The elevator rose in silence, carrying only the hum of its own pulse and the faint reflection of Shu Yao's pale face in the mirrored wall.
He stood straight, hands clasped before him, but his mind churned quietly beneath the surface.
Bai Qi's voice still echoed in his thoughts — calm, too calm.
That tone that made the air heavier, as if calmness itself was a weapon sharpened on silence.
Why was he calm?
Why did peace from him always feel like the stillness before lightning?
The elevator chimed.
The doors slid open with mechanical grace, releasing him into the silver-grey corridor of Rothenberg Industries.
Polished glass. Cold light. The faint rhythm of shoes from far-off floors.
Everything here gleamed with Bai Qi's order — immaculate, distant, flawless.
Shu Yao walked quickly, head slightly bowed. His breath clouded faintly against the morning chill of the building's ventilation. When he reached his office, he paused. His hand hovered on the handle for a moment, collecting himself, before he turned it.
The room greeted him with a different kind of cold.
A new air conditioner — sleek, expensive, too modern for this floor — gleamed above his desk. It emitted a faint electronic hum, though it wasn't yet on.
He blinked up at it, frowning.
"Who installed that?" he murmured.
No answer came. Only the hollow quiet of early work hours.
He shook his head slightly and went to his desk. Paperwork, calendars, schedules — order in motion. He exhaled once and began sorting through the day's agenda, the familiar ritual steadying his hands.
Calls. Meetings. Approvals. Bai Qi's name filled every column, every page, like gravity itself.
Time thinned and slipped. Minutes folded into an hour.
The pen in his hand moved steadily, until—
The door opened with a sharp click.
Shu Yao startled. His pen fell from his fingers, rolling across the desk. He looked up — then immediately down.
Bai Qi stood framed in the doorway, backlit by morning light.
He looked carved from control.
His black suit immaculate, collar crisp, hair swept up with severe precision. Every movement radiated unbending confidence — a beauty so exact it hurt to look at for too long.
But beneath that beauty was something darker, almost holy in its restraint and unholy in its calm.
Shu Yao's voice came small.
"Your schedule is almost done, sir."
Bai Qi stepped forward slowly, each step measured. His gaze lingered not on the papers, but on Shu Yao himself — eyes rimmed faintly red from exhaustion, the pallor beneath them betraying how fragile he still was.
"Since you weren't in my office," Bai Qi said, voice soft, almost polite, "I thought I'd pay you a visit myself."
Shu Yao straightened at once. "There's no need, sir. I was about to come—"
"Well, well." Bai Qi's smile curved faintly. "Always one step behind."
The tone wasn't cruel — it was worse: mild, deliberate, inescapable.
Shu Yao lowered his gaze further. He could feel Bai Qi's presence close, the faint heat from his body mingling with the sterile chill of the room.
Bai Qi's gaze didn't soften as he leaned back, voice smooth but edged like a blade beneath silk.
"You weren't at work yesterday," he said. "I heard you fainted."
Shu Yao's fingers tightened slightly over the papers. "No, sir," he murmured. "I was at work. But… I fainted—."
He hesitated. "Mr. George help me."
For a heartbeat, the silence thickened. Then Bai Qi's lips curved, but the smile didn't reach his eyes.
"So," he said slowly, "fainting in my company has become my problem now?"
Shu Yao's breath hitched; he lowered his gaze. "No, sir. I didn't mean—"
"Didn't mean," Bai Qi echoed, cutting him off. "But you did. You collapsed in the building I own, under the roof that my father built, while every employee watched my personal assistant crumble like pathetic dog. Tell me, Shu Yao—how exactly am I supposed to explain that?"
Shu Yao swallowed hard, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry, sir. It won't happen again."
Bai Qi exhaled softly, the sound closer to a quiet laugh than forgiveness.
"And yet you still found time," Bai Qi murmured, reaching for the glass of water on the desk, "to spend with my uncle."
The words landed like frost.
Shu Yao's head snapped up before he could stop himself, confusion flashing through his eyes.
"Mr George was only helping me, sir. I didn't—"
Bai Qi tipped the glass.
Water cascaded over Shu Yao's hair, a brief, cold rainfall that struck his shoulders and soaked into his collar. It was harsh and cruel — and deliberate.
For a second, the entire world held its breath.
Shu Yao blinked, water running down his cheekbones. He closed his eyes, exhaling shakily, the humiliation settling deeper than the cold.
Shu Yao blinked, water running down his cheekbones. He closed his eyes, exhaling shakily, the humiliation settling deeper than the cold.
Bai Qi set the glass down with a quiet clink. His expression remained unreadable.
"So," he said softly, "was it enjoyable? Being rescued?"
Shu Yao's voice came out trembling. "He was only helping, sir. Nothing more."
Bai Qi's hand fell sharply against the desk, the sound echoing once through the room.
Shu Yao flinched, instinctive, but didn't move away.
"I told you not to seek help," Bai Qi said, low and dangerous. "Do my words mean so little to you?"
"I'm sorry, sir," Shu Yao whispered. "I didn't intend—"
"You fainted." Bai Qi's voice cut him off. "And now that's an excuse to seek help from others?"
Shu Yao shook his head. "No, sir. I—"
Bai Qi leaned in slightly, his shadow falling over him. "You disobeyed me, Shu Yao. And yet you still expect forgiveness."
Silence thickened.
The hum of the air conditioner was the only sound — soft, waiting.
Finally, Bai Qi glanced upward toward it. "Do you see that?"
Shu Yao followed his gaze hesitantly. "The air conditioner?"
"I had it installed," Bai Qi said. "A reminder."
"A… reminder, sir?"
"That warmth," Bai Qi said quietly, "is a luxury. You lost that when you decided to go where you weren't told."
He lifted the remote from the desk and pressed a button.
A gust of icy air flooded the room — sharp, immediate. It wrapped around Shu Yao like invisible chains, seeping through his damp shirt, tracing down his spine until the tremor reached his fingers.
Bai Qi's tone stayed measured, unshaken. "You'll stay here until I say otherwise."
"But Sir,—"
"You'll endure this," Bai Qi said, his hand on the door. His voice was calm — too calm — like frost settling over fire.
"Since you craved another's warmth, you'll live beneath mine — cold and relentless. You took every trace of warmth I had, Shu Yao… every fragment that was Qing Yue."
He paused, the shadow of something sharp and unspoken flickering in his eyes.
"Now," he added quietly, "you can live with what you've broken."
The words were quiet, almost elegant — but heavy enough to crush breath.
He paused at the door, glancing back once. "Perhaps next time, you'll remember whose world you move in."
Then he left.
The door closed behind him with a muted thud.
Shu Yao lips parted, then closed again.
"I'm sorry, sir,"
The moment Bai Qi's footsteps vanished down the corridor, silence took the room.
Only the air conditioner spoke — a low, merciless hum that grew louder by the second.
Shu Yao stood still for a long moment, water dripping from his hair onto the polished desk. He blinked up at the sleek machine above him — the emblem of his punishment — and quietly sat down again.
The papers were soaked, edges curling and blurring with ink. Shu Yao smoothed them out with trembling fingers, lips pressed thin. He reached for the pen that had fallen when Bai Qi entered, his hand pale and shaking.
"I need to finish this," he murmured. His voice was barely a sound, a whisper trying to stay upright.
He began to work again, fingers tapping against the keyboard, the rhythm slow but steady. The screen's glow reflected against his half-lidded eyes. Outside the glass walls, the world was moving — but in this room, time seemed to freeze with him.
The air grew colder. Each breath that left him turned white, thin vapor escaping from blue-tinted lips. His low fevered skin warred with the frost in the air, burning and freezing at once — a cruel paradox that seeped deep into his bones.
He organized the documents, responded to emails, cross-checked Bai Qi's schedule with perfect precision — as if sheer discipline could keep him from collapsing.
Yet the cold was cunning; it crept under his collar, slid down his sleeves, and wrapped around his spine.
He had just managed to stack the last of the damp papers when the telephone shrilled. The sound startled him—it was too loud, too sharp against the silence.
Shu Yao lifted the receiver with both hands. "Yes, sir?"
Bai Qi's voice came through, smooth and low, the kind that could crush marble.
"Where is my coffee?"
Shu Yao blinked, disoriented. "Your—coffee, sir?"
"Did you forget your title?" Bai Qi's tone turned blade-cold. "You're my personal assistant. From now on, that includes making my coffee. I expect it in my office in five minutes."
The line went dead before Shu Yao could reply.
He stared at the receiver for a moment, then pressed it back onto the cradle with slow precision. The tremor in his hands made the metal click twice.
His body screamed for rest, but he rose anyway. His knees felt hollow, his chest tight. The fever had returned with vengeance—his head throbbed, his vision dimmed at the edges—but he walked.
The hallway seemed endless. Every step echoed like a confession.
When he reached the canteen, the fluorescent lights made him squint. He fumbled for a cup, poured the dark liquid, and nearly dropped it when the hot steam touched his wrist. His breath hitched, but he steadied the tray with both hands.
"Just a little more," he whispered. "i just need to reach the top floor."
The elevator ride was torture. The numbers blinked too slow, each floor an eternity. When the doors finally opened, the corridor to Bai Qi's office stretched like a test of faith.
He could feel the burn of fever against the cold air; his heart was pounding too fast. Still, he walked—tray in both hands, every step measured, cautious, desperate.
At last, he reached the great door. He lifted a trembling hand and knocked once.
Inside, Bai Qi looked up from his papers, his expression unreadable. He knew that knock—soft, hesitant, disciplined. But he said nothing for several minutes, letting silence punish, shu Yao more.
Then, finally, he said, "Come in."
The words might as well have been a verdict.
The door creaked open. Shu Yao entered, moving as though each step stole another fragment of strength. His face was pale, lips bluish from the cold. The tray shook faintly in his hands.
Bai Qi did not look at him—not yet. He continued to write, the scratch of his pen loud in the vast room.
Shu Yao took another step. Then another. His breath quickened. The heat in his hand from the cup became unbearable, the tray too heavy.
When he was halfway across the room, his vision blurred entirely.
The mug tilted—just slightly—but that was enough.
Hot coffee spilled over the edge, scalding his left hand in a sudden hiss.
Shu Yao gasped, the sound sharp and breathless. The tray clattered to the floor. The cup, shattering against the marble.
For a heartbeat, there was no sound but his ragged breathing.
Then Bai Qi finally looked up.
He saw the floor first—dark liquid spreading like ink—and then his gaze climbed to Shu Yao.
The young man was on his knees, clutching his left hand to his chest. The skin was reddened, already blistering from the burn. His eyes were glassy, breath shaking as he tried—pathetically—to muffle a scream that clawed its way up his throat.
Bai Qi's expression didn't change. If anything, his silence grew colder.
"Is that how you work?" His voice was low, precise, lethal. "How can you serve me when you can't even carry a single mug of coffee?"
Shu Yao's lips quivered. "I—I'm sorry, sir, I—"
"Pathetic," Bai Qi cut in, the word spat like poison.
Shu Yao flinched.
"Clean this mess," Bai Qi ordered.
For a moment, Shu Yao didn't move. The pain in his hand was unbearable, white-hot and pulsing. His vision wavered, and he had to steady himself against the cold marble.
"What are you waiting for?" Bai Qi's tone sharpened.
Shu Yao swallowed hard. "Y–yes, sir."
He bent down, picking up the shards of the mug one by one with his uninjured hand. Every movement sent waves of pain through him, but he forced himself to continue. His breath came out in short gasps, fogging the polished floor.
The scent of burnt coffee filled the room.
Bai Qi stood there, silent, watching. His jaw was tight, his eyes unreadable. Somewhere deep beneath that cold exterior, something moved—something quick and unwanted—but he pushed it down before it could surface.
Shu Yao wiped the floor with a napkin, his shoulders trembling. His left hand hung uselessly by his side, skin blistered and red.
When he was done, he placed the broken pieces onto the tray and whispered, "It's.... cleaned, sir."
Bai Qi only turned away. "Then get out."
Shu Yao bowed his head, gathered the tray, —his reflection trailing faintly on the glossy floor, fading with every step.