Jili Company. Ground floor.
The air conditioning had turned the lobby into something close to freezing. Two female receptionists at the front desk stole glances sideways at each other, keeping their hands busy with the things in front of them.
Along the right side of the corridor ran a promotional display wall, hung with the company’s projects from recent years and photographs of its leadership at major events.
The man was standing in front of that wall.
He had approached the front desk moments earlier, and both receptionists found they couldn’t stop thinking about him. He was very tall, dressed entirely in black — the fabric of his clothes stiff and structured, as if his whole frame had been carved from something hard and sharp. Paired with those quiet, unreadable eyes, he gave off an air that was difficult to name — strange and uncommon in a way that kept pulling at attention.
And yet they couldn’t stop looking.
A phone rang. One of the receptionists picked up and said softly: “Director Gao… Yes, understood.” She set the phone down and rose from her seat. “Sir, you may go up now. Director Gao is in the meeting room on the sixth floor.”
The man turned from the display wall and walked toward the elevators without a word.
The central air conditioning was turned low — not just the lobby, but the entire building ran with a cold, sterile chill.
Off the elevator, the wide meeting room was directly ahead. The glass door was spotless. Inside: a long, orderly conference table, a ring of leather chairs, and two neatly trimmed plants in a corner — the only warm touch in the room.
Three people were inside. Two standing, one seated. When they became aware of someone at the door, all three looked over. The seated man took only a single glance before returning his attention to the two employees he was addressing, spending another ten-odd minutes wrapping up his instructions before they gathered their notes and left.
When the last of them had gone, Gao Jianhong finally took a sip of tea, looked up, and turned his gaze to the man at the door.
“It’s been a long time, Li Xun.”
---
*
When Tian Xiuzhu arrived to collect Zhu Yun, he was met with a peculiar scene: two thoroughly drunk women draped across each other on the sofa. Ren Di had her blouse half undone and was practically bare, one arm looped around Zhu Yun’s waist, sleeping soundly.
“True to form for a rock musician,” Tian Xiuzhu observed, with something between admiration and resignation.
Zhu Yun was wedged in against the cushion, Ren Di’s long legs hooked around her. Tian Xiuzhu tried to move Ren Di’s ankle to free Zhu Yun — and was met with a sharp kick from Ren Di mid-sleep.
The kick jolted Zhu Yun awake. Still with a shred of consciousness intact, she struggled upright.
“How did you get in?”
Tian Xiuzhu said patiently: “Good security doesn’t count for much if you leave the door open.”
Zhu Yun was still foggy. “…We left the door open?”
He helped Zhu Yun to her feet. She was unsteady, so he kept one arm around her, and with his free hand picked up a thin jacket lying dust-covered on the floor, tossing it over Ren Di’s legs.
“Quite the gathering you two had.”
He settled Zhu Yun into the car. By the time they were moving, she had come around enough to feel the throbbing in her head. She sat staring out at the passing streets for a long while before asking, in a rough voice: “Where are we going?” Tian Xiuzhu answered: “The studio.”
His studio was something he had purchased many years ago — tucked into a narrow lane beside the art museum, deep and quiet, a small island removed from the noise of the city. Most of his work on home soil was done there.
Zhu Yun remembered the first time she had visited — the space was so full of things it nearly dizzied her. After wandering around for a while, what she retained most clearly wasn’t the sight of the room but the smell of it: a particular scent, layered — wood, canvas, mineral spirits, and something that belonged to Tian Xiuzhu himself.
Tian Xiuzhu returned to the studio and tied on a khaki-colored apron, positioning himself before a large, stretched canvas to mix his colors.
Zhu Yun looked at the under-drawing on the canvas. “You left in the middle of this?”
“Yes.”
“You could have said so — I would have made my own way back.”
Tian Xiuzhu smiled. “Whether you could have found your way out the front door at all was already an open question.”
Zhu Yun sat down at the work desk to sober up, and on impulse began tidying the papers scattered across it. Working her fingers into a gap between a stack of things, she pulled out a worn English-language magazine. On the cover was Tian Xiuzhu’s face.
She flipped to the article spread, and the moment she saw it, she recognized it immediately. This was the piece Liu Sisi had once asked her to translate back in their university days.
A faint, hazy feeling settled over her.
---
*
Sixth floor.
In the vast meeting room, only two people remained: Gao Jianhong and Li Xun, seated face to face.
Gao Jianhong wore a grey suit and silver-rimmed glasses. He was thinner than before — the angles of his jaw more defined now, more settled. Whether it was the cold palette of the room or the low temperature of the air conditioning, his face carried an unnatural pallor.
“When did you get out?” he asked evenly.
“A few days ago,” Li Xun said.
“Early release?”
“Yes.”
Gao Jianhong nodded. He ran a finger lightly around the rim of his teacup lid, and the soft sound of porcelain on porcelain suited the atmosphere of the room — also cold.
“How have you been?” he asked, offhand.
Li Xun said nothing.
“Now that you’re out,” Gao Jianhong said, “live properly. Don’t make the same mistakes as before.” He glanced at Li Xun. “What are your plans going forward?”
Li Xun still didn’t answer.
Gao Jianhong didn’t seem bothered. He set the lid back on the cup, folded his hands on the table, and adopted the tone of a man briefing his staff.