Shu Yao stood alone in the Hallway, the silence pressing in on him as though the building itself had chosen to bear witness to his shame. His clipboard, the last defense of his composure, was clutched tight to his chest, its hard edge digging into his ribs with every shallow breath. Beyond him stretched the vast pane of glass — the window of Rothenberg Industries — its polished surface gleaming like a mirror fashioned for judgment.
He dared a glance at the reflection cast upon it, and the sight hollowed him.
A boy — not the man he pretended to be, but a boy — stared back at him with strands of hair undone, straying rebelliously from the knot he had tied that morning with careful precision. They slipped loose now, fragile wisps clinging to the edges of his damp temples, betraying the storm he carried inside. His eyes… oh, his eyes. Heavy, shadowed. Were they dulled from pain, or from exhaustion? Even he could not tell. But their weight seemed enough to sink him through the marble beneath his feet.
His lips parted with a faint gasp, as if the very act of seeing himself had stolen air from his lungs.
He lifted a hand, trembling, as though to smooth his hair back into place — to rearrange what had unraveled. But the reflection shifted, blurred by the glass, and the futility of it struck him. Some messes could not be hidden. Not from mirrors. Not from others. And not from himself.
He turned away, his chest constricting, a pulse of ache reverberating through the base of his skull where the fall had bruised him. His legs carried him forward by instinct rather than will, each step muffled against the echoing floor, as though the corridor itself had swallowed sound to guard his weakness.
The elevator doors gleamed ahead, their polished silver waiting, impartial, uncaring. He raised his trembling hand, pressing his fingertip against the button, the tiny circle of light blooming beneath his skin. The soft chime it emitted rang too loud in the silence, slicing through the fragile air like the toll of a bell.
Shu Yao drew in a breath — deep, deliberate, but heavy as though dragging weight through water. It caught in his chest before spilling out again, shaky, uneven, betraying him once more. He pressed his lips together to quiet the sound, but even silence could not hide the trembling in his frame.
Behind his eyelids, when he closed them, images flickered: Bai Qi's weight above him, the warmth of his breath grazing his cheek; Armin's stare, sharp as steel, stripping him bare; the echo of Niklas's gaze from before, as cold and commanding as winter stone. All of them layered together, pressing down upon him until his ribs felt splintered from the pressure.
The elevator doors parted with a sigh of hydraulics. Shu Yao stepped inside, the air shifting colder in the small, confined space, its walls lined with mirrors. More reflections. More judgment.
He lowered his gaze to the gleaming buttons instead, his finger hovering for a heartbeat before sinking down upon the number he needed. The doors slid closed, sealing him inside with himself.
At last, his shoulders sagged, the rigid mask he had worn crumbling inch by inch. His reflection fractured across the mirrored walls, showing him a dozen versions of his disheveled form: hair slipping free, eyes shadowed, posture collapsing. He felt swallowed by them, surrounded by himself, and yet none of them strong enough to stand tall.
The numbers above the door glowed in quiet sequence as the lift carried him away.
And Shu Yao, pressing his clipboard tighter to his chest, thought only of how much longer he could endure before his silence, his composure, his very body betrayed him entirely.
Back to Bai qi & Armin Point of view
Bai Qi lengthened his stride, his polished shoes ringing against the marble corridor.
"Brother—wait," he called, his tone carrying more urgency than he intended.
But Armin did not stop. His shoulders moved with rigid precision, each step like a soldier marching away from confrontation. His frame, towering and broad, cut a sharp figure beneath the silver chandeliers. Bai Qi clenched his jaw, then quickened his pace until he stepped directly in front of him, blocking the path.
"Brother," Bai Qi said again, breath steady this time, "you were too rude just now."
Armin's eyes, cold and fleeting, slid past him as though the younger brother were nothing more than a shadow barring his way. His jaw tightened, muscle twitching. He seemed unwilling—no, unable—to meet Bai Qi's gaze.
Bai Qi straightened, though his 194 cm did not quite measure to Armin Volker's formidable 198. Yet Bai Qi's presence was no less forceful, his obsidian eyes refusing to yield.
"Shu Yao is my only best friend," Bai Qi pressed on, his voice low but resolute. "And you—" his hand flicked with irritation "—you didn't even shake his hand. That is not just aloof, brother. That is rude."
A faint silence fell between them. Armin's lips parted, then closed again as if every word he longed to speak had been locked behind some unseen door. His hand flexed at his side, veins rising along the back of his knuckles.
Finally, with a clipped breath, he muttered, "Leave it."
Bai Qi's brows furrowed. "Leave it? That is all you can say?"
Armin's nostrils flared. His gaze sharpened, and for a moment, Bai Qi thought he saw something beneath the stern façade—something raw, bruised, and unhealed. But it vanished almost as swiftly as it appeared.
For a heartbeat, Armin looked as though he might finally speak—finally confess what festered within. His eyes flickered, troubled, heavy with memories that clawed at his silence. But then his mouth hardened into a line of refusal.
"I said leave it," he repeated, more bitterly now, the words a blade cutting the air.
Bai Qi exhaled, sharp and frustrated. "So that is how it will always be with you? Stone walls, closed doors, half-spoken truths." He shook his head, his disappointment plain. "You wound yourself with silence, brother, and you wound others with it too."
Armin's gaze snapped to him then—stern, ocean blue, unflinching. "Better silence than weakness."
Bai Qi flinched—not from fear, but from the sudden sting of those words. He pressed his lips together, choosing not to answer that poison with anger. Instead, he let out a long sigh, shoulders sagging.
"If that is what you believe," Bai Qi said finally, voice softer, almost mournful, "then I cannot argue with you. But I will tell you this—Shu Yao is not weakness. He is strength, though you refuse to see it."
Armin's jaw tightened again, but he said nothing.
The silence stretched, taut and suffocating, until Bai Qi stepped aside, gesturing toward the looming carved doors at the end of the hall. Their father's office waited there—vast, imposing, a chamber of judgment wrapped in mahogany and gold.
"Come," Bai Qi murmured, his tone subdued now. "Father is waiting."
Armin strode forward without another word, his expression locked, his secrets buried. Bai Qi followed at his side, though the weight of unspoken truth lingered heavily between them, like a storm gathering behind closed skies.
Back to shu Yao point of view
The elevator hummed low as it carried Shu Yao downward. The walls reflected his pale silhouette, shoulders drawn inward, clipboard still clutched against his chest. When the doors parted at the seventh floor, he stepped out with a small, restrained breath, as though even the act of walking carried weight enough to buckle him.
The corridor greeted him in silence. Fluorescent light spilled over the polished tiles, catching the edges of his undone strands of hair that had slipped loose from their place. His shoes made faint sounds, echoing between the walls as he made his way directly to his office.
Inside, he set himself to work. Every motion was deliberate, measured, almost ritualistic. He placed the clipboard neatly back upon his desk, smoothed over the papers, adjusted the pens into their holder until they stood in perfect order. His chair he pushed back into alignment. The small lamp, he clicked off. Everything restored to its place, as though tidiness could mask the unrest clawing beneath his ribs.
It was already late; the sky beyond the windows had dulled into molten orange, the sun sinking low as though fleeing the horizon. Shadows lengthened across the floor, whispering that the day was over. Shu Yao lingered a moment, staring at the dimming glow as if trying to convince himself that the night ahead would be easier than the hours already passed. His chest ached, heavy with the exhaustion he dared not name.
At last, he turned away. He stepped out of the office, pulling the door gently closed behind him, and moved again toward the elevator. His body screamed of weariness—each breath caught faintly at the edges of pain—but he pressed on, pressing the button for the last floor.
The silence within the lift wrapped him like a cocoon, and yet his thoughts refused to still. The moment replayed, raw and uninvited—Bai Qi's careless hand brushing against his waist as if it meant nothing. To Bai Qi it was nothing. A fleeting touch, an accident. But to Shu Yao, it was everything.
His breath hitched at the memory. His cheeks still burned, betraying him even in solitude, while his chest felt unbearably tight. That brief contact had seared through him, leaving an ache far too heavy for his fragile body to carry. It was foolish, he knew—an accident should not leave such a mark. Yet the warmth lingered, burning deeper than any reprimand, deeper than any stare of disdain he had endured.
He pressed his back against the elevator wall, eyes closing for a moment. His body, already unsteady from pain and exhaustion, seemed unable to withstand the weight of everything.
It was too much. Too much in one day.
For a fleeting second, he thought he might faint, collapse right there within the steel box. He drew in a heavy breath, forcing his trembling hands clutch against his chest, as if that alone could anchor him.
The bell chimed. The doors slid open.
The lobby unfolded before him in a burst of noise and movement. Colleagues streamed past in every direction, their coats gathered over weary arms, their voices weaving fragments of plans and farewells. Some spoke of dinners waiting at home, others of exhaustion that clung to their bones. Laughter mingled with sighs. The automatic glass doors shifted open and shut, releasing groups into the cool night air beyond.
Shu Yao hesitated only a moment before following, his steps soft, deliberate. The doors opened for him, and suddenly he was outside, swallowed by the city's pulse. Cars glided past, honking distantly; headlights spilled like rivers of light upon the road. The air smelled faintly of smoke and roasted food from nearby stalls.
He reached into his pocket, retrieving his phone with fingers that shook more from fatigue than hesitation. He intended to call a cab, to vanish quietly into the anonymity of the crowd. His thumb hovered over the dial, when a voice rose behind him—low, warm, and impossibly gentle.
"Shu Yao."
His name, spoken so softly, it didn't make him flinch.
He turned, slow, and found George standing there—tall, immaculate, his face touched by the glow of passing headlights. Handsome almost to cruelty, yet softened now by a smile he offered to no one but Shu Yao.
George stepped closer, his gaze steady. "I will drop you at your house," he said, his voice carrying the certainty of command but wrapped in velvet warmth.
Shu Yao blinked, embarrassment flushing through him. He lowered his gaze, clutching the phone tighter in his hand. His lips parted, and his words stumbled out, awkward and fragile.
"Mr. George… you don't need to trouble yourself. I can get home by myself—it's fine."
He spoke plainly, kindly, yet his tone was shy, hesitant. He did not want to burden George. He never did. Dependence felt dangerous, too much like leaning upon a wall that might one day crumble.
But before Shu Yao could press his protest further, headlights swept across the curb. A sleek car pulled up before them, polished as though cut from obsidian. The driver stepped out promptly, moving to open the passenger-side door with a respectful bow.
Shu Yao's breath caught. Shame flickered in his chest, sharp and unrelenting. First at his own weakness, and now at this—at George's insistence, at the care that seemed too generous for someone like him.
For a heartbeat, he thought of refusing again. Of turning away. But the truth pressed too heavily upon his body—the ache in his limbs, the fatigue gnawing his vision. He had no strength left to resist.
He lowered his gaze, murmuring, "Thank you," so softly it almost vanished into the night.
He stepped into the car, sliding into the leather seat with quiet care. The cool air inside brushed against his skin, making him realize just how fever-warm he felt.
George followed, his presence filling the space as he settled beside him. For a moment, neither spoke. Shu Yao's hands folded in his lap, eyes cast toward the window, as though ashamed of being seen in such a state.
But George looked at him—truly looked. At the pale curve of his profile, the faint tremor in his fingers, the exhaustion that clung to him like a second skin. If only George knew how much he was suffering—how much weight Shu Yao carried, alone and wordless.
George's gaze softened further, and though he said nothing, his presence was an unspoken vow: tonight.