The rain had stopped hours ago, but the streets still glistened under the sodium lights.
From the thirty-second floor, the city looked like a circuit board—gold and white veins pulsing against the dark.
Estelle Liu stood by the glass wall of her office, one hand in the pocket of her tailored coat, the other holding a cigarette she hadn't lit. The smoke would cling to her clothes, and she hated the smell. Still, the weight of it between her fingers felt… steadying.
Behind her, the soft hum of the air conditioner filled the silence. The desk was immaculate—no papers, no clutter—just a single crystal pen holder and a black leather folder she hadn't opened all day.
The door clicked open.
"Miss Liu." The voice was low, even. A man stepped inside without waiting for permission. His suit was dark, the cut sharp, but it was the way he moved—unhurried, like he owned the air around him—that caught her attention.
She turned, slow. "You're late."
Zayden Yang smiled faintly, as if the word late was a joke only he understood. "Traffic."
Her gaze flicked to the clock on the wall. "In Shanghai, that excuse is older than the skyline."
He didn't answer. Instead, he walked to the window, standing just close enough to see the reflection of her face in the glass.
"Nice view," he said.
"It's just buildings."
"Depends on what you're looking for."
The silence stretched, filled only by the distant wail of a siren somewhere below. Estelle set the cigarette down on the desk, aligning it perfectly with the edge.
"You wanted to see me," she said.
Zayden's eyes stayed on the city. "I wanted to meet the woman who runs this place."
Her lips curved, but it wasn't a smile. "And now that you have?"
He finally looked at her, and there was something unreadable in his gaze—like a shadow that didn't belong to the room. "Now," he said, "I know where to start."
Zayden didn't sit. He leaned one shoulder against the glass, his reflection overlapping hers in the night skyline.
"You've been running this company for four years," he said, voice casual, as if they were talking about the weather. "That's a long time to keep something this… clean."
Her eyes narrowed, but her tone stayed even. "You think it's clean?"
"I think it looks clean." He let the words hang, then glanced at her desk. "Minimalist. No distractions."
"I don't like clutter."
"Or people?"
She didn't flinch. "Depends on the person."
The elevator bell chimed faintly down the hall. Somewhere below, the lobby doors hissed open and shut. The city's hum pressed in through the glass—distant horns, the low throb of bass from a rooftop bar, the faint metallic scent of rain still clinging to the air.
Zayden straightened, stepping closer to her desk. His fingers brushed the edge of the leather folder, but he didn't open it. "You don't smoke," he said, nodding at the unlit cigarette.
"Not anymore."
"Then why keep it?"
Her gaze drifted to the skyline again. "Some habits aren't about use. They're about memory."
He studied her for a moment, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. Then he smiled—slow, deliberate.
"I'll see you at the board meeting tomorrow, Miss Liu."
She didn't answer, and he didn't wait for one. The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving the office too quiet.
Estelle picked up the cigarette again, rolling it between her fingers. Outside, the city kept moving—lights shifting, shadows stretching—like it didn't care who was watching.
The rain started again, soft at first, tapping against the glass like a restless thought.
Estelle stayed by the window long after Zayden left. The city's lights blurred in the wet reflection, turning towers into streaks of gold and white. Somewhere below, a taxi horn cut through the hum, sharp and impatient.
She set the cigarette down for the second time, this time leaving it there. Her fingers lingered on the desk's edge, tracing the cool, polished surface.
The leather folder sat untouched. She knew what was inside—numbers, projections, a contract that would keep the company's name in the headlines for months. She also knew she wouldn't open it tonight.
A faint vibration buzzed against the desk. Her phone lit up with a single message:
Unknown Number: You don't know me yet, but you will.
Her jaw tightened. She locked the screen without replying.
Outside, the rain thickened, drumming harder against the glass. The skyline seemed to lean closer, as if listening.
Estelle turned off the lights. In the dark, the office became a shadow box—her silhouette framed against the city, the cigarette still lying on the desk like a promise she refused to keep.
The rain softened again, turning into a fine mist that streaked the glass.
From up here, the streets looked slower than they were—tiny figures under umbrellas, headlights sliding through puddles like molten gold.
Estelle unlocked her phone again. The message was still there. No name. No profile photo. Just the words.
She deleted it without saving the number.
Her reflection in the window was pale, almost ghostlike against the city's glow. She reached up, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, and caught the faint tremor in her fingers. It annoyed her.
The elevator chimed again, this time stopping on her floor. She didn't turn. Footsteps passed her office, fading toward the far end of the corridor.
She exhaled slowly, pressing her palm flat against the cool glass. Somewhere in the maze of towers, Zayden Yang was walking away from this building. She wondered if he looked back.
The cigarette still lay on the desk, perfectly aligned with the edge. She slid it into the drawer, shut it, and locked it.
When she finally left the office, the city's damp air wrapped around her like a second skin. The driver opened the car door, and she stepped inside without a word.
As the car pulled into traffic, she glanced once at the tower she'd just left.
Thirty-two floors up, the lights in her office were still off. But she could almost feel someone standing there, watching.
The car slid through the wet streets, tires whispering over the asphalt.
Neon signs bled into the puddles—red, blue, gold—each flash catching in the glass before vanishing into the dark.
Estelle sat back, her coat draped neatly over her lap. The driver said nothing; he knew better.
Her phone stayed in her hand, screen black. She didn't turn it on again.
At a red light, she glanced out the window. Across the intersection, a man stood under the awning of a closed café, collar turned up against the rain. He was looking at the traffic, not at her, but something in the stillness of his posture made her chest tighten.
The light changed. The car moved on.
Two blocks away, Zayden stepped out from the café's shadow.
He lit a cigarette, the flame briefly catching the sharp line of his jaw.
The smoke curled upward, vanishing into the drizzle.
In his pocket, his phone buzzed once.
He didn't check it. His eyes followed the taillights disappearing into the night, until they were swallowed by the city's glow.
Above them, the skyline loomed—glass and steel, rain-slick and endless—watching like it had seen this story before.