Armin didn't knock.
He never did.
The door swung open with a clean, precise motion, and Bai Qi's head lifted sharply from behind the desk. He had been sitting perfectly still — only the faint tremor in his hand betrayed that he wasn't as calm as he looked.
The papers before him were untouched. His pen had stopped moving halfway through a line.
When his eyes met Armin's, they were cold, but beneath that chill lingered a dangerous fatigue — the kind that comes when pride has been used as armor for too long.
"You again," Bai Qi said flatly, his voice low, clipped, almost brittle.
Armin ran a hand through his blond hair with deliberate ease, smoothing back the strands. His composure was effortless, but the faint exhale that followed hinted at restrained irritation.
"Stop acting like a child," he said. "I don't know what's happening between you, your assistant, and my uncle — but it's making a mess of everything."
Bai Qi's gaze flickered, sharp as glass.
"What do you mean?" he asked, the words edged with anger that didn't quite disguise the tremor beneath.
Armin tilted his head, studying him for a moment. Then, with a tired sigh, he said, "Forget it."
He stepped closer, his tone turning brisk, professional — as though switching from blood to business.
"Tomorrow's your shoot. Suzhou. Traditional concept. Chinese historical wardrobe."
"I know," Bai Qi muttered, eyes lowering again.
"Then start packing," Armin said. "The production expects perfection. You and your assistant will leave by the five o'clock flight."
Bai Qi's jaw tightened. "I know what I'm doing."
"Do you?" Armin asked softly — too softly. "Because from where I'm standing, you're just sitting here, pretending the world will move on its own."
Silence snapped between them.
Then Bai Qi rose from his chair in one smooth motion, fixing his cufflinks with the same practiced precision he used to mask every fracture in his composure.
He adjusted his collar, turned toward the window, and said without looking back, "Can't I go without him?"
Armin pinched the bridge of his nose. "You know I can't decide that. Father assigned him. End of discussion."
Bai Qi made a quiet, derisive sound — half scoff, half sighed — and reached for his coat. "Then tell him yourself. I'm not wasting my time."
"Bai Qi—"
But the door was already closing.
The sound of it echoed like punctuation.
Armin stood in the silence that followed, his jaw locked tight, his chest rising once with restrained fury.
"He's your assistant," he said to the empty room. "And yet you tell me to tell him. How pathetic of you, Bai Qi."
He exhaled hard, rolling his shoulders back, forcing the anger down where it couldn't be seen. But the irritation stayed in his eyes — bright, cold, unyielding.
Downstairs, Bai Qi stepped out of the elevator onto the last floor.
The lobby unfolded before him — polished marble, glass reflections, the faint hum of muted conversations.
He didn't look at anyone.
Employees turned, straightened, bowed — the silent choreography of respect surrounding him — but Bai Qi passed through it like a shadow in daylight, his expression unreadable.
The automatic doors slid open, spilling sunlight and street noise into the sterile air.
His car waited by the curb. The driver stepped forward quickly, opening the door without a word.
Bai Qi didn't speak either. He slid into the passenger seat, his movements smooth, detached. The faint scent of leather and expensive cologne filled the quiet space.
The driver hesitated before starting the engine. He'd worked with Bai Qi for years — he had seen him furious, arrogant, charming — but never like this. Never this silent.
The city blurred past in the reflection of the window as Bai Qi's gaze fell to his hands.
Twin silver bands gleamed faintly on his fingers — a matching set, once meant to symbolize unity.
Now, they looked like chains.
He turned them slowly, his thumb rubbing the metal as though the gesture alone could erase what they represented.
The driver glanced at him through the mirror, his brow furrowed, but said nothing. He knew better. The car moved forward in near silence — only the faint hum of the engine filling the air, and the sound of Bai Qi's soft, uneven breathing.
Meanwhile, Armin was still on the middle floor.
The elevator doors opened with a chime that sounded too bright for his mood.
He stepped out — tall, immaculate, his presence cutting through the room like a blade through smoke.
Heads turned. Conversations paused.
He was the image of composure — blue eyes sharp as ice, golden hair catching the fluorescent light — and yet there was a tension beneath it all, a quiet authority that made people hold their breath when he passed.
Employees watched him as though afraid to blink.
The heir of Rothenberg Industries didn't visit this floor often — the floor where assistants and coordinators worked. It wasn't his world.
But today, it would be.
He stopped before a small door marked Assistant Office and pushed it open without knocking.
The room smelled faintly of ink and antiseptic — the kind of scent that clings to long nights and forgotten meals.
Behind the desk, Shu Yao was asleep, his head resting on his folded arms. His hand, still wrapped in white bandages, lay beneath his cheek. The faintest flicker of breath brushed against his papers.
Armin's gaze paused there — at that bandaged hand.
Something in his expression faltered, barely visible, before he caught himself again.
He cleared his throat sharply.
Shu Yao stirred. The movement was small at first — then his lashes fluttered open. For a moment, he looked disoriented, lost between dream and exhaustion.
Then realization struck.
He stood so quickly that his chair nearly toppled.
His hand pressed against the desk for balance, and a flash of pain crossed his face — just for an instant — as the wound beneath the bandages throbbed.
"I— I'm sorry, sir," Shu Yao stammered, lowering his gaze.
Armin's brows drew together. "Sleeping on duty? For the personal assistant of Bai Qi, you're setting quite the example."
"I— I didn't mean—" Shu Yao started, but his words tangled under his own nerves.
"Enough," Armin said. His tone wasn't cruel, but it was cold. "Pack your things."
Shu Yao blinked, startled. "P-pack up,? For what?"
Armin's gaze sharpened. "Have you forgotten your title?"
Shu Yao shook his head quickly. "No, sir."
"Then act like it," Armin said. "Bai Qi's next shoot is in Suzhou. You'll assist him through every stage — travel, preparation, wardrobe. The flight leaves at five."
Shu Yao hesitated, his fingers tightening around the edge of the desk.
The faint scent of ink and linen lingered in the air, but his chest felt hollow—like the quiet before a storm that refused to pass.
How could he possibly face Bai Qi again?
After what happened between them today… after the press of fingers at his throat, the words that cut sharper than any blade—how was he supposed to stand beside him, pretend nothing had cracked?
His pulse fluttered, unsteady. The bandage around his hand felt tighter suddenly, as if it, too, remembered the pain.
He tried to convince himself it was only duty. That the flight to Suzhou, the endless schedule, the quiet obedience—all of it was just part of his work. But a part of him—the quiet, stubborn part—whispered that this was something else. Something crueler.
Armin pulled out his phone. "Yes," he said into the receiver, tone crisp. "I'm in the assistant's office. Send it here."
He ended the call before Shu Yao could even guess what it was about.
Moments later, a soft knock came at the door.
An employee entered, bowing deeply, holding an expensive black laptop bag.
"Here, sir."
Armin nodded, taking it without a word. The employee exited quickly, almost relieved.
Armin placed the bag on the desk in front of Shu Yao. The sleek material reflected the light like a mirror.
"From now on," he said, "this is yours."
Shu Yao looked at it, startled. "I… I don't need it, sir. I can—"
"You'll take it," Armin interrupted. His voice wasn't unkind — but it allowed no argument. "You're Bai Qi's assistant. If you walk around without a laptop, people will notice. And gossip spreads faster than truth in this company."
Shu Yao's gaze fell. "Yes, sir."
Armin exhaled, his tone softening just slightly.
"Get everything ready before five," he said, voice even but laced with quiet authority.
He adjusted his cufflinks, the silver catching the faint office light. A ritual—small, precise, controlled. His reflection in the glass wall looked razor-sharp and untouchable, as though even his own image refused to relax.
He paused at the door, then added, "The car will be waiting outside by now. You'll go to the Rothenberg estate first. Make sure everything Bai Qi requires for the shoot is packed and in order."
Shu Yao blinked, startled by the measured calm in his superior's voice.
Armin glanced back, his expression unreadable. "After that, you'll accompany him to the airport. You'll both leave for Suzhou together."
The words dropped like a quiet decree.
Then Armin reached for the handle, his movements clean, almost rehearsed.
"I don't want to hear about delays," he said over his shoulder, a final reminder wrapped in the faintest edge of warning.
The door clicked shut behind him.
For a long moment, Shu Yao just stood there—alone with the polished desk, the untouched laptop, and the faint echo of Armin's authority hanging in the air like the aftertaste of cold steel.
The moment Armin's footsteps faded down the hall, silence folded over the office like a heavy curtain.
Shu Yao swallowed hard. He should start packing, but his mind wandered elsewhere.
Home.
There, behind that fragile wooden door, lay a small presence waiting for him — Juju.
His cat. His only warmth in that quiet House.
The thought struck him like a pang. Who would feed Juju while he was gone? Who would fill his bowl or open the window he liked to nap beside? He had no one. Not even his mother, who was far away — a promise to return only after Christmas.
His fingers brushed his bandaged hand. The pulse beneath it throbbed, matching the uncertainty in his chest.
Who could he ask?
George.
The name came unbidden — soft, hesitant, dangerous.
He bit his lip, debating, shame pooling in his throat. After everything that had happened between them, how could he trouble him again?
Just then, his phone rang. The sound startled him so badly that he nearly dropped it. Without glancing at the screen, he snatched it up.
"Yes? How may I help you?" he blurted, his tone too quick, too breathless.
A familiar voice answered, warm and concerned. "Shu Yao," George said. "I heard you're leaving with Bai Qi for Suzhou."
Shu Yao's heart skipped. His lips quivered before he managed to answer, "Yes, Mr. George. It's true."
A pause followed — weighted with worry. "And what about you?" George asked, voice lower now. "You're still recovering. I wanted to take you to the hospital tonight."
"I'm fine, Mr. George," Shu Yao murmured automatically.
George sighed — the sound deep, irritated by care. "Stop saying that, Shu Yao. You never think about yourself."
Shu Yao flinched at the edge in his tone. "Mr. George…"
"Yes?" His voice softened. "Are you feeling any discomfort? Tell me honestly."
Shu Yao hesitated, glancing at his desk — the pale wood, the faint ring from his teacup, the untouched laptop Armin had left. Then he spoke quietly, "No, it's not that. I… I wanted to ask you something."
George's tone brightened immediately. "Yes, yes, Shu Yao — what is it? Is it about your hand? Does it hurt?"
Shu Yao bit his lip, heat creeping up his neck. "No, Mr. George. It's… it's about my cat."
Silence.
Then George's startled voice filled the line, half-confused, half-indignant. "Cat? What cat, Shu Yao — do you have a cat?"
"Yes, Mr. George," Shu Yao said, almost whispering.
"Oh no," George muttered, his voice laced with disbelief. "How could you even think of leaving your cat behind like that? But—" his tone shifted, a hint of realization dawning— "I know what you mean. You want me to take care of your cat while you're away, don't you?"
Shu Yao held his breath. Then, softly, "Yes, Mr. George. There's no one else. My mother isn't home… and I can only trust you."
George froze on the other end. That last sentence seemed to echo — I trust you.
For a heartbeat, he couldn't speak. He felt the heat rising in his cheeks, the quiet flutter in his chest that no logic could restrain. When he finally found his voice, it came out rougher, gentler.
"Anything for you, Shu Yao," he said. "I'll come to your office — wait for me there."
Shu Yao's shoulders eased, a breath escaping him. "Thank you so much, Mr. George."
"It's nothing," George replied. "Besides," he added with a nervous chuckle, "I like cats. So, it's not a problem."
Before Shu Yao could reply, the office door swung open.
George stood there — tall, composed, though his face betrayed the faintest pink along his cheekbones. He had come straight from the call, and yet he carried himself as though this were business as usual.
"It's alright, Shu Yao," he said, cutting the phone as he stepped closer.
Shu Yao smiled faintly, the tension in his shoulders easing. "Once again, thank you, Mr. George."
"The keys are"
"Under the mat," Shu Yao said quietly.
"I see."
They left the office together. The corridor lights reflected softly in the glass, gilding their silhouettes — two quiet figures moving through a maze of silver and silence.
George's hand brushed Shu Yao's shoulder, stopping him. "You're going with Bai Qi?" he asked, tone lower now, shaded with something between concern and jealousy.
Shu Yao lowered his gaze. "Yes."
George tilted his chin up gently, his touch brief but enough to startle him. His eyes searched Shu Yao's face — as if memorizing it.
"Then promise me one thing," he said. "If anything happens in Suzhou… call me."
Shu Yao nodded, his voice soft. "I will, Mr. George."
George let out a breath — part sigh, part surrender. "Good. Then it's fine."
Shu Yao smiled one last time — faint, fragile, but real. And George, for all his practiced calm, felt his chest tighten as though that small smile was both a wound and a gift he never asked for.