**PRESENT DAY**
*Knock knock* as someone outside the door, knocked almost breaking the stillness , echoed through the vast hall.
--An office , really grand to be mistaken as a throne room. Gleaming marble floors reflecting the shining lights coming from just above on the roof , chandeliers , crystal chandeliers and to the walls bore shelves of rare books , dark wood polished to perfection . in the center on a leather backed chair , sat a man.
He did not fidget , neither glanced at the door. his presence himself filled the space , as silence itself obeyed him.
From the threshold came a voice , respectful , hesitant. *May I come in?*.
The man on the chair leaned back over so slightly, his reply was unhurried , smooth and low--like velvet stretched over steel. *Yes*.
To this , permission was finally granted .
The door opened with a muted creak , the man stepped inside , careful with his steps as if entering a sacred place , his polished shoes clicking on the beautiful reflective marble as he takes to continue every step, before falling a silence on a persian carpet, he carried a folder pressing against his chest , his face taut with a mixture of respect and nerves.
At the heart of the room sat the FANG XINYI , he had come to see .
The man was tall--when standing his figure stretched to six feet three, though seated he seemed no less commanding. his body carried the wait of discipline: muscle shaped by habit rather than vanity , not the swollen bulk of brawler , but the lean decisive strength of someone who knew how to move with precision. his frame spoke of control not excess.
He reclined with poise, one leg crossed over the another , hands resting on the armrests , thin dark eyebrows framed eyes that steady calm, their focus both unsettling and reassuring , the faintest curl played on his lips, a gesture too subtle to be called as smile , yet enough to soften the severity of his features. every motion was deliberate, flowing with a quiet elegance-- never rushed never raised above necessity.
The visitor cleared his throat , lowering the folder to the vast mahogany desk, *Mr. Fang* he began *I have bought the drafts for the new project. the designs are ambitious , but.... I believe they are in line with your visions*
Xinyi`s long finger brushed the cover of the folder with an elegance , that made even the smallest gesture become a part of deliberation. his voice --calm and low, *Show me*
The visitor slid the folder open, revealing neat sketches, printed sheets, and projections bound together with care. His hands trembled slightly as he laid them out, though he tried to hide it.
* Here,* he said, voice low. * The new project—an expansion of the eastern division. The structure will require significant resources, but if executed properly, it will surpass last year's achievements. These are the models, the figures, and the proposed timeline.*
Fang xinyi did not rush , his moves showed expressions of calmness, his eyes ran to every single page , scanning , not just the word but intent behind them, his eyes paused at some margins as if he was storing them in his mind.
Finally, he looked up. His expression did not change much; only the faintest lift of his brow marked thought.*The numbers,* he said softly, *are aggressive.*
The visitor shifted uncomfortably. *Yes, sir. But with the right push, I believe they're achievable.*
Xinyi leaned back, the leather of his chair creaking faintly. His movements were measured, as if every shift of posture was calculated to reflect calm authority.*Belief,* he replied, his tone quiet, *is a fragile foundation for ambition. Confidence is necessary but confidence without precision is recklessness.*
He tapped the edge of one chart with a knuckle, the sound sharp against the paper.*This section. You've underestimated the time required for logistics. And here *his finger moved elegantly, never jabbing, always flowing *you've inflated projections to fit expectations. Do not build castles from smoke.*
The visitor swallowed, nodding quickly, but Xinyi's voice did not rise; it remained steady, almost soothing despite its weight.*Still,* he continued, *the vision is not without merit. The framework is strong. Strip away the excess, refine the estimates, and it will stand. Ambition, when disciplined, becomes strength.*
For a moment, silence settled again. Then, with the same calm authority, Fang Xinyi closed the folder and slid it back across the desk.*Return in three days,* he said, his words low but final. *Bring me a version that does not waste time with illusions.*
And though his voice never grew sharp, the command carried a gravity that allowed no refusal.
Hours bled into the evening. The vast office, once humming with footsteps and the shuffle of papers, had grown silent. Outside, the city had surrendered to rain , soft at first, then steady, each droplet streaking against the tall glass windows.
Fang Xinyi remained at his desk, a lamp casting warm amber light across polished wood and scattered documents. His posture was unchanged: straight, composed, as though time itself dared not disturb him.
When at last he rose, it was not with weariness but with the same deliberate grace he carried in daylight. He crossed to the tall windows, hands clasped loosely behind his back. Beyond the glass, the world blurred in sheets of rain, neon reflections trembling across the wet streets below.
It was then he saw him.
A figure stood across the road, half-shrouded in shadow where the streetlamps flickered. The man wore a long black blazer, the fabric clinging darkly in the downpour. A hat cast his face in shadow, but the sharp brim made his silhouette distinct. Heavy boots anchored him to the ground, unmoving, as if he had been standing there for hours.
Rain streamed off the brim of his hat, slid down his shoulders, but still he did not move. He simply stood , watching, or waiting.
Xinyi's eyes lingered on him. His expression did not shift; no alarm, no frown, no overt curiosity. Only that same quiet composure, a stillness as elegant as it was unreadable. To anyone else, the figure in the rain might have stirred unease. But Fang Xinyi's gaze was calm, his lips a faint line, his breath even.
The silence between them , though separated by glass and storm—was palpable. A meeting of presences, wordless and patient.
At last, Xinyi turned away, drawing the curtains with a smooth pull. The room dimmed, the storm outside muffled. Whatever waited in the rain would remain where it was.
And Fang Xinyi, as always, remained unshaken.
For a long, suspended moment, nothing stirred. The storm carried the only sound.
Then, with a quiet movement, the man adjusted the brim of his hat, lowering it to shadow his face entirely. He turned without haste, his steps heavy yet unhurried, and walked into the rain-slicked darkness.
The storm had quieted by the time Fang Xinyi left his office. The marble corridors echoed with his steady steps, and soon he was seated in the back of a sleek black car. The leather seats held the faint scent of polish, the hum of the engine a low whisper beneath the rain's dying rhythm.
He leaned back, tilting his head against the cushion, eyes half-lidded. Outside, the city lights flickered past in fractured colors, but Xinyi paid them no attention. Nor did he speak to the driver—his silence was its own command, and the car moved as though guided by instinct.
For a while, only the muted world slipped by.
And then, as the car rounded a corner, it struck him , uninvited yet unmistakable. A vision, sharp as if carved into the air itself.
The man in black.
Standing again beneath the streetlamps, hat shadowing his face, rain dripping from the edge of his blazer. The same stillness, the same silence. Watching. Waiting .
Xinyi's eyes narrowed slightly, though his posture remained relaxed, unshaken. Was it truly there, or only in his mind's conjuring? The car passed, the vision dissolved into darkness, leaving no trace on the wet pavement.
Yet the image lingered.