Shu Yao's lips parted, the words fighting their way past the tightness in his throat. His voice was faint at first, a mere thread against the enormity of the office, but still he forced it forward.
"Sir, I… I am not suitable,
The words dropped like pebbles into an ocean, swallowed quickly by the silence yet leaving ripples that reached every corner of the room. His knuckles whitened against the clipboard, the pen pressed so deep it might carve through the paper, and still he could not look up. His gaze clung to the crimson carpet, to the golden veins in the marble floor—as though its intricacy might distract him from the weight of the man who ruled this domain.
Across the vast desk, Niklas sat upon the throne of Rothenberg Industries, the high-backed chair a crown of leather and steel, fitting his frame with an air of inevitability. He did not move at once; instead, he leaned back ever so slightly, the faint shift of posture enough to summon the gravity of command.
One eyebrow arched. His eyes, ice-blue and unyielding, studied Shu Yao with the precision of a blade resting against its whetstone.
"And how," Niklas said at last, his tone even, deliberate, "are you so certain of that?"
The question lingered, heavier than any reprimand. It was not anger that sharpened his voice, but curiosity—curiosity that cut just as deeply.
Shu Yao's breath caught. His chest rose and fell too quickly, betraying the storm he tried so hard to cage. He thought of the crowds he could not face, the gaze of strangers burning holes into him, the suffocating demand of being an ornament on display. Yet how could he explain this without sounding weak, ungrateful, or—worse—defiant?
"I…" His tongue stumbled, failing him. "I fear I would not… embody the expectations. My presence is…" He faltered again, his pulse a drumbeat in his ears. "…unsuited."
The words were half-swallowed, neither a full refusal nor a compliance, hanging in the fragile space between.
Niklas observed him without interruption. His silence was not mercy but judgment, the kind of quiet that forced men to measure their own weight in it. His fingers, long and precise, drummed once against the mahogany desk—a whisper of sound against the wood, polished to such gleam it reflected the faint flame of the desk lamp.
At last, Niklas spoke again, his voice softened not by sympathy but by the calmness of control.
"You claim unfitness," he said, his gaze still fixed on the boy, "yet your very hesitation suggests otherwise. Tell me, Shu Yao—do you withhold because you cannot, or because you fear to try?"
The question struck like a stone cast into a still lake, breaking the surface of Shu Yao's composure. His breath shuddered, his fingers trembled against the clipboard, and he lowered his head further, as though the weight of marble and carpet and empire itself pressed down upon him.
Niklas reclined upon his chair — that throne of polished steel and leather, the unchallenged symbol of Rothenberg Industry's dominion. His frost-blue eyes regarded Shu Yao with the measured calm of a sovereign accustomed to obedience. When he spoke, his voice carried no haste, only the weight of inevitability.
"Look, Shu Yao," Niklas began, his tone firm yet crystalline, "you are exemplary in every endeavor to which you set your hand. Your work is remarkable, your discipline nearly immaculate, your command of languages refined almost to perfection. In you I perceive not merely competence, but excellence. Therefore, why do you hesitate? Why do you resist what has been offered?"
He shifted slightly, the light from the high windows glancing along the edges of his sharp attire. "You would appear flawless before the cameras — not as an ornament, but as a figure destined to embody the face of Rothenberg itself."
The words, polished and unwavering, seemed to strike against Shu Yao's chest. For a moment he could scarcely breathe. His gaze faltered; his autumn-soft eyes shone with a sudden sheen of wetness, though he willed it not to spill. A dull ache pressed at the nape of his neck, a throbbing reminder of tension long held. He swallowed against the knot in his throat, then finally — with quivering lips — forced his voice to sound.
"I… I must beg your forgiveness, sir," Shu Yao murmured, each word fractured by restraint. "I cannot…
But before his faltering protest could fully emerge, Niklas moved. Rising with deliberate grace from his chair, he crossed the distance between them. The echo of his steps upon the marble resounded like a verdict pronounced. Shu Yao's breath caught; his eyes widened, panic flickering through them. The instinct to retreat clawed at him, but his body would not move.
Niklas halted before him, tall and unyielding, his gaze fixed upon Shu Yao's trembling frame. Slowly — so slowly that the air itself seemed to pause — he raised his hand. Shu Yao flinched, shoulders jerking as though bracing for a blow, but instead Niklas's palm descended with unexpected restraint, resting upon his shoulder.
The contact jolted Shu Yao nonetheless. His breath hitched, and the tremor in his body deepened, yet he dared not shrug away. Niklas's touch was heavy, not with cruelty, but with command. His voice, low and measured, cut through the silence.
"I am still waiting," he said. "You are not yet dismissed from choice. Time remains, and with it, the opportunity to reconsider. Make your decision wisely."
With that, he turned, his steps deliberate, returning to the breadth of his office. Shu Yao's mind reeled — fear clawed through his thoughts, every nerve raw with shock. His lips parted, but no sound emerged.
Niklas paused once more, glancing over his shoulder with a gaze sharp as winter. "I have already told you," he continued, voice now colder yet precise, "this offer has never been extended to another. Never."
He faced Shu Yao fully again, his words pressing like steel against flesh. "It is only to you that I have spoken it. And do you know why? Because within you I perceive a singular perfection. Not merely in form, but in discipline, in bearing, in the quiet strength you carry — though you do not yet recognize it yourself. For this, I wait. For this, I grant you time."
His eyes, pale as glacial ice, bore down on Shu Yao until the younger man nearly collapsed beneath the weight of them. Trembling still, his hands curled at his clipboard, uncertain whether to clutch his resolve or surrender it. The fear within him urged refusal, but another voice — subtle, perilous — whispered that perhaps his employer's words carried a truth he could not escape.
Niklas's final words lingered in the Office, solemn as an oath:
"You may decide again, Shu Yao. I am waiting."
The silence that followed was absolute, a silence that pressed into Shu Yao's chest like a second heartbeat. He stood frozen, caught between dread and duty, knowing that whichever path he chose would not leave him unchanged.
Niklas lowered himself back into his chair with the weight of inevitability, the high leather creaking as though even the furniture bowed to his authority. He leaned forward, resting his elbows upon the vast mahogany desk that gleamed like still water beneath the light. His voice emerged quiet, deliberate, the tone of a man concluding judgment.
"You are dismissed."
The words rang final, like a gavel striking stone.
Shu Yao bowed his head at once, as though the syllables themselves pressed it downward. He turned, his movements stiff, his fingers still trembling against the clipboard clutched in his grasp. The door gave a muted thud as he closed it behind him, leaving Rothenberg's chamber of judgment sealed away, though the weight of its ruler's gaze clung to his chest like frost.
The corridor's air seemed thinner. Shu Yao drew a breath and pressed one hand against his heart, steadying its erratic hammering. He could scarcely believe what he had just endured. Niklas's cold stare had cut through him with such severity it nearly felled him where he stood; the man's gaze alone might have delivered a heart attack. Yet he had survived it — barely.
Still, survival came with a crueler question: what now? What would he tell to his Boss the next time? That he was unsuited? That he would fail the role? He knew such refusals would serve no good. The memory of those frost-blue eyes was proof enough. His boss was not one to be denied.
Still, survival came with a crueler question: what now? What would he tell his employer the next time? That he was unsuited? That he would fail the role? He knew such refusals would serve no good. The memory of those frost-blue eyes was proof enough. His boss was not one to be denied.
He moved forward, each step hesitant, the marble floor swallowing the sound of his soles. The elevator doors loomed ahead like a reprieve, silent and waiting. He lifted his hand toward the button—
—and froze.
The elevator hummed around them, all chrome walls and soft golden light, a capsule of silence carrying them upward. Bai Qi leaned lazily against the rail, one arm draped in careless ease, while his other hand gestured toward the glowing panel of buttons.
"This is it," he told Armin, his tone buoyant, his grin too bright against the hush. "The top floor. Father's office. You'll see—cold and commanding as always. His face alone terrifies half the staff, but…" Bai Qi chuckled, a flash of teeth against the polished metal, "it never works on me."
Armin, as ever, gave no reply. He only stood still, his presence towering but wordless, his gaze fixed on some invisible point ahead. Bai Qi's grin faltered, irritation curling at the edges.
A pause. Armin's only answer was a curt nod, nothing more.
Bai Qi sighed, about to say something sharper—
—but the elevator shuddered to its stop.
The doors slid open with a metallic sigh, and Bai Qi, turning his head half back to Armin, stepped forward.
Too late.
The world jolted. Something—someone—was suddenly there, an unexpected wall of fragile resistance. His forehead slammed against another, the impact ringing through his skull with a dull, resonant crack. A gasp burst from the stranger—no, from both of them—before gravity betrayed him further.
He stumbled, momentum carrying his body forward until it collided wholly, gracelessly, against the man.
They fell together.
Bai Qi's breath was knocked from his chest as he landed, his weight pressing the stranger to the marble floor. The sharp sound of papers scattering echoed like startled wings, the clipboard clattering away.
For a dizzy heartbeat he lay stunned, disoriented, his palms braced against cool stone and trembling fabric. His chest heaved, breath shallow, as he realized what he'd done. Beneath him, the man lay frozen, eyes wide—Shu Yao.
And then the silence was broken, not by words, but by the weight of a stare.
Disgust twisted Armin's features. Cold, sharp, unhidden. His gaze did not scold Bai Qi directly—it pierced through him, skewering Shu Yao instead, as though his very existence there, beneath Bai Qi, was offensive.
The corridor went still. Time shrank.
Bai Qi's breath stuck in his throat, still caged by the clumsy accident, while beneath him Shu Yao's chest rose and fell in uneven gasps.
The impact still echoed, not only in bone and skull, but in the space between all three of them.
Shu Yao "point of view"
The strike of bone against bone sent a shock through him. His breath caught, jagged, as the world lurched sideways. One moment he had been reaching for the elevator's panel, clipboard steady in his hand, and the next he was crushed beneath weight, his back colliding hard against the marble floor.
The clipboard was gone. He heard it clatter away, sheets of paper scattering across the polished corridor like startled white birds fleeing into air.
Pain throbbed in his skull, but sharper still was the breathless awareness of another body atop his own. Warmth pressed against him, heavy, real, the air stolen from his lungs. He gasped, lips parting, chest heaving against the weight above him.
His eyes, dazed and stung, focused slowly.
Bai Qi.
For a frozen instant Shu Yao could not move. Fear clamped through his ribs, not because of pain, but because of what this looked like—what it was. His hand twitched at his side, yearning for the clipboard, for anything to anchor him. But he was pinned. Pinned, helpless, the nearness suffocating.
A shadow moved, darker than all others.
Shu Yao's gaze, against his own will, flickered past Bai Qi's shoulder—toward the elevator. Armin had stepped out, silent as winter, his height blotting the light. His face was carved from nothingness at first, unreadable, but then… it changed.
Disgust.
It poured from Armin's features like acid, cold and unrestrained. It was not the clumsy fall he looked upon, not even Bai Qi's inelegance sprawled across the floor—it was Shu Yao. His presence, his trembling form beneath, was what earned that silent, searing judgment.
Shu Yao's throat worked, dry. He wanted to speak—an apology, an explanation, anything—but his voice caught in the cage of his ribs.
He lowered his gaze instead, lashes trembling, unable to endure the force of that stare. The sting behind his eyes spread, a sheen of unspilled wetness gathering as though the corridor itself demanded him to cry. But he did not. He could not.
His chest rose sharply against Bai Qi's weight, each breath shallow, ragged. The silence was unbearable, as though the whole corridor pressed its ear against his humiliation, listening.
Shu Yao wished, with every fiber in him, that the marble would split and swallow him whole.