The world came rushing back in a cacophony of shouting mortals, the distant wail of approaching sirens, and the hiss of steam from the crumpled hood of the white van. Iuno Li lay on the wet pavement, her mind a blank slate of pure, adrenaline-fueled shock. The entire event—the screech of tires, the impossible shove, the blur of white metal—had happened too fast for her to properly process.
"Did… did we just…?" she stammered, looking at the steaming wreck.
Aylin, however, was focused on a far more infuriating problem. She pushed herself up, ignoring the stinging pain in her knee, her gaze fixed on the vehicle that had tried to end her second life in the exact same manner as her first. It was in this moment of cold, cosmic fury that the Author chose to chime in, its voice a dry, text-based chuckle in the private theater of her mind.
[Hahahahaha.]
The sound was utterly devoid of humor, a cold, mechanical mockery.
[Fun fact,] the System continued, its tone that of a cheerful, sociopathic tour guide, [historical data for this specific urban quadrant indicates that the Hijet Model 2020 has a 17.3% higher statistical probability of catastrophic brake failure in heavy rain conditions. A significant number of lives have been abruptly concluded by that exact model of truck on days just like this. You really should be more careful.]
Aylin's jaw tightened, her internal monologue a torrent of curses that would have made a demonic legion blush. You find this amusing? You think this is a game? The System was not an indifferent guide. It was an active, malevolent troll, and it was clearly enjoying her suffering.
The chaos of the mortal world was now closing in. A crowd was gathering, their faces a mixture of horror and morbid curiosity. People were pointing, their voices a rising hum. This was not a good place to be. Aylin knew they needed to leave, now, before anyone started asking inconvenient questions about how a slender woman in designer clothes had managed to teleport herself and her companion five feet to the side in less than a second.
She turned to Iuno, who was still sitting on the ground, pale and trembling. "Can you stand?" she asked, her voice a sharp, clipped command.
Iuno tried. She pushed herself up, but her legs, now completely devoid of adrenaline, felt like overcooked noodles. She wobbled and promptly sat back down with a soft 'oof'. "I… I don't think so," she whimpered, looking up at her boss with wide, terrified eyes.
Aylin let out a long, suffering sigh that seemed to contain the weariness of several lifetimes. There was only one logical, efficient solution. Before Iuno could protest, Aylin scooped her up into her arms, the mortal woman feeling as light and insubstantial as a bundle of scrolls.
The world tilted again for Iuno. The shock of the near-death experience was now compounded by the utter, surreal absurdity of being bridal-carried through a crash scene by her terrifyingly fast, and apparently terrifyingly strong, boss. Her shock-addled brain, unable to cope with the impossible reality of the situation, simply short-circuited and chose a new narrative.
This can't be real, she thought, her mind grasping for a logical explanation. I must have hit my head when she pushed me. Or maybe the van did hit me, and this is a very strange, very specific coma dream. Yes. That's it. I'm in a coma. And in my coma, my boss has superpowers and is carrying me to safety. That makes more sense. Having settled on this comforting delusion, she decided to simply shrug it off and go with the hallucination. It was, she had to admit, a rather heroic dream.
Aylin, oblivious to her passenger's internal monologue, was striding away from the scene with a cold, furious purpose, her designer heels clicking angrily on the wet pavement. She had just put a respectable distance between them and the gawking crowd when her mortal body chose, once again, to betray her with its petty, biological needs.
A second, even louder, more insistent, and deeply profound GRRRRUMBLE erupted from her stomach. It was the sound of a body that had run on nothing but adrenaline and recycled coffee and was now demanding immediate payment in the form of calories.
The sound, so real and so mundane, cut right through Iuno's coma delusion. Even in a dream, that sounded hungry. Her brain, now desperately searching for a new anchor in this sea of chaos, latched onto the one solid, comforting plan she had made before the world had tried to run her over.
Her head popped up from Aylin's shoulder, her eyes wide with a desperate, focused urgency. She pointed a shaky finger across the street.
"Aaa!" she squeaked, the sound a mix of terror and inspiration. "There's the ramen shop! Right there! It's still open!"
Aylin looked at the small, steamy restaurant Iuno was pointing at, then down at the whimpering accountant in her arms, then thought of her own traitorous, demanding stomach. Sustenance was the only logical next step. With a final, grim sigh, she adjusted her grip on her terrified number-scribe and strode purposefully across the street.
The chapter ended with the utterly surreal image of Director Aylin Moon, her sleek business suit torn and her knee bleeding, kicking open the door to a humble ramen shop while bridal-carrying her hysterical, rain-soaked employee. The few patrons inside stared, chopsticks frozen mid-air, their mouths agape, as this strange, dramatic, and clearly very hungry duo made their grand entrance.
The interior of the ramen shop was a small, steamy haven against the storm outside. The air was thick with the rich, comforting smell of pork broth and simmering noodles. The handful of other patrons paid them no mind, too focused on their own warm bowls. The sheer, mundane normalcy of the place was the most surreal part of the entire evening.
Aylin set a still-shaking Iuno down on a wooden stool at the counter. The close, warm air seemed to slowly thaw the shock from Iuno's system. She stared at Aylin—at her torn, expensive trousers, the bloody scrape on her knee, and her completely unfazed, almost bored expression—and the reality of the last five minutes crashed down on her again.
"You… your knee is bleeding," Iuno stammered, pointing.
Aylin glanced down at the injury with a look of profound, aristocratic disgust, as if the concrete had committed a grave social faux pas by daring to touch her. "It is a minor inconvenience."
The chef, a burly man with a kind face, placed two steaming, enormous bowls of tonkotsu ramen before them. The aroma was divine. Aylin, having no frame of reference for the food, had simply said, "I will have what she is having," with the air of an empress delegating a minor decision.
For a long time, they ate in a thick, awkward silence, the only sounds the slurping of noodles and the drumming of the rain outside. The hot, salty broth was a grounding force, a simple, nourishing reality in a day of utter chaos. It was Aylin who broke the silence, her voice reverting to the cool, measured tone of a director.
"Miss Li," she began, setting her chopsticks down with a precise click. "The report you were working on. The fiscal insubordination. How are the reconciliations proceeding? Do you often find yourself working such late hours?"
The sudden shift back to work, a topic Iuno understood, was a strange kind of comfort. The question, delivered with a genuine curiosity she had never heard from her boss before, made the dam of her professional frustration burst.
She started shyly, but her passion for the numbers, for the order of it all, quickly took over. "It's… a constant struggle, Director," she admitted, pushing her glasses up her nose. "I send out budget warnings, I flag the unapproved expenses, but… nobody listens. The design team sees me as an obstacle to their 'creative vision.' The project managers just want to keep the clients happy. But the numbers don't lie. We're running at a 12% loss on three major projects because no one wants to follow protocol." She sighed, a sound of deep, weary defeat. "So, yes. I work overtime a lot. I feel like I'm the only one trying to keep the ship from sinking."
As she spoke, Aylin listened, her gaze intense. And something clicked. The messy bun, the thick-rimmed glasses, the fierce, almost fanatical dedication to a thankless, numbers-based job. The quiet frustration, the passion for logistical order in a world of chaotic creatives… it was all so terribly, achingly familiar.
A ghost of a memory, a faint echo from Xue Lian's own soul, surfaced. A different cramped office, in a different, long-dead world. A similar fortress of binders. A brilliant, funny, and perpetually stressed young woman with a messy bun and glasses, who had loved spreadsheets more than people. Her best friend. The one who had sent her the link to a certain web novel with a laughing emoji.
*Mei…?* The thought was an electric jolt, so absurd and impossible that Aylin's composure momentarily faltered.
*What are the odds?\ she thought, her internal logic kicking in, crushing the flicker of impossible hope. *It can't be. It would be a coincidence on a cosmic scale. There are billions of souls in this world. This is a distraction.* She pushed the memory down, her expression hardening once more. *My focus is Lian. Only Lian.*
But her perspective on the young woman before her had irrevocably shifted. This was not just a jittery number-scribe. This was a dedicated, competent professional, a lone warrior fighting for order. This was a soul she recognized, even if it was just an echo.
"Your dedication to maintaining fiscal discipline is commendable, Miss Li," Aylin said, and this time, the praise was utterly sincere. "Order is the foundation of any successful venture, be it a design firm or an empire. Your report will be given the highest consideration."
The genuine validation from her terrifying boss was so unexpected it brought a flush to Iuno's cheeks. "Th-thank you, Director," she stammered, her heart swelling with a fierce, newfound loyalty.
When the meal was done, the rain had lessened to a gentle drizzle. Aylin insisted on escorting Iuno to the transit station, a silent, responsible gesture that further baffled the young accountant. They said their goodbyes, no longer just a boss and an underling, but two people bound by a near-death experience and a shared bowl of noodles.
The next morning, the main conference room at Lunar Designs was thick with tension. The entire design team, led by a flamboyant man named Julian, was present, looking arrogant and annoyed. The project managers were nervous.
Director Aylin Moon entered, her movements a study in cold, silent grace. A small, tastefully applied bandage was visible on her knee, a silent testament to the previous night's chaos. She took her place at the head of the table.
"We are here to discuss the catastrophic budget overages on the Henderson project," she announced, her voice like ice, silencing all murmurs. "I have received a full and incredibly detailed report on every single fiscal transgression." Her cold, penetrating gaze swept over the suddenly nervous-looking designers.
She then looked towards the back of the room, where a junior accountant was usually tasked with taking minutes.
"Miss Li," Director Moon commanded. "You have the floor."
Iuno Li stood up. She clutched her report, her hands trembling slightly. But as she looked at her boss, who gave her a single, almost imperceptible nod of validation, her fear was replaced by a new, steely determination. For the first time, she was not just the keeper of the numbers. She was their champion. And she was about to make them all listen.