Zhao Wei's monitor glowed like an accusation in the dim office.
It was almost midnight, and the only sound was the relentless hum of the air conditioner.
He adjusted his tie — pointless, since it had been crooked since noon — and rubbed his burning eyes. The final marketing proposal had to be finished before morning. The CEO's words echoed from earlier: If you can't meet the deadline, there's no point in keeping you here.
He'd been "here" for five years, climbing from junior assistant to senior marketing strategist. Five years of all-nighters, cold takeout, and skipping family dinners. The price of ambition. The price of survival.
A cold cup of coffee sat untouched on the desk, the surface film catching the blue light from his screen. He ignored it, fingers flying over the keyboard. His heart thudded harder than it should.
He told himself it was just the caffeine.
The words blurred for a moment. He blinked them back into focus, forcing himself to keep typing.
Across the empty office, someone's forgotten potted plant drooped under the weight of neglect. Zhao Wei felt a strange kinship with it.
When the final page was done, he hit Send and sagged back in his chair. The clock read 12:43 a.m. Another day gone. Another deadline met.
His phone buzzed — a message from his mother.
> Don't forget, your cousin's wedding is next month. You promised you'd come.
He stared at the screen. His thumb hovered over the keyboard, but he didn't reply.
Instead, he leaned back, closed his eyes for a second… and the second stretched too long.
A sharp pain bloomed in his chest.
He tried to stand, but his legs went weak. His hands, the same ones that had typed a thousand proposals, scrabbled for the edge of the desk and missed.
The floor rose up to meet him, hard and cold.
---
When Zhao Wei's eyes opened again, he wasn't staring at the office ceiling.
He was in a bed — a big bed, the kind you see in luxury hotel brochures. The sheets were crisp, smelling faintly of lavender.
And there was a man in a suit standing at the foot of the bed, holding a tablet.
"Sir," the man said, voice clipped and professional. "It's time to get ready for the board meeting."
Zhao Wei sat up fast, the room spinning. "What—where—?"
The man didn't blink. "Your schedule is tight today. After the board meeting, the lawyer will bring the adoption papers for the boy. The nanny says he refused breakfast again."
Zhao Wei blinked at him. "The boy? Adoption papers? I think you—"
A glint of metal caught his eye. On the nightstand sat a wallet, sleek and expensive. He reached for it, hands trembling, and flipped it open.
The face on the ID was not his.
It was sharper, colder, older. The name printed beneath: Li Shen.
Zhao Wei froze. Li Shen — the billionaire CEO of Shen Group. A man whose face appeared on finance magazines, often with headlines like "The Ruthless Rise of Li Shen" or "Boardroom Shark Strikes Again".
Zhao Wei's brain scrambled for logic. He remembered collapsing. He remembered the pain. And now… this?
"Sir," the suited man said again, "your tie selection?" He stepped forward, opening a drawer to reveal a row of silk ties, each more expensive than Zhao Wei's monthly rent.
"I—uh—" Zhao Wei swallowed hard. "Where's… where's the bathroom?"
The man gestured to a frosted glass door. Zhao Wei nearly tripped on the plush rug getting there.
Inside, the mirror confirmed the impossible. The reflection staring back was Li Shen — tall, imposing, with the kind of face that could freeze a room. Only now, those eyes were wide with panic.
He gripped the sink. "This isn't real," he muttered. "I'm dreaming. I'm—"
A knock interrupted him.
"Sir, the boy is waiting in the dining room. The nanny insists you should at least greet him before you leave."
The boy.
Zhao Wei opened the door slowly. "Right… the boy."
The walk to the dining room was a blur of marble floors, oil paintings, and the faint scent of polished wood. The house — no, mansion — was the kind of place you only saw on magazine covers.
The dining room table could have seated twenty. At the far end sat a small figure: a boy of maybe six, wearing pajamas patterned with little rocket ships. He stared down at a bowl of untouched porridge.
His hair was a messy black fringe. His shoulders were hunched.
"This is Xiao An," the nanny said softly from behind Zhao Wei.
The boy didn't look up.
Zhao Wei cleared his throat. "Uh… hi."
Silence.
The nanny leaned in. "He's been through a lot. His mother — your sister — passed away last month."
Zhao Wei's stomach twisted. Your sister. Right. Li Shen's sister.
The boy picked up his spoon, stirred the porridge once, then set it down again.
Zhao Wei had no idea what to say. He wasn't anyone's father. He wasn't even—
"Sir," the suited man reappeared, holding out a briefcase. "The car is ready."
Zhao Wei looked between the boy and the briefcase. The air felt heavier than any boardroom he'd ever been in.
"I'll… be back later," he managed, though he wasn't sure if he was saying it to Xiao An or to himself.
As the car door closed behind him, Zhao Wei stared out at the sprawling city.
He'd gone to sleep a marketing grunt. He'd woken up a billionaire CEO… and a guardian to a child who wouldn't meet his eyes.
Somewhere, somehow, life had just handed him a role he never auditioned for.
And he had no idea how to play it.