Chapter 56#

Yan Zishu pressed a shirt crisp and straight, polished his shoes to a shine, and prepared everything needed for work, just as he had done on countless days and nights before. There was no longer anything to worry about stepping on underfoot — a small dog’s sudden appearance in his path. As though his world had reverted to its natural state: full of cold, complicated paperwork, emails, and reporting decks, rather than leisurely walks across a lawn or reading children’s books aloud in a shop.

Those suffering from heartbreak had the luxury of grief. Those still in the working world did not have the luxury of being precious about it. In daylight, Yan Zishu put away every vulnerability and wrapped himself again in the armor of suits and leather shoes — the same professional person as before, with the added distinction of needing to crawl back to a former employer with some semblance of dignity.

Yes. After a long delay, Yan Zishu had finally accepted the olive branch Third Uncle had extended, and agreed to return to Yinghan.

There were many reasons, but the most significant was this: since his early departure from the story, the plot had been diverging further with every passing day. The advance knowledge he’d carried was losing its value rapidly; he was navigating entirely on instinct. If that was the situation regardless, it was better to be back at the center of the turbulence.

His decision was to meet change by remaining unchanged.

That impulsive desire to abandon everything and run — it had arisen on a winter night, and been destroyed along with the car accident. He had felt it for Fu Jinchi’s sake alone, and Fu Jinchi had apparently found it equally absurd.

So it was clearly not a viable option after all.

As for returning and finding himself on Third Uncle’s side of the board —

He wouldn’t sink that far. Yan Zishu thought.

Third Uncle’s ability to wear his mercenary motives openly while still managing to project an air of magnanimous patronage was, honestly, somewhat funny. On the surface, Yan Zishu was going to have to perform the role of someone suitably grateful for the rescue.

Whether his acting was convincing or whether Third Uncle was simply overconfident, the man did not apparently suspect that Yan Zishu had genuinely switched allegiance.

Yan Zishu understood the psychology of this kind of old fox with considerable precision. The very fact that he had delayed so long before hesitantly nodding suggested that it had been genuinely deliberated — whereas if he had agreed the moment Third Uncle brought it up, the old man would have been immediately suspicious.

And so, in most people’s reading, Yan Zishu had run out of options outside, had no choice but to come back. Given this, to maintain any foothold in the company at all, aligning with Third Uncle’s faction was more or less the only exit. This was a very natural-looking conclusion.

He wasn’t going to get the old role back. His previous projects and positions had all been taken over. In this position, anyone could see the logic: without better options, you accepted the help of whoever would give it.

Everyone else’s career going up while his went down. From the CEO’s confidant to complicit with the opposition, caught out, and now forced to queue behind the villain to survive.

Even as story arcs went, this one sounded thoroughly cannon-fodder.

*

Even the process of re-signing his employment paperwork had been arranged by Third Uncle, timed to a moment when Fu Weishan was out of town on business — as though avoiding a direct face-to-face might preserve some face for both parties. In practice it was equally awkward regardless. As for the role: Third Uncle had said same as before, which was something of an overstatement. The current chief assistant was not about to step aside for him. So Yan Zishu was inserted back into the familiar secretarial office — but starting from the entry level.

Less like extending help, more like administering a humiliation.

Fu Weishan was away for a week, and during that week Yan Zishu spent most of his time managing a string of socially demanding and thoroughly uncomfortable interpersonal situations.

For instance: the entire secretarial office had previously been under his oversight. Now Helen, who had been his equal, was his supervisor. Amy, who used to defer to everyone, was now his peer. And then there was Ben — whose occasional looks in his direction managed to convey a whole complex of feeling, something along the lines of if you came back to this, what hope is there for the rest of us.

Helen remained courteous, but spoke to him with excessive care, as though afraid to open old wounds — even jokes felt off-limits, as she tried to gauge how Yan Zishu was taking all of this. The secretarial office was actually the more tolerable part.

Once you slipped in status, any corner of the company became a source of quiet pressure. Never mind the people who had formerly resented him and were now arriving to deliver a small ceremonial kick — even those who had addressed him as Director Yan with impeccable courtesy before had, consciously or not, adjusted their register.

The view from the top and the view from the bottom were naturally very different.

However unaffected you chose to be, others would still see you as an object of pity.

The newly promoted chief assistant, surnamed He, was also interesting: quietly anxious about whether Yan Zishu might threaten his position — and on reflection, probably not, he concluded — while also regularly coming to Yan Zishu to ask about problems he couldn’t solve, wearing an air of performative condescension while doing so.

Yan Zishu called him Director He. Director He called him you.

Still, Yan Zishu felt, in fairness, that a proper handover at the time of resignation was something he hadn’t done — leaving only a spreadsheet, which was not ideal. So regardless of Director He’s attitude, he went ahead and shared everything that needed to be shared.

Ben watched this and privately fumed, complaining afterward: “Coming back to this seems worse than not coming back at all. There are better positions in the company they could have given you — this downgrade didn’t have to happen, I don’t know whose idea it was. And who does that He person think he is, being all superior when he can’t even handle the work himself?”

Yan Zishu was content to coast and didn’t mind much. He had also discovered, somewhat to his surprise, that the experience of simply leaving when the clock said it was time to leave was actually quite pleasant — though he couldn’t say that, so instead he said: “Better to endure a moment of indignity than to compromise your integrity permanently. Life has its ups and downs — when you’re down, you have to know how to lower your head, so you can find the chance to rise again. Isn’t that how it works?”

Ben still felt the injustice: “That’s all true, but the nicer you are about it, the more people take advantage of your moment of weakness.”

“All right, now you’re lecturing me,” Yan Zishu said, with a small smile.

At lunchtime, Yan Zishu went up to the roof alone to smoke.

A few employees from some department had been there when he arrived, taking a group photo in the pleasant weather by the small garden, laughing and chatting. When they saw him, they lost interest in the photo and quietly dispersed — as though by collective instinct — leaving the whole space for him.

He acted as though he hadn’t noticed. He went to the railing and took out his lighter with perfect ease.

The faint smell of cigarette smoke that had been clinging to him lately seemed, to the outside world, to simply confirm the obvious.

In reality, he had been smoking heavily well before returning to work. He’d never smoked — and then once he started again, he couldn’t stop. It had started after sending the dog away. A habit he’d quit was making a comeback, which was, Yan Zishu acknowledged, not a distinguished development. But a person’s feelings obeyed no rules. People who seemed cold in every other respect sometimes broke entirely over small things. He couldn’t detach from the comfort of tobacco in the short term, so he had decided: one indulgence, and when the supply at home ran out, he would buy no more.

Leaning on the railing, he was just about to shield the flame for a second cigarette when someone came up behind him. “I thought you didn’t smoke.”

Yan Zishu glanced back at who it was, and allowed a small smile. “I thought you weren’t speaking to me.”

Fu Jinchi came and leaned against the railing alongside him, his gaze cold. “You’ve got some nerve. Coming back here.”

Yan Zishu composed his expression and offered Third Uncle’s excuse: “The economic climate isn’t great. Decent work is hard to find.”

“Did Third Uncle approach you, or did you seek him out?”

“He raised it. It happened to align with what I was already considering.”

“So you were set on coming back to Yinghan?” Fu Jinchi said, with a pointed sarcasm that continued in questions. “You think Third Uncle is someone reliable? And you — weren’t you quite something before you left? What are they paying you for this junior position now? Everyone used to defer to you, and now you’re starting from scratch, any departmental manager can issue you instructions — you’re the one deferring. How does that feel?” He said: “Are you really willing to subject yourself to this humiliation?”

Yan Zishu held his cigarette without answering, the embers going in and out.

He didn’t particularly want to engage with the Fu Jinchi standing in front of him now.

Yes — this Fu Jinchi, as opposed to the one he remembered.

This was, of course, a wholly subjective way of thinking. To any outside observer, there was only one Fu Jinchi — the intimate nights and the cold barbs now were, undeniably, the same person. He had simply known only one side of him, looking through the bamboo.

Fu Jinchi moved in closer, filling the space: “Or maybe you think it doesn’t matter — as long as you can see Fu Weishan, you’re satisfied?”

Yan Zishu finally looked at him, with a rueful expression: “Nothing like that. I’ve never had any improper thoughts about CEO Fu.”

Fu Jinchi said, precisely: “Fine — I was wrong, you’re above all that, you have no improper thoughts, you’re devoted entirely to the company’s service. Then how do you explain getting involved with me? Does serving the company require selling your body?”

He was right in Yan Zishu’s space now, the words practically hitting his ear: “Tell me — was what we did together appropriate?”

This was, by any standard, fairly disconnected from any reasonable line of argument. Yan Zishu began to wonder whether Fu Jinchi genuinely believed what he was saying, or whether —

He’s deliberately putting me down.

Psychological and emotional pressure. Deliberate retaliation.

The thought surfaced through the kind of social intuition that came from years of reading people.

And if that was what it was — oddly, everything began to make a different kind of sense.

Fu Jinchi wasn’t the type to let displeasure show openly or to drag out grievances. But if there was a clear purpose behind it, that was another matter.

He seems to want me to lose my temper. To argue. Ideally to fall apart, Yan Zishu thought. And his instinct wasn’t wrong.

Given the right conditions, Fu Jinchi might genuinely want to see Yan Zishu’s face show something truly desperate — helpless, hopeless, ashamed, isolated, with nowhere left to turn but Fu Jinchi himself.

Rather than this — the face that no amount of force seemed capable of cracking: the sculpted edges, the pale complexion, eyes lowered, not a single visible fissure in the composure. As though however hard you pressed, you couldn’t shatter his will or pry open whatever he kept behind it.

Yan Zishu often felt Fu Jinchi was strange and remote. But this Yan Zishu — was he not equally something Fu Jinchi deeply resented?

“Forget it.” Yan Zishu couldn’t be maneuvered into losing his temper. He elected to yield first. “I deceived you first. Say whatever you want.”

“Who is this performance for?” Fu Jinchi’s voice was cold. “Do you think I’m out of ways to deal with you?”

Fu Jinchi was too close. Today’s clothes were the same formal black as the preview day, making the effect more forceful, more oppressive. Yan Zishu tried to push him back and failed — Fu Jinchi had caught his wrist.

“Do you genuinely think,” Fu Jinchi said, “that I’m not going to do anything to you? That I’m some kind of charity, giving you everything without wanting anything back, so you can take advantage as you please, use me up and then step on me on your way out? You think you’re worth that?”

Yan Zishu controlled himself, and pressed his cigarette out against the cement with the other hand, to avoid burning anyone.

He said, without any real conviction: “Mr. Fu’s methods — who are we, mere ordinary people, to doubt them.”

In front of Fu Jinchi, Yan Zishu found that lowering his head in submission was becoming difficult.

All through this exchange, he hadn’t genuinely wanted to argue. And yet not one of his responses had been without its edge.

The back and forth had grown increasingly adversarial.

Yet Yan Zishu was the one in the wrong. Because there had been a time when Fu Jinchi’s behavior toward him had been without fault — real or performed, it could not be dismissed as nothing. And Fu Jinchi had saved his life. By any reckoning, he was the one who had transgressed first.

He cleared his throat and managed something that came closer to what he meant. He laughed, keeping his tone light: “I mean — if you’re angry, and you want to say something harsh, go ahead.” The first part said, the rest followed more easily: “But I don’t want to fight with you.”

Hearing this, Fu Jinchi unexpectedly softened a fraction. He seemed about to say something else, but didn’t continue the argument.

After a long silence, Fu Jinchi ran his thumb across the bone of Yan Zishu’s wrist. “The cufflinks I gave you — why have you never worn them?”

Yan Zishu was briefly at a loss. “They’re not really suited to the office. I keep them at home.”

Fu Jinchi asked: “Have you ever, even once, let your emotions govern you?”

Yan Zishu said: “That’s not exactly how I’d put it. Occasionally, I suppose.”

This somehow provoked another cold laugh from Fu Jinchi.

Then, like venting some feeling he couldn’t name, Fu Jinchi tore off the cufflinks Yan Zishu was currently wearing and flung them into the planting bed with a swift motion.

Something that small, once lost in there, would be nearly impossible to find. Yan Zishu could only say helplessly: “What are you doing?”

*

This, more or less, was where that day’s conversation ended. Whatever else was said afterward appeared to be inconsequential. For instance, Yan Zishu trying later to reconstruct the exchange couldn’t recover why Fu Jinchi had given that cold laugh, or why he’d thrown those things away. But what he did remember was this: before Fu Jinchi went back downstairs, Yan Zishu had watched him go for a long time.

He had put a great deal into that gaze — disorganized, nameless feelings, the kind too unwieldy to be expressed — and had simply been a person too ashamed to find the words. He had wanted Fu Jinchi to notice. To receive the signal. But Fu Jinchi left nothing but the line of his back — broad and upright — and never looked around.

In some future moment, when Fu Jinchi finally turned around to look, he would also remember this. He would remember the rooftop on a clear day, the mild early-summer wind, and the person in it that even the warm air could not thaw. And if Fu Jinchi had known then what this would be — that for a long time afterward, this would be the last quiet conversation they ever had — he might have been less casual about it. He might at least have taken one more look.

If he had, perhaps the nightmares that came to haunt him later would not have been so deep.