Morning light slid across Luminar's glass walls, pale and cold. The city was already awake—screens flashing, cars crawling—but inside the building, voices stayed low, clipped, wary.
Shen Qiao stood beside the conference monitor, hair pulled tight, eyes shadowed from too many sleepless nights.
"Meitian Capital leaked to investors that we're in talks with them," she said. "Even though you refused yesterday."
Gu Ze Yan flipped through a file without looking up. "Let them build their fantasy. Truth doesn't bend because someone whispers louder."
"The board's split," she warned. "Half think you're reckless."
"I'd worry more if they agreed too easily."
He hadn't slept. His cuffs were perfect, but the veins along his wrist stood out—an exhaustion he didn't admit.
When the door clicked open again, it wasn't another executive—it was Qing Yun, holding a small box wrapped in brown paper.
She didn't speak. She just set the box on his desk—fresh soy milk, sesame flatbread, the same breakfast she used to bring when his mornings were simpler—and then turned to pour herself tea.
The scent of roasted sesame cut through the metallic tang of tension.
Shen Qiao raised a brow but said nothing. She left with her tablet, the door closing behind her.
Ze Yan exhaled, finally allowing himself to sit. "You shouldn't have come. It's chaos here."
Qing Yun looked at him, calm as ever. "You still eat breakfast, don't you?"
A ghost of a smile touched his mouth. "Sometimes I forget."
"Then I'll remember for you."
---
The Papers
He worked through three calls before silence returned.
Contracts, financial ledgers, and audit letters filled the table like a battlefield—each page another demand, another accusation.
Qing Yun watched from the window seat, knees drawn slightly up, tea steaming between her fingers. The city below looked peaceful; it was a lie.
Her gaze drifted to one document half-curled at the corner of his desk. The logo, the formatting—it was supposed to be familiar, yet something felt wrong.
She stood, walked closer. "Can I see these?"
Ze Yan paused mid-email, surprised. "They're tedious."
"I'm used to tedious."
She slid the top sheet free, careful not to crease it. The paper was heavy, glossy—expensive—but too stiff. Luminar's paper always had a slight give, the kind that bent with warmth. This one resisted her touch like coated board.
Her thumb traced the watermark: centered.
Luminar's had never been centered. Ze Yan was meticulous about asymmetry—the watermark sat two centimeters off the top right, an inside detail no outsider would guess.
Her brows drew together. "Strange."
He glanced up. "What?"
"The watermark's in the wrong place."
---
The Small Discrepancies
She laid the paper flat under the sunlight. Ink shimmered faintly—new ink always did, microscopic metallic residue reflecting light before oxidation dulled it.
"This contract was signed three months ago, right?"
"That's what the leak says."
"Then it shouldn't sparkle." She angled it. "Ink should've settled by now."
Ze Yan watched her, curiosity overtaking fatigue. "You can tell that by eye?"
"I spent years studying pigment aging, remember?" she said lightly. "Paper tells time if you listen."
Her fingertip slid across the margin. "And here—the fiber runs vertical. Ours run diagonal. We've used that pattern for five years. Whoever made this had the template but not the material."
She handed the sheet back, expression thoughtful rather than triumphant. "It's clever forgery. They even copied the microprint logo. But details betray intention."
"Meaning?"
"Whoever did this wasn't trying to convince auditors. They wanted panic. Real forgery aims to blend in. This one wants to be caught, just slowly enough to ruin you first."
Ze Yan's chair creaked softly as he leaned back. "You're saying it's deliberate theater."
"Something like that." She met his eyes. "Fear dressed as paperwork."
---
The Moment of Understanding
He was silent for a while, then said quietly, "You noticed all that in two minutes."
"It's what I do. Restoration is about truth hidden under damage."
Her tone was mild, but it steadied him more than caffeine ever could.
He studied her profile—the fine lines of concentration, the way sunlight brushed her cheekbone. "You shouldn't have to fix what others destroy for me."
Her lips curved faintly. "Then let me fix it for Luminar instead. That way, it's not about you."
---
The Plan
When Shen Qiao returned with another armful of folders, Ze Yan's voice carried new steel.
"Send these documents to internal forensics. Test the ink oxidation and paper fiber source. No external labs."
Shen Qiao blinked. "You suspect forgery?"
"I suspect precision that isn't ours."
Qing Yun glanced up. "Keep it quiet. If the other side wanted a spectacle, don't give them an audience."
Shen Qiao nodded slowly, eyes flicking between them. "Understood."
After she left, Ze Yan looked at Qing Yun again. "You realize this will drag you into the storm."
"You're already in it," she said simply. "Someone has to hold the umbrella."
The line hung there between them—soft, unassuming—but it reversed everything Yi Rong had said yesterday.
For the first time in days, he felt warmth return to his chest.
---
Evening Stillness
By night, most of Luminar had gone dark. Only Ze Yan's office glowed—one warm rectangle suspended in glass.
He stood by the window, tie loosened, staring at the city that demanded his perfection.
Behind him, Qing Yun sorted the copies again, aligning corners, stacking pages into calmness.
The hum of air vents and distant traffic filled the silence.
"You make chaos look like still water," he said.
Her pen paused. "Still water only looks quiet. Underneath, it's full of current."
He turned, leaning against the table. "You always speak like you're translating emotions into logic."
She smiled faintly. "It's the only language I'm fluent in."
---
Yi Rong
Across town, in a penthouse wrapped in fog, Jiang Yi Rong swirled red wine in a thin-stemmed glass.
Her assistant read from a tablet. "The Bureau postponed the first audit hearing. No public response from Luminar. Investors think they're regrouping."
"Delay," she murmured, "is just another kind of defeat. He's buying time he doesn't have."
"Do we push harder?"
She smiled at her reflection in the window—perfect, composed, eyes colder than the city lights.
"No. Let him rest. Confidence tastes better before it burns."
She sipped her wine, savoring the thought. "And that girl who keeps standing beside him—what was her name? Lin Qing Yun?"
The assistant hesitated. "Yes. Former restoration student. Connected to Xu Wei Ran, Gu's fiancée."
Yi Rong's smile deepened. "So she still pretends to be invisible. How quaint."
She set the glass down, tapping a manicured nail against the rim.
"Let's see how long her calm lasts when I shine a light directly on her."