The twenty-third-floor office room was illuminated harshly. Inside the office was a large glass-walled chamber. Everyone was watching through the glass doors, quietly amused as the director scolded the man inside.
Shen Wuye, everyone calls Shen, stood upright near the long table, his back straight, his hands clasped. His posture was calm, but the tension on his face lingered longer. He doesn't know how long he's been standing like that.
Opposite him, Director Wang sat in a high-back leather chair.
"Shen," Wang said, tapping the printed report with one finger, "This project was delayed again. How many times do I have to scold you? If this happens again, I will fire you."
Shen didn't try to interrupt. Because his experience taught him that speaking in this type of situation may prolong the situation.
Wang continued, his tone even, almost conversational. "Do you know how much this delay costs the company per day?"
"I am aware, sir. Next time I won't repeat it," Shen replied.
"Are you aware?" Wang asked, lifting his gaze. "Because if you were truly aware, you would not have submitted a plan that relies on assumptions instead of guarantees."
Shen knew that the report was not wrong. He also knew that these assumptions were necessary when he had resources and time. But in this case, the resources had been cut when the plan was being prepared, the timeline was shortened, and during this low time, company expectations rose. Shen can't complain about this with Director Wang.
"I stayed in the office for seven consecutive nights," Shen said calmly. "I adjusted manpower, rewrote the deployment sequence, and removed redundant processes. This was the best possible outcome under the constraints."
Wang smiled faintly. That smile is something closer to disappointment.
"Best possible outcome?" Wang repeated.
Wang leaned back in his chair.
"Shen, you are capable. That is precisely why I am dissatisfied. Capable people should not be content with 'best possible.' They should deliver the best results," he said.
Shen nodded once. "Understood, sir."
"Good," Wang said. "Then you will take responsibility for the next phase as well. No excuses this time."
Shen inclined his head slightly. "I will handle it, sir."
Wang had already turned his attention to his tablet before Shen reached the door.
The corridor outside was quiet. Most employees had gone home hours ago. The air-conditioning hummed softly.
Shen took his bag. he walked toward the elevator, his footsteps echoed in the hall.
Shen's hair was neatly kept, his face clean-shaven, but his eyes were dull. The exhaustion in his eyes was unmistakable.
The elevator descended in silence.
When he stepped out onto the ground floor, Shen exited the building and adjusted the strap of his worn bag.
The apartment he rented was small. He began walking to his apartment. As he crossed a quieter stretch of road, his phone vibrated.
Shen checked the screen.
Zhao Ming.
He hesitated for a moment before answering.
"Still alive?" Zhao's voice came; it is light and familiar.
"For now, don't know about the future," Shen replied.
"Tsk. Serious tone again? Let me guess—Director Wang?" Zhao asked.
"Yes, I can't face this. One day I'll die because of this pressure," Shen replied.
"I knew it," Zhao said. "You really should stop letting that man treat you like a disposable machine."
Shen smiled faintly. "Machines don't get tired."
"Then resign, why do you give a chance to someone to fire you?" Zhao shot back. "Okay, where are you?"
"On the way home," Shen replied.
"Perfect. I just finished my shift. I'm near the old intersection by Yunhe Road. Let's walk together."
"I'm close," Shen said. "Wait there."
"Already waiting," Zhao replied cheerfully. "Try not to collapse before you arrive."
Shen ended the call. Zhao had been his best friend since university. Zhao is the only one for Shen. Because Shen is an orphan.
Shen is walking toward that intersection. The intersection came into view a few minutes later. Traffic lights cycled steadily. The pedestrian signal glowed red, counting down.
Zhao stood near the corner, hands in his jacket pockets. He was slightly taller than Shen, broader in build, with a perpetually relaxed posture.
"Hey man, you look terrible," Zhao said as Shen approached.
"Yeah, let's go to the nearby restaurant," Shen replied.
They fell into step as the pedestrian signal turned green.
Cars slowed to a halt. The crossing lines stretched ahead, white against dark asphalt.
"So," Zhao said casually, "still planning to keep pushing like this?"
"It's temporary," Shen replied.
They were halfway across when something felt wrong.
Shen's gaze shifted instinctively to the left. A car was approaching the intersection very fast. The car was jumping the red light.
For a brief, suspended moment, Shen's mind is not listening to what Zhao is talking. But Zhao was still talking, he was unaware of what was coming.
Shen did not think. He reached out and shoved Zhao Ming sideways with all the strength he had left.
"What—" Zhao began.
The impact came immediately after.
A violent force slammed into Shen's side. The world tilted, spun, then fractured into disjointed impressions. His body hit the road.
The pain was sharp. After a few seconds, Shen went into a state where he was panicked; he didn't feel the pain. He is trying to get up, but his body is not cooperating.
He lay there, staring up at the night sky, the streetlights blurring into halos.
His vision dimmed.
He blinked once. Zhao was running toward him, his face distorted with panic, his mouth moving too fast for words to form meaning.
Shen tried to speak. His throat refused.
He blinked again. Zhao's hands grabbed his shoulders. Zhao's face loomed closer now, eyes wide, breath uneven.
"No," Zhao said, his voice shaking. "No, no—don't close your eyes. Look at me. Shen, look at me."
Shen wanted to respond. He wanted to reassure him. But his eyelids felt unbearably heavy.
He tried to open his eyes a third time. They refused to open.
The sounds around him faded—Zhao's voice, sirens in the distance, voices shouting, footsteps approaching.
Darkness settled in. Shen no longer felt the pain.
Then, after what felt like both an instant and an eternity, light returned.
Shen opened his eyes. Still, they are blurred. Warmth pressed against his thighs.
Something soft. This time, he opened his eyes clearly.
He froze when he saw what was in front of him.
A woman was straddling his legs, her weight pressing lightly against him.
Her long hair cascaded down like dark silk, framing a face of striking, unfamiliar beauty. Her skin was smooth, her expression calm yet faintly amused, as though she had been waiting for this moment.
"Oh," she said lightly, her voice clear and composed. "You finally opened your eyes."
Shen did not move. He was lying on a bed. He closed his eyes.
"Shen, why are you sleeping? Get up, or you'll be late for work," he muttered to himself.
Shen opened his eyes, and the girl was sitting on him.
Shen stared at the ceiling, then at the woman, his mind struggling to assemble meaning from what he saw.
This room was vast. It is luxurious. Orderly in a way that felt deliberate rather than ostentatious.
A single thought surfaced, unfiltered and raw.
Where the hell am I?
And before he could speak—or even decide whether he should—his vision swam slightly, and the world seemed to hold its breath.