The office smelled faintly of burnt coffee, the kind that lingered in the pot too long. Lin Hao stood near the edge of the breakroom, cradling a paper cup between his palms. His hands were clean, nails trimmed, but there was a faint sheen of sweat across his fingers, making the cup squeak softly when he adjusted his grip. He wasn't drinking. Just holding. Just standing. The room hummed with conversation, the low murmur of colleagues orbiting each other like planets that never quite collided.
"Ah, Lin Hao," said Manager Xu, his voice cutting through the noise, smooth as oil across water. "Still with the same accounts, I see." His smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "Consistent. Reliable."
There was a chuckle from someone—Chen Rui, seated nearest the window, the sunlight catching on his watch. He leaned back in his chair, legs crossed, the picture of casual success. "Consistent," he echoed, the edge hidden beneath his tone. "That's a good word for it."
Lin Hao's lips stretched into a faint smile, the kind that didn't require teeth. He nodded once, a slight dip of his head, as though agreeing with a truth too obvious to contest. He didn't look at Chen Rui. Instead, his focus dropped to the coffee in his hands, the surface trembling slightly as his thumbs shifted their grip.
"Not everyone's chasing the next big thing," Chen Rui added, his voice light, conversational. "Some of us are just... comfortable where we are."
There was a ripple in the room, a few murmurs of agreement, a nervous laugh from someone who wasn't sure if this was a joke or a compliment. Lin Hao nodded again, his head tilting just enough to seem humble, not enough to seem ashamed. The line was thin. He had learned how not to cross it.
Shen Yue, standing by the fridge, watched it unfold. She saw the quick flick of Lin Hao's eyes—up, to the speaker, then down again—as if measuring the cost of a response. She saw the way his weight shifted, subtly, one foot retreating a half-step behind the other, like a man preparing to fade into the wallpaper. She saw the way his shoulders pulled in, the fabric of his shirt bunching slightly where the seam met his collarbone.
"Actually," she said, breaking the rhythm of the room, her voice calm and even, "Lin Hao's been handling most of the client work for our team this quarter. I don't think we'd be on track without him."
The words landed like a stone dropped into still water. Silence rippled outward. Manager Xu blinked. Chen Rui's smile didn't falter, but the fingers of his left hand drummed once against his chair's armrest before going still.
Lin Hao glanced up at her, startled. His mouth opened, then closed again. The tips of his ears darkened, not quite red, but close. He shook his head, quickly, as if to dismiss her words. "It's nothing," he said, his voice soft, slipping through the cracks in the conversation. "Just doing my part."
Shen Yue tilted her head, her gaze steady. "Your part," she repeated, her tone light but pointed. "And then some."
Manager Xu cleared his throat. "Well, yes," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "Good work, Lin Hao. Keep it up."
The conversation shifted, the moment passed, but the air didn't settle. Lin Hao's hands trembled slightly as he raised the cup to his lips, his sip deliberate, mechanical. He didn't taste it. He didn't want to taste it. He lowered the cup again, his fingers tightening around the paper until it crinkled faintly.
"Lin Hao," Chen Rui said suddenly, his voice cutting through the din, "have you ever thought about moving over to my team? We could use someone with your... consistency."
Shen Yue saw the way Lin Hao's shoulders twitched, a reflexive recoil so slight it could have been missed. His gaze flicked upward, meeting Chen Rui's for the barest of moments before falling away again. "I—no, I don't think so," he said, his voice as steady as he could make it. "I'm fine where I am."
"I'm just saying, think about it," Chen Rui said, leaning forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees. "You've got potential, you know. More than you're using here, if I'm being honest."
The words were warm, the tone inviting, but Shen Yue saw the way they landed, sharp and cutting. She saw the way Lin Hao's fingers flexed against the cup, the way his breathing hitched, just once, before settling into an even rhythm again.
This was not kindness. This was not an opportunity. This was a mirror held up to Lin Hao's inadequacies, real or imagined.
Shen Yue stepped forward, her movement deliberate, her voice calm. "Lin Hao," she said, drawing his attention away from Chen Rui, "do you have the numbers for the Li account? I'd like to go over them with you before the meeting tomorrow."
Lin Hao blinked, his brow furrowing slightly. "Oh, yes," he said quickly, setting down his cup. "I'll get them for you."
"No rush," she said, her tone softer now. "You've probably already got them sorted."
He looked at her, and for a moment, something flickered in his eyes—confusion, maybe, or doubt. He nodded, the motion small and hesitant. "Thank you," he said quietly, the words barely audible over the hum of the breakroom.
Later, as they walked back to their desks, he turned to her, his hands clasped tightly in front of him. "I hope I didn't make things awkward," he said, his voice low, apologetic. "With what you said earlier."
Shen Yue stopped. She turned to face him, her expression unreadable. "Awkward how?"
"Just... I mean, I didn't mean for you to have to—" He hesitated, his words faltering. His hands twitched at his sides, as though he wanted to gesture but didn't know how. "Thank you," he said finally, the words tumbling out in a rush. "But I'm fine. Really."
She studied him, her gaze steady. She saw the way his shoulders were hunched, the way his chin dipped just slightly toward his chest, as though bracing for a blow that hadn't come. She thought of all the moments she had watched him step back, give space, let others speak. She thought of the way he apologized for taking up room, for existing, for being.
"You don't have to be fine," she said quietly.
He blinked, startled. His lips parted, but no words came.
She turned away, walking back to her desk. Her chest felt tight, her breathing shallow. She thought of Chen Rui's words, the way they had slid so easily into the cracks, the way Lin Hao had absorbed them like water into dry earth. She thought of Zhao Mei, and how she had once believed that saving Lin Hao was a matter of loving him enough, of being enough.
It wasn't enough.
This wasn't just about Zhao Mei. Or Chen Rui. Or Manager Xu.
Lin Hao had been trained to disappear.
And if she didn't stop it now, he would. Completely.