The outer office hummed—phones, footsteps, the soft thrum of money moving through glass and steel.
Song Qingwan paused at the threshold, smoothing an invisible crease from her sleeve before Yancheng's secretary ushered her through with a smile.
"President An is in a meeting," the secretary said, deferential. "He asked that you wait in his office."
Song Qingwan's answering smile was measured, gracious. "Thank you."
Inside, the room was cool and still. The faint scent of cedar polish and ink lingered, precise as the man who worked here. Books on one wall, the skyline on the other.
Nothing out of place—
Except the folder on the desk set slightly askew.
She didn't move at first. The sunlight slid across the polished surface in a neat bar, and in that narrow beam she could see the entire sheet, the clean label typed in black: Phoenix Project.
Her pulse lifted, then settled.
This is what you came for.
