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Monday – 8:02 AM
Wang Group Headquarters, 28th Floor – Creative Division
The office smelled of fresh coffee, morning frost, and money.
Xiao Zhan stepped into the Creative Division with a calm he didn't entirely feel. His coat was darker this time — midnight grey — clean, pressed, and less likely to stain. He wore a soft turtleneck, loose slacks, and black-rimmed glasses that did little to hide the sharpness in his eyes.
People stared. Again.
Some whispered.
"That's the one who got through to Director Wang..."
"He's too pretty for this floor."
"I heard he studied in Japan. Privileged brat, probably."
Xiao Zhan ignored them. He always had.
He sat at the desk assigned to him, tucked neatly near the director's wing — far enough to avoid direct contact, close enough to feel the tension in the air that only one man could create.
Wang Yibo hadn't arrived yet.
Zhan glanced at the clock. 8:04.
---
At exactly 8:06 AM, the private elevator opened with a soft chime.
Wang Yibo stepped out — black tailored coat, no expression, phone in hand. His hair was brushed back with just enough care to look effortless. As always, people stood straighter, stilled, as he passed.
He didn't look at anyone.
Not until he reached the end of the hall.
And his eyes flicked — just once — to where Xiao Zhan sat.
Zhan, poised and composed, looked up calmly.
Their eyes met.
Yibo's gaze lingered.
A second too long.
Then he disappeared into his private office.
No words.
Just a door closing with a soft click.
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10:00 AM – Creative Briefing
It was Xiao Zhan's first departmental meeting. He sat among the others, quietly taking notes. The lead strategist was explaining the Elaria project — a perfume line set to launch in spring, with aesthetics rooted in minimalism and legacy.
"I want something light," the strategist said. "Airy. Feminine."
"Too safe," came a voice from the head of the table.
Wang Yibo. Of course.
The room fell silent. Everyone looked to him.
Yibo leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping once against his tablet. His eyes never left the board.
"Legacy doesn't mean lifeless. If I see soft pink and floating flowers again, I'll pull the campaign."
No one moved.
Until—
"May I ask," Xiao Zhan said softly, pen pausing mid-note, "what legacy means to you?"
All eyes snapped to him.
Even Yibo's.
Zhan didn't flinch. His voice was gentle but clear. He wasn't challenging. He was asking.
Yibo stared at him.
A full beat passed.
Then he replied, "It means surviving scrutiny."
The words hung in the air, sharp and cold.
Zhan nodded slowly, as if filing it away in his mind.
"I see," he murmured. "Then maybe we should ask what Elaria is trying to survive."
That made Yibo pause.
Their eyes held again. No one breathed.
And just when it felt like the room might snap in half from the tension, Yibo looked away and said simply:
"Continue."
---
12:37 PM – Lunch Hour
Zhan sat alone at the edge of the rooftop café, lunch half-eaten, notebook open.
He liked silence. He'd grown up in palaces with marble floors that echoed every footstep. Here, the hum of life around him was comforting.
He was sketching — lines flowing across the page — when a shadow fell over his table.
He looked up.
Wang Yibo.
Without asking, he sat opposite him. In front of him: black Americano, untouched.
"You don't eat much," Yibo said.
"I get distracted easily," Zhan replied with a small smile. "There's too much I want to put down before it disappears."
Yibo glanced at the sketch.
A woman standing in the middle of a lake, her shadow reflected beneath the water — not matching her posture.
"You drew that now?"
"Yes."
"…You're better than I expected."
Zhan tilted his head slightly. "Is that rare?"
Yibo looked at him, expression unreadable.
"Yes."
Another pause.
Zhan finally asked, "Why me? You could've picked someone with more experience. More... local."
Yibo stared at him.
Then, quietly, he said, "Because everyone else walked in like they wanted my approval. You didn't."
Zhan looked down, lashes brushing his cheek. "Maybe I was just afraid you wouldn't give it."
That made Yibo's mouth twitch — not quite a smile, but something almost amused.
"I still haven't."
"I know."
Their eyes locked.
This time, neither looked away.
---
Later That Week
Something had shifted.
Zhan found himself assigned to more meetings than anyone else in his rank. He sat in on pitch rehearsals, branding discussions, even architecture proposals. And each time, Yibo was there. Watching. Listening. Rarely speaking.
Zhan never overstepped.
But he never shrank either.
It was maddening to some of the others. Enviable to more.
By Friday, whispers filled the halls again.
"He's Wang Yibo's favorite."
"He must be someone important…"
"He probably comes from money. That quiet kind."
Zhan ignored it all.
He was used to rumors.
He had lived through worse than whispers.
---
Friday Evening – 7:48 PM
Zhan stayed late.
He often did.
This time, he was sketching a reimagined visual layout for the Elaria pitch — something bolder, more symbolic. A woman standing in a mirror, her reflection not showing her face, but her past — in broken porcelain shards.
He was so absorbed, he didn't notice the figure behind him until a voice said:
"…You changed it."
Zhan turned.
Wang Yibo stood behind him, sleeves rolled up, eyes fixed on the screen.
Zhan cleared his throat softly. "Yes. I thought… survival isn't always graceful. Sometimes it's painful."
Yibo said nothing.
Just looked at him.
Then, softly:
"Where did you learn that?"
Zhan looked away. "Somewhere far."
Another silence.
Then Yibo moved — closer.
Too close.
He reached past Zhan, fingers brushing over his wrist lightly as he used the mouse to zoom in on a detail of the sketch — a tiny mark in the reflection: a broken crown, hidden in shadow.
"You left it there," he murmured.
Zhan stilled.
He hadn't meant for anyone to see it.
"It's… just a shape."
"No," Yibo said quietly. "It's a memory."
Their eyes met again.
And for the first time — truly — something unspoken passed between them.
Not attraction.
Not power.
But recognition.
Two men raised in gilded silence.
One escaped.
One inherited.
Both trapped in different ways.
"Good work," Yibo said finally, voice hoarse. "Send it to me."
Zhan nodded.
Yibo stepped back.
But before he left, he added — almost too quietly:
"…Don't change who you are here."
And then he was gone.
Leaving Xiao Zhan alone with a racing heart, trembling fingers, and a sketch that suddenly felt too close to home.
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