Chapter Text
The workplace was silent except for keyboard sounds and the quiet buzz of cooling systems.
Early sunlight came through the tall windows, making long dark shapes on the floor covering. The room had a light smell of cleaned wood and new coffee—clean, businesslike, the type of place that felt cold rather than welcoming.
Gao Tu sat very straight at his desk in the corner. Years of training had made this his normal way of sitting. His work area was very tidy, with everything put in its exact place: his pen lined up perfectly with his notepad edge, papers piled in perfect order, his computer screen positioned just right.
He had always been this careful—neat, exact, the type of assistant who never let even one small office item get out of place. To anyone walking past, he seemed calm and steady.
But his hands showed the truth.
They shook slightly as they moved over the letter sitting on his keyboard. The thick cream-coloured paper felt heavier than normal, like a weight against his hands. He had written the letter three times the evening before, each try a fight between telling the truth and holding back, between all he wanted to say and all he could never speak. What was left on the paper were just a few cold sentences—distant, businesslike, safe.
His throat felt tight as he looked across the room to the glass wall around the boss's office.
Inside, Shen Wen Lang was reading a paper, his glasses sliding down slightly, his forehead wrinkled as he focused. He held his pen like he always did, tilted a bit to the left, fingers firm, movements sure. That sense of being in charge—strong, unmoving—was what made him powerful, both frightening and respected. Even now, with only quiet between them, Gao Tu felt pulled towards him.
A pull he was about to leave behind.
He took a slow, calming breath. This was the final time.
The idea rang like a bell in his chest, empty and ending.
Gao Tu pushed back his chair and got up. The wheels made a soft noise on the carpet that seemed very loud. His footsteps sounded like drums in his ears as he walked to the office door. His heart was beating fast and hard.
He stopped at the glass wall and fixed his tie before knocking on the door. The knock was quiet and polite, but it broke the silence clearly.
"President Shen," he said softly.
Wen Lang did not look up straight away. He finished signing his paper neatly, put the cap back on his pen, and then looked up. His dark eyes looked at Gao Tu quickly, checking him over. They stayed on him for just a moment, as if looking for something, before becoming cold and blank like a boss looking at a worker.
"What do you want?" His voice was short and business-like, showing no feelings.
Gao Tu walked forward and put an envelope carefully on the desk, lining it up with the edge of the desk pad without thinking. His fingers touched the leather surface for just a bit longer than needed before pulling away. When he spoke, his voice sounded calm and practised, though inside it felt like broken glass was stuck in his throat.
"My resignation letter."
The words stayed in the air, harsh and final.
Wen Lang's pen lay forgotten on the desk. For a moment, he did not move at all, as if time had stopped. Then, slowly, he picked up the envelope. His long fingers opened it carefully and took out the paper inside. He read the short lines, and as each second passed, his jaw got tighter.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet and steady, but with a hard edge.
"Why?"
Gao Tu tried to smile a little, though his mouth shook. "Personal reasons. I just need something different."
"Personal things," Wen Lang said again, like he was thinking about what the words meant. He sat back in his chair, and the leather made a soft noise.
He crossed his arms and kept looking at Gao Tu with his dark, serious eyes. "That's it?"
"Yes." Gao Tu made tight fists with his hands by his sides, his nails digging into his skin. "I've been thinking about this for a while."
A small muscle moved near Wen Lang's eye, showing he was trying to stay calm. Something angry showed in his eyes for a moment, but he quickly hid it and went back to looking cold and uncaring.
"Alright," he finally said, his voice short and unfriendly. "If you don't like working here, then you don't have to stay."
His words hurt badly. They hurt more than they should have. Gao Tu felt his throat get tight, but he tried to keep his face looking normal.
"It's not that I don't like working here—"
"Then what's the problem?" Wen Lang's voice got louder and he wasn't staying calm anymore. His voice was loud in the room with glass walls. "Or do you just like to run away when things get hard?"
What he said felt like being hit. Gao Tu couldn't breathe properly for a moment. His chest hurt because of all the things he could never tell Wen Lang. Running away. Wen Lang didn't understand. He didn't know how hard it was to leave or how hard it was to stay.
But Gao Tu couldn't tell him. He wasn't allowed to.
"Thank you for everything you did for me," Gao Tu said quietly. He looked down and bent his head a little so Wen Lang couldn't see that his eyes were watery. "Thank you for giving me this job."
Wen Lang made a short laugh that wasn't happy at all. It sounded rough in the quiet room. "Saying thank you? Don't bother. People like you—" He stopped talking, leaving his angry words unfinished. His jaw moved like he was trying not to say what he really wanted to say.
For a long time, he just stared at Gao Tu, really looking at him. He noticed the small shake in Gao Tu's smile and how stiff his shoulders were.
The quiet was heavy with all the things he didn't say. Wen Lang felt something painful in his chest, but he pushed it away and put on a cold, stern face.
"Leave," he said without emotion. "You've already decided what you want to do."
Those final words felt like breaking ice.
Gao Tu bowed low, then turned away before his calm face could break. He gripped the door handle tightly but didn't stop. The door closed behind him with a quiet click.
The quiet after that was very loud.
Wen Lang didn't move for a long time. The letter saying Gao Tu was quitting was still open on his desk. His pen lay next to it, the ink slowly drying. He looked at the neat writing until it became blurry. His thoughts were mixed between being angry and feeling something else he didn't want to think about.
For the whole day after that, he never picked up his pen again.
Gao Tu didn't turn around when he left Shen Wen Lang's office.
If he had looked back, his calm face might have broken. If he had, Wen Lang might have seen his lips shaking slightly and how his breathing was unsteady, like a string pulled too tight.
But Gao Tu had taught himself to walk straight with his head up and a steady look on his face. So that's what he did. He left the company the same way he had come in every morning for years - with straight shoulders, his chin up, and a polite smile on his face.
But this time, the work card in his pocket felt very heavy. It was no longer something that showed he belonged there or a way into the only place where he had felt somewhat stable. Now it was just a useless piece of plastic that pressed against his leg with each step.
When he walked outside, the bright sunlight hurt his eyes.
The day was very clear with no clouds in the blue sky. The city was busy and noisy. Cars were honking, someone was laughing nearby, and he could smell chestnuts cooking from a street seller.
Everything felt too bright, too noisy, and too lively for how he was feeling. His life had fallen apart in just a few minutes, but the city kept going as if nothing had happened.
He stood on the pavement for a while, watching the cars go by, until the heavy feeling in his chest became too much.
When he got home, his flat was very quiet. It was small with not much furniture, clean but empty. The walls and floors made sounds echo too much. The silence was not peaceful but felt heavy and made it hard to breathe. It made him remember things he tried not to think about.
He needed to pay his rent soon. He had marked the date on his calendar with red ink, hoping that would help him stay organised. His saved money, which he had kept for emergencies, was running out fast. He had spent it on hospital bills for his younger sister's operation, food, and electricity bills. All the basic things needed to live.
His sister had left just a week ago with her bags, going to university in another city. She was still getting better from her operation but was determined to go. She had smiled at him with the kind of hope that only young people have. He hugged her, put a packed lunch in her bag, and told her not to worry.
He always said that. Don't worry.
But when the door shut behind her and he could no longer hear her laughing in the stairway, he almost fell down right there in the hallway. He pressed his hand hard against his stomach, trying to hold himself together.
Now, standing in the middle of his quiet living room, all the worry came back again. His lower back ached in a dull way that would not go away. His chest felt like it was burning, reminding him that his body was not working properly. His hormone problem made him feel sick in different ways. Sometimes he felt like being sick, sometimes he felt dizzy and had to hold onto walls, and sometimes he just wanted to hide until the feeling went away.
And then there was the baby.
His hand drifted to his stomach almost unconsciously, fingers trembling as they pressed lightly against the still-flat plane beneath his shirt. The doctor’s words echoed with relentless clarity: early, but viable. Rest was crucial. Avoid stress. Avoid stress.
A bitter laugh threatened to escape. Avoid stress? As if that were possible.
The door banged open without warning, the fragile stillness shattering. Gao Tu flinched, spinning on his heel.
His father stumbled in, shoulders slumped, the stench of cigarettes and cheap liquor clinging to his clothes like a second skin. His hair was unkempt, his shirt half-buttoned, eyes glassy and bloodshot.
“You got money?” the man slurred, his gaze sweeping over the apartment with disdain, as though it were a cage too small for him.
Gao Tu’s chest tightened, but his voice came out calm, even, controlled. “Dad, I told you. I don’t have extra right now.”
“You quit that job, didn’t you?” His father’s sneer twisted his face, pulling it into something sharp and ugly. “Stupid boy. How do you plan to feed yourself? You think the world cares?”
Gao Tu’s fingers curled against his palms until the nails dug crescents into his skin. His face betrayed nothing. “I’ll figure it out.”
“You’ll figure it out?” The man barked a laugh, bitter and broken. “You’re as useless as your mother was.”
The words cut deep, familiar in their cruelty, and yet Gao Tu didn’t flinch. He had learned long ago that silence was the only shield worth wielding. Words never defended, they only inflamed.
Eventually, his father swayed toward the hallway, muttering curses under his breath before slamming his bedroom door behind him. The apartment sank back into uneasy quiet.
Only then did Gao Tu let himself sink onto the couch, his body folding as though the strings holding him upright had been cut. He pressed a hand against his temple, the other against his abdomen, grounding himself against the ache. His chest burned with the effort of holding everything in.
He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. He wanted, just once, for someone to tell him it would be okay.
But there was no one. Only the faint hum of the fridge in the kitchen. Only the faintest trace of sage in the air—his own pheromones, unstable, leaking despite the suppressants he took with clockwork precision.
He buried his face in his hands.
Tomorrow, he would need to find work. Something, anything to keep the lights on, to keep food on the table.
And somewhere across the city, Shen Wen Lang still sat in his office. The resignation letter remained unfolded on his desk, his pen abandoned beside it. His jaw was clenched tight, his gaze fixed on nothing at all, chest caught in a pressure he couldn’t name.