---
Beijing was colder than he expected.
Xiao Zhan stood quietly at the metro exit, a scarf wound tightly around his neck, hands tucked into the deep pockets of his coat. The air bit at his cheeks. His suitcase stood loyally by his side, wheels muddy from the sudden stop in the middle of the road when a motorbike zoomed past — reminding him he was no longer in Kyoto.
He tilted his head up, letting his breath fog the air as he looked at the towering building before him.
"The Wang Group."
Tall, intimidating, and built like a fortress of steel and glass. Home to one of the largest corporate empires in Asia.
He whispered to himself, "So this is where it begins."
No one knew who he truly was here. No one would bow, call him Your Highness, or whisper behind palace doors about obligations, arranged marriages, or traditions built on gilded cages. In China, he was just Xiao Zhan, a 27-year-old who arrived three weeks ago, carrying nothing but a foreign degree, a sharp mind, and a past he had no intention of unpacking.
He took one last breath — and walked into the dragon's den.
---
The Wang Group's HR reception smelled like expensive linen and silent judgment.
"Application for Creative Strategy Assistant?" the receptionist repeated, eyeing his polished résumé with interest. "You're... not from here."
"No," Zhan replied with a warm smile, voice gentle. "Just moved recently."
His Mandarin was soft with a slightly lilting accent — not enough to be foreign, but just enough to be noticeable.
"I see…" She nodded. "You'll need to pass three interviews. The last one is with our Creative Director and heir of the family—"
"I know." Zhan nodded, eyes flicking to the towering photo of Wang Yibo behind her.
In it, Yibo wore a fitted black suit, unsmiling, with sharp jawlines and eyes that could cut. The only son of the Wangs — China's quiet, modern-day royalty. No crown. No ceremony. But he held more power than any throne. His name alone turned heads, and his silence could end careers.
Zhan stared at the image for a heartbeat too long.
"Why this company?" the woman asked him, curiosity growing.
Zhan turned back to her. His smile never faltered. "Because I want to work under someone who doesn't hand out approval easily."
---
Three Days Later
Zhan was ushered into a private elevator with golden interior and not a single button — it was biometric.
He waited in silence, heart steady, hands wrapped around the leather portfolio he'd practiced presenting with in his studio apartment all night. He didn't know if it was ambition, stubbornness, or simply a need to carve his own path—but he wanted this job. He needed it.
The elevator opened with a soft ding, revealing a massive penthouse floor. Sunlight spilled through wide glass windows, casting soft gold over polished floors.
There, seated at the end of a long obsidian table, was Wang Yibo himself.
In person, he looked colder than the photos. Younger too, but only in years — not in soul. He had the look of someone raised in rooms full of duty and silence.
He didn't rise. Just looked up from his tablet and said, "Xiao Zhan."
Zhan bowed slightly. "Director Wang."
"Take a seat."
His voice was deep, firm, unreadable.
Zhan sat.
There was a moment of silence as Yibo studied him. Zhan was used to stares. But not ones that made him feel like pages were being flipped open in his chest.
"You studied at Keio," Yibo said flatly. "Summa cum laude."
"Yes."
"Your Mandarin isn't native, but you speak fluently."
"I've studied since I was young."
"And you moved here recently. Alone."
Zhan paused.
"…Yes."
Yibo tilted his head slightly, and for a second, Zhan thought he saw a flicker of… curiosity?
"You don't have local connections. No referrals. Yet you applied for one of the most competitive roles in my company."
"I don't believe in shortcuts," Zhan said gently.
"And you think I'm going to be impressed by that?"
Zhan blinked once. "I think you'll be interested in someone who's not trying to impress you."
The silence that followed was thick.
Then, to his surprise, Yibo leaned back in his chair, one brow raising ever so slightly.
"…Bold."
"Truthful," Zhan replied, lips curving just faintly.
Another pause.
Then — "Leave your portfolio. Wait for the results."
Zhan stood, bowed politely, and turned to leave.
But just before he reached the door, Yibo's voice came again.
"…Don't wear white next time."
Zhan turned, confused. "Pardon?"
Yibo's eyes flicked to his coat — white, elegant, too pristine for a Beijing winter.
"You'll stain," he said casually, but something about the way he said it was too specific. Too quiet.
Like he already noticed too much.
Like he wanted to see what would happen if Zhan did stain.
Zhan's smile deepened just a little.
"I'll keep that in mind."
---
That Evening
Zhan sat by the window of his small rented apartment, cup of hot tea warming his palms.
He watched the city lights. They didn't twinkle like Kyoto — they burned.
His phone vibrated. A single email.
> From: hr@wanggroup.cn
Subject: Interview Results
Body:
Welcome to the Wang Group, Mr. Xiao Zhan.
You start Monday.
Creative Department. Direct report: Director Wang Yibo.
He smiled, just barely.
And far across the city, in a high-rise lit only by cold light, Wang Yibo stared at the closed portfolio on his desk. The pages had been clean, well-crafted. But it wasn't the designs that stayed in his mind.
It was the smile.
Soft.
Unassuming.
But quietly defiant.
Yibo didn't trust smiles.
And yet… he remembered this one.
---
To be continued…