft to your email. I need you to finish the revisions by tomorrow morning."
Her manager's voice was sharp, businesslike — the kind of tone that didn't take no for an answer.
Xiaoxi stared at her phone, tapping her finger against the desk in frustration.
"Tomorrow morning? Again?!" she grumbled under her breath.
Then louder, half whining, half joking, she said,
"Boss, you're insane! Do you think I'm a machine or what?"
Despite her complaint, her tone carried a sense of familiarity.
They'd worked together for years — more like colleagues who bickered than a manager and subordinate.
But beneath that annoyance, Xiaoxi wasn't the type to whine without doing the job.
With a sigh, she opened her email and clicked the attachment.
The new draft was a battlefield of notes, messy comments, and impatient arrows pointing everywhere. She muttered sarcastically under her breath, but her eyes sharpened with focus.
Tonight, she would fight her war — against words, against deadlines, and against her own exhaustion.
"Alright, alright, don't get mad. I'll give you a bonus tomorrow!"
Her manager's voice cackled through the phone.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah… I'll finish it," she replied dryly, tone calm yet firm — the sound of someone who had long accepted overwork as her fate.
She set the phone down, brightened her desk lamp, and began typing.
Fingers flew across the keyboard, transforming irritation into precision, crafting line after line with mechanical discipline.
Outside, the city glittered with life — but inside that tiny apartment, the night stretched endlessly.
For Wang Xiaoxi, it was another silent battlefield she had to conquer alone — against time, fatigue, and a manager who never seemed to sleep.
The clock ticked closer to three in the morning.
She was still sitting upright, eyes red from staring too long at the screen.
Her fingers moved rapidly over the keys, almost dancing, but no matter how fast she typed, the words never seemed fast enough.
Each sentence felt heavier than the last — every deadline a shadow creeping closer.
She stood up briefly, stretching her sore back, then dropped her face into her hands with a groan.
"Damn it… it's almost morning, and I'm still not done!" she muttered, eyes squeezed shut.
Frustrated, she ran both hands through her messy hair — her signature move whenever panic and anger collided.
"Why does that bald man always send things last minute?!" she growled, pacing the room like a trapped cat.
Then, forcing herself to calm down, she sat again.
Her tired eyes scanned each paragraph, revising dialogue, checking plot flow, tightening details that no one else would probably notice.
Despite her exhaustion, there was a quiet determination in her gaze — she wasn't one to give up, not even to ridiculous deadlines.
She took a long breath, steadied her fingers, and kept typing.
Outside, the city lights blinked.
Inside, time blurred into the rhythmic sound of typing — the heartbeat of someone too stubborn to stop.
By the time the last line was fixed, the clock read 4:30 a.m.
The desk lamp still burned brightly, illuminating the battlefield of her night — coffee stains, scattered notes, open tabs.
Xiaoxi exhaled deeply and leaned back, stretching her stiff shoulders.
"Ahh… finally done, you stupid script," she muttered with relief and lingering irritation.
"If I were rich, I'd never let myself be a corporate slave again…"
The exhaustion in her body felt bone-deep.
With slow, dragging steps, she stumbled to her bed, pulling off her shoes and jacket before collapsing in her worn-out shirt and loose pants.
She didn't even bother to fix the pillow or pull up the blanket.
Sleep claimed her instantly — a deep, dreamless rest earned through sheer willpower.
In the small apartment, the silent laptop sat beside an empty coffee cup, papers scattered across the desk — silent witnesses to a one-woman battle fought and won before dawn.
Only the steady ticking of the clock filled the air, as Wang Xiaoxi finally surrendered to sleep.
The shrill ring of her phone alarm shattered the silence.
Groaning, she reached out blindly to silence it — then froze when her eyes caught the time.
7:00 a.m.
"Oh my god!" she shouted, bolting upright.
Her hair stuck out in every direction, her face pale from lack of rest, and her limbs heavy as if weighed down by bricks.
"I only slept two hours… why did the sun show up so fast?" she grumbled, massaging her temples.
Her eyes darted around the chaotic room — empty mugs, messy notes, and her still-open laptop.
Every corner screamed of last night's chaos.
Without bothering to fix the bed, Xiaoxi rushed to the bathroom.
Cold water splashed over her face, but the fog of exhaustion refused to lift.
In the mirror, she saw herself — tired eyes, disheveled hair — but there was still that stubborn spark that refused to dim.
"I have to get to the office. If I'm late, that bald demon will call again," she hissed, slapping her own cheeks lightly to wake up.
She threw on a simple work outfit — a slightly wrinkled gray blazer, a white shirt, and black pants.
While buttoning up, she grabbed her laptop and stuffed stray documents into her bag.
Then, with one last glance at the messy desk, she dashed out the door.
Her shoes weren't even tied properly as she hurried down the narrow stairs.
The city was already alive — car horns, rushing footsteps, and the warm scent of coffee wafting from a shop at the corner.
As she sprinted toward the bus stop, she spotted the bus she usually took pulling away just a few meters ahead.
Her day had barely begun — and yet, she already knew:
it wasn't going to be any easier than last night.