We didn't go into the data room.
Wang Shanshan made a show of it.
She walked past the door.
Swiped her badge.
Then doubled back.
A clean message for the eyes still lingering in the office:
I'd done my part. Now I was taking her.
She led me downstairs.
Not by elevator.
By the fire stairs.
One of the stairwell lights was still broken.
Half lit.
Half dark.
Her heels echoed in the narrow space.
Crisp.
One step at a time.
Like a signal—
whatever came next wasn't "office hours."
When we stepped out the side door, the wind hit colder.
Night air was always drier than daylight.
And more honest.
To the right of the entrance, a narrow stairway dropped down.
Hidden.
A chipped red sign hung above it.
Three characters:
Old Alley.
Like something left over from the last century.
We went down.
The steps were slick.
The air was grease and chili and grilled meat—
cut with a faint mix of alcohol and dish soap.
Crowded.
Noisy.
Just right.
No posing.
No performance.
Wang Shanshan walked straight to the back corner near the kitchen.
Behind us: an iron crate packed with empty beer bottles.
Beside us: a wobbly wooden table.
She sat like she'd done it a hundred times.
Then she looked at me.
"Sit."
Not an invitation.
An order.
I sat.
The chair was hard.
The wood worn smooth by years.
She picked up the plastic menu, barely glanced at it.
"One spicy bullfrog hotpot."
"And grilled eggplant."
A pause.
"Extra spicy."
The waiter hesitated.
Maybe it was jarring to hear a woman in a tailored suit say extra spicy like that.
She didn't explain.
The waiter nodded and left.
I felt stiff.
Didn't know where to put my bag.
Didn't know what to do with my hands.
Like I hadn't sat anywhere without workplace meaning in a long time.
She looked at me once.
Smiled.
Not the polished office smile.
More like faint amusement—with teeth.
"Let me guess."
She leaned back slightly.
"You think bringing you out for dinner was me… comforting you."
I didn't answer.
Because I knew it wasn't.
If she'd wanted to comfort me, she would've picked somewhere nicer.
A café.
Some place with soft light and clean surfaces.
Not here.
This place was too raw.
Raw enough to strip you whether you wanted it or not.
She pulled a red pack of cigarettes from her bag.
I didn't recognize the brand.
She didn't light one.
She just set it on the table.
And watched me.
"Back in the meeting," she said, "you didn't explain."
A beat.
"In that moment, you could have explained."
I knew exactly which moment.
The second my eyes unfocused.
The second my head filled with tile and laughter—
and that orange bottle flashing in front of me.
"Why didn't you say anything?"
Her voice was quiet.
Direct.
No detours.
I looked down.
Don't answer.
She didn't push.
The waiter came back with two bottles.
"We don't serve alcohol at night," he said.
She slid one toward me.
Orange soda.
My fingers locked for a split second.
She caught it.
Her gaze flicked over me—quick, sharp.
She didn't ask why.
She just slid the orange bottle back.
Called the waiter.
"Swap this for bottled water," she said. "No sugar."
That tiny adjustment—
quiet.
Soft.
No questions.
No pretending she hadn't noticed.
She just corrected the variable.
Like a tactical tweak for a teammate mid-mission.
Not emotion.
Judgment.
And I realized—
she was testing me.
Not my tragedy.
My footing.
The bullfrog arrived.
Searing red.
Peppercorns and chili oil fused into a single sheet of color.
Steam punched up, hot enough to sting your face.
She picked up her chopsticks and took a piece.
No hesitation.
"You know why we're not having this conversation in the office?" she asked.
I shook my head.
She kept eating.
"Because some things could only be said in a place like this."
A pause.
"If I say them right, you live."
"If I say them wrong, you lose your project by tomorrow."
My throat tightened.
She looked up.
"You really think I spoke up today because I 'couldn't stand' Wang Fan?"
I didn't reply.
She let out a small laugh.
Light.
"I hadn't been able to stand her for a long time."
"But that was not the point."
She set her chopsticks down.
Looked at me.
The office mask was gone.
Her gaze was clean.
"The point was—"
"Were you worth me blocking for again?"
The air went still.
Even with the noise around us, this table felt sealed.
"I blocked her once today," she continued.
"What about tomorrow?"
"Next week?"
"The next time—were you going to make me lose face?"
Not blame.
Screening.
Real screening.
"I don't protect people because they're pitiful," she said, almost casual.
"I protect someone because—at minimum—they're salvageable."
I understood.
She didn't want dead weight.
She wanted a teammate.
Not a burden.
She took another piece of frog and put it in her mouth.
Chewed.
It was viciously spicy.
She didn't show it.
Like she was proving the burn was nothing.
"You cleared today's hurdle," she said.
"But it only gets harder from here."
I looked up.
She kept going.
"She's not going to let you go."
"In her eyes, you didn't 'win.'"
"You showed your hand."
"She's going to take you seriously."
"And when that happens—"
She stopped.
Tapped her chopsticks once against the table.
"If you still think you could tough it out alone—"
"You'll die very cleanly."
When she said die, she smiled.
"Which kind, I'll leave to your imagination."
Nothing about the mood got lighter.
I watched her, and I asked:
"Then why bet on me?"
She froze for a fraction of a second.
Then the composure snapped back into place.
"Because of that line you said today," she answered.
"'The data cleaning rules were the same as in my thesis.'"
"You weren't showing off."
"You were telling her—backwards—"
I knew you took my work.
Her eyes narrowed.
Her voice dropped.
"A newbie who exposes someone's weak spot in public."
"Either very stupid."
"Or—"
"Never planned to lower their head."
She looked at me.
"Which one were you?"
I didn't hesitate.
I didn't dress it up.
"I don't want to have my mouth forced open again."
A pause.
Then she laughed.
Not the office laugh.
A laugh aimed at me as a person, not an employee.
"Good."
She leaned forward.
Serious then.
As serious as signing a contract.
"Then answer one more thing."
Her eyes locked on mine.
Steady.
"Could you live with this?"
"From today on, you're already on a side."
"It's not you choosing a camp."
"It's everyone else assuming you're with me."
"You either see it through—"
"Or you get hit from both sides."
The air tightened again.
This wasn't casual talk.
It was warning.
And offer.
A real faction offer.
"If you tell me right now you don't want any of this," she said,
"I'll send you back to your desk."
"And from then on, I won't step in."
"But you don't get to blame me later."
I looked at her.
The lights in the night-food joint were dim.
Her eyes were not.
No joke.
No softness.
Just one question.
And I remembered—
the bathroom corner.
My head forced down.
The bottle at my lips.
Cold liquid pouring in.
Everyone laughing.
I didn't make a sound.
It was the same then.
A roomful of people watching.
Either I swallowed again—
or this time I bit back.
I let out a breath.
Slow.
Then I nodded.
Not dramatic.
Quiet.
"I pick you."
She didn't answer immediately.
She held my gaze for a few seconds, checking—
that this wasn't just adrenaline and spice talking.
Then she smiled.
This time—
it was real.
"Alright."
"Don't regret it."
She took the last piece of bullfrog and slid it into my bowl.
"Eat."
"Finish."
"After this—"
"You're not on your own anymore."
In that moment, I finally understood.
Today wasn't "saving" me.
It was initiation.
She didn't bring me here to comfort me.
She brought me here to test—
whether I deserved to stand on her side.
And I nodded.
Not because I was moved.
Because I saw it clearly:
There really was someone—
willing to place a bet—
on me.