The bustle of the conference room receded like the tide.
The muffled sound of high heels on the thick carpet was swallowed by the empty corridor, leaving only the constant low hum of the central air conditioning.
Zong Yi followed half a step behind Yan Hanxie.
The two women walked one after the other in silence down the brightly lit hallway toward the walnut door.
The distance between them was deliberately maintained—neither close nor far—the exact gap that should exist between a subordinate and her superior.
Zong Yi could see the perfectly arranged bun at the back of Yan Hanxie's head, the faint creases that formed in the dark navy suit fabric as she walked, and the left hand hanging at her side, swaying slightly with each movement.
Occasionally, the sandalwood beads slipped a little from the cuff of her sleeve before quickly disappearing again.
No one spoke.
Their footsteps were the only rhythm.
When they reached the door of the president's office, Yan Hanxie stopped. The fingerprint lock recognized her, and the lock clicked softly.
She pushed the door open and walked inside without looking back, heading straight behind the desk.
Zong Yi paused briefly at the doorway before entering as well, closing the door behind her with a backward motion of her hand.
The soft click of the lock sealed the inside and outside into two separate worlds.
The office carried the familiar faint scent—cool and sharp—mixed with the smell of paper and leather.
The blinds filtered the sunlight so the room was bright without being harsh.
Yan Hanxie had already sat down in the high-backed chair.
She tossed the few pages of the so-called "supplementary risk assessment" onto the desk without even glancing at them.
Leaning back, she rested her elbows on the armrests. Her fingertips naturally dropped down, just touching the Buddhist beads around her wrist.
"Lock the door," she said.
Her voice was not loud, yet in the overly quiet space it sounded exceptionally clear.
Zong Yi stood a few steps away from the desk. Hearing that, she raised her eyes to look at Yan Hanxie.
The other woman returned her gaze calmly.
There was no teasing in it, no command. If anything, it seemed plain—yet carried an unquestionable insistence.
A few seconds of silent confrontation.
Zong Yi turned, walked to the door, and reached up to turn the lock gently to the locked position.
Click.
The sound was soft, yet it seemed to drop into the tense air like a stone.
She walked back to where she had stood before. Her hands hung at her sides, her fingertips curling unconsciously.
Yan Hanxie's gaze settled on her—from her still-straight shoulders and back, to her calm face, and finally to her empty wrist.
Her fingers began slowly rolling the first bead.
"Last night," Yan Hanxie began, her voice slowed slightly, as if choosing her words—or perhaps simply opening a casual topic, "I seem to have done something rather inappropriate."
Zong Yi's eyelashes trembled almost imperceptibly.
"What does President Yan mean?"
"A lot of things." Yan Hanxie's fingers moved to the second bead, her tone still calm. "For example, asking a subordinate to pick me up outside of work hours. For example, saying some… improper things while not entirely sober."
She paused, her finger stopping on the third bead. Then she lifted her eyes and looked straight at Zong Yi.
"Or for example, leaving something behind in a rather inappropriate way."
Her gaze drifted faintly over the area beneath Zong Yi's collar—where the silver collar pin sat—then slid toward the wrist hanging at her side.
The line of Zong Yi's jaw tightened slightly.
"There's no need for President Yan to dwell on it. Within the scope of work, I can handle it."
"Within the scope of work?" Yan Hanxie repeated lightly.
Her finger left the beads and instead picked up the pure black Montblanc pen on the desk, spinning it lazily between her fingers.
"Zong Yi, how long have we known each other? Three years? Four?"
"Three years and seven months, President Yan." Zong Yi answered precisely.
"From when you joined the company as an intern to now, when you've firmly secured the director's position." Yan Hanxie's gaze followed the rotating pen. Her tone sounded like she was stating an objective fact. "I've always thought you were someone with very strong boundaries. Work is work. Private matters are private. Like a piece of crystal—clear to see, and just as clear to touch."
The pen stopped spinning between her fingers, its tip pointing toward Zong Yi.
"But recently," Yan Hanxie tilted her head slightly, her gaze locking onto Zong Yi's eyes again. At last, there was a faint trace of curious amusement in them. "I've discovered that your crystal might not be entirely… untouchable."
For a moment, the air seemed to freeze.
Zong Yi's breathing stalled almost imperceptibly.
She met that gaze without dodging it. Yet something in the depths of her pupils seemed to sink, growing darker.
"I don't understand what President Yan means."
"You don't understand?"
Yan Hanxie set down the pen and leaned forward again, her elbows braced against the desk. Her hands folded together, placing the string of Buddhist beads fully exposed on the tabletop, resting quietly against the backs of her interlocked hands.
"When I wrapped these beads around your hand last night, you didn't immediately shake them off. In the car, when I leaned against your shoulder, you didn't push me away. And just now in the meeting room…"
She deliberately paused, watching every subtle change in Zong Yi's expression.
"When I said your collar pin was crooked, your ears turned red."
Her tone was as calm as if she were analyzing financial report data—every word clear, yet sharp as an ice pick, precisely striking the moments that had been deliberately ignored and buried.
Zong Yi's fingertips dug deeply into her palm.
The pain brought a numb clarity.
She forced herself to keep her expression calm, but at the base of her ears the heat that had already faded seemed ready to surge back again, tightening the skin.
"President Yan," she said. Her voice was colder and harder than before, as if coated with a thin layer of ice. "If you have any comments about my performance in the meeting or about my work style, you can point them out directly. As for the rest… it may simply be your misunderstanding. Or perhaps it's just my necessary tolerance of a superior."
"Tolerance?"
Yan Hanxie let out a soft laugh. It was brief and carried no warmth.
"Director Zong's 'tolerance'—where exactly is the boundary?" She tilted her head slightly, as if genuinely considering it. "Is it tolerating a superior's drunken lapse? Or tolerating…"
Her gaze once again dropped to Zong Yi's wrist, heavy with implication.
"…certain 'ritual objects' that still carry body warmth, temporarily not belonging to their original owner?"
Zong Yi's chest rose and fell slightly.
At last she broke eye contact, turning instead to the abstract painting on the wall beside them, as though the twisted colors might contain some answer.
"President Yan, if you have no other work instructions, I'd like to go back and organize the meeting minutes."
She turned as she spoke.
"I told you to leave?"
Yan Hanxie's voice wasn't loud. It could even be called gentle.
But the undeniable force within it was like an invisible rope, instantly stopping Zong Yi's steps.
Zong Yi stood there with her back to her.
Her posture rigid.
Yan Hanxie slowly rose from the chair.
She didn't walk around the large desk.
She simply stood there, her gaze resting on the tense line at the back of Zong Yi's neck.
There, a few loose strands of hair had slipped free from the tight bun, resting softly against her pale skin.
"Turn around, Zong Yi," Yan Hanxie said. This time, she used her full name.
Zong Yi did not move.
Time passed second by second. Silence spread between them, piling up until it almost seemed to gain weight.
Yan Hanxie did not urge her again.
She simply stood there, her fingertips once more rolling the Buddhist beads around her wrist—one bead, then another.
The sandalwood beads rubbed lightly against each other, producing an extremely faint rustling sound. In the silence where even a falling pin could be heard, it was endlessly magnified, slipping into the ears and scraping against the nerves.
The sound seemed to carry a strange rhythm—unhurried, persistent.
The exposed skin at the back of Zong Yi's neck seemed able to feel the tangible warmth of the gaze behind her.
She could even imagine Yan Hanxie's expression at this moment—calm, patient, carrying a nearly cruel curiosity and certainty.
Finally, Zong Yi's shoulders sagged ever so slightly, forming an almost imperceptible curve.
Very slowly, she turned around.
Her face was paler than before, her lips lacking color. Only deep in her eyes burned a suppressed flame—cold, almost angry.
She looked at Yan Hanxie. She looked at the string of beads that seemed to turn endlessly around her wrist. She looked at that carefully made-up face that now felt strangely unfamiliar to her.
"President Yan," she said. Her voice trembled slightly from restraint, though she tried to maintain the last of her composure. "What exactly do you want?"
Yan Hanxie's fingers stopped rolling the beads.
She looked at the cold flame burning in Zong Yi's eyes. Instead of being scorched by it, she seemed almost pleased.
She took a step forward, leaving the protection of the desk. The distance between them shrank to less than two meters.
"What do I want?" Yan Hanxie repeated. A trace of genuine puzzlement slipped into her tone before turning into deeper amusement. "I only want to know where the boundary lies for my capable, atheistic, clearly principled Director Zong when she faces certain… approaches that are not quite 'work,' not quite 'sober,' and perhaps even a little 'offensive.'"
Her gaze moved across Zong Yi's face—from her tightly pressed lips to her pupils slightly contracted with anger.
"Is it when your wrist is held? When drunken words are whispered in your ear?" She took another half step forward, the distance shrinking further until their breaths could almost mingle. "Or perhaps…"
She raised her left hand. The string of beads dropped slightly and swayed with the motion.
"Not until this consecrated bead truly touches a warmth it shouldn't touch," she said, her fingertip hovering in the air as she pointed toward Zong Yi's chest, stopping an inch above her heart, "and leaves behind… some mark that can't be removed?"
Zong Yi suddenly stepped back. Her back hit the cold door panel with a dull thud.
The layer of ice in her eyes finally shattered completely. Anger surged up, turning the corners of her eyes red.
"Yan Hanxie!" For the first time in a work setting, she discarded every title and addressed her by name. Her voice tightened with anger and something far more complicated. "Don't go too far!"
Yan Hanxie stopped.
She looked at Zong Yi's face, now vivid with anger. She looked at the undisguised rejection and humiliation in her eyes—and at the faint trace of something deeper that perhaps even Zong Yi herself had not noticed… a hint of disarray.
Suddenly, Yan Hanxie felt that this version of Zong Yi was far more real than the perfect, calm, flawless Director Zong she usually saw.
And… far more interesting.
She slowly lowered her hand. The Buddhist beads at her wrist returned to stillness.
"So that's already too far?" Yan Hanxie's tone returned to its earlier calmness, even carrying a hint of regret. "It seems the boundary is still clearer than I imagined."
She did not move closer again. Instead, she turned around, walked back behind the desk, and sat down.
As if the pressing steps and knife-like words from a moment ago had only been an illusion.
"The supplementary risk assessment is fine. Proceed according to the plan." She picked up the pages she had thrown on the desk earlier and began flipping through them, her tone completely businesslike. "Send me the meeting minutes before you leave today. You can go."
The abrupt shift left a strangely absurd crack in the tense air.
Zong Yi leaned against the door panel, her chest rising slightly as she stared at the woman who had instantly reverted to the cold and composed president. For a moment, she didn't know how to react.
The anger was still surging through her veins, with nowhere to go, lodged in her throat.
Yan Hanxie no longer looked at her. Her attention seemed fully on the documents, though her fingers had once again begun habitually rolling the sandalwood beads around her wrist in slow circles.
The faint rustling sound began again.
Zong Yi straightened her posture, took a deep breath, then slowly exhaled.
She adjusted the perfectly neat hem of her clothing and smoothed her cuffs.
The intense emotions on her face were forcibly pressed back down, replaced once again by cold restraint.
She did not look at Yan Hanxie again.
She turned, twisted the door lock open, and pulled the door.
Click.
The door opened.
Without turning back, she walked straight out, closing the door behind her.
The door shut, sealing the inside and outside apart.
Inside the office, Yan Hanxie lifted her head from the document. Her gaze rested on the tightly closed door as she listened to the steady footsteps outside moving quickly away—until they finally disappeared.
She loosened her grip on the papers and leaned back in her chair.
Raising her left hand toward the daylight outside the window, she examined the glossy Buddhist beads around her wrist.
After a long moment, with the fingertip of her other hand, she lightly flicked the small disciple bead at the end.
The bead gently struck the one beside it, producing an extremely faint sound—almost inaudible.
A very shallow curve lifted at the corner of her lips. In the depths of her eyes, the cold amusement had grown stronger than before.
"Zong Yi…" she mouthed silently, as if tasting an unripe fruit with a hard shell.
Outside in the hallway, Zong Yi walked quickly toward the elevators. Her steps grew faster and faster, as if trying to shake off something sticky.
Only when she pressed the down button and the elevator doors were about to close did she stop.
Leaning against the cold wall of the elevator car, she closed her eyes.
She raised her right hand. Her fingertips unconsciously—and forcefully—rubbed the smooth, empty skin on the inside of her left wrist.
It felt as if that place still carried the heavy, wooden warmth of something that had once rested there—something that held another person's body heat.
—
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