The hum of the air conditioner filled the office—steady, low, and a little too calm for the thoughts that refused to settle.
An Yancheng sat behind his desk, his gaze fixed on the faint steam curling above his untouched tea. The air felt heavy, though nothing in the room had changed. Perhaps it wasn't the air that shifted—but him.
His sister's visit should've been a pleasant interruption. A brief moment of warmth in a day buried under figures and signatures. Yet the way she'd spoken lingered.
Not the words themselves, but the weight beneath them.
Pretending not to see something wrong only delays the collapse.
He had answered with a polite promise—"I'll think about it"—the kind of line meant to close a conversation.
Except it hadn't.
Now, it looped through his mind alike a quiet metronome, keeping time with a discomfort he couldn't name.
He leaned back, eyes drifting to the skyline beyond the window. The city pulsed below, a rhythm of ambition and noise.
