The air in the office, once frozen in time, suddenly rushed back in. The low hum of the computers, the faint murmur of conversations, the rhythmic tapping of a keyboard.
it all returned in a single, jarring moment. Mo Chen's hand, suspended over his phone, completed its descent. His face, a mask of concern, broke as he blinked, his gaze a little lost.
Mr. Zhang, beside him, finished his mid-sentence, the words "a smear campaign" hanging in the air.
Mo Chen's eyes fell on Qingxue, standing in the middle of his office. He furrowed his brows in confusion.
"Qin Rourou?" he said, his voice laced with a mixture of shock and disbelief. "When did you get here? I didn't see you come in." He looked at Mr. Zhang, who shook his head, just as confused.
Qingxue's heart hammered in her chest. The memory of the robot and the live broadcast was so real, so vivid, that it felt impossible to believe no one else had experienced it.
