Mr. Lan held the draft folder Wei had handed him earlier, his fingers tightening around the edges, the leatherette creasing faintly under the grip, as if anchoring himself to the weight of the pages within.
"There's something we need to discuss—something important. Not about the writing. About the… emotional direction. Reader response. A few things the board noticed."
Wei's eyes lowered for a brief moment, his lashes casting shadows across his cheek—fine, elongated veils that deepened the subtle hollows, the light from the window catching their edges in a soft, transient glint.
His voice, when he spoke, was calm but held the faintest thread of curiosity—a low timbre, even and uninflected, laced with the quiet inquiry of someone accustomed to silences that revealed more than words.
"I see. We'll talk inside."
They stepped through the glass doors together, warm air rushing to greet them, melting the snow on their coats—a sudden bloom of heated drafts carrying the faint, dry scent of recycled warmth, droplets forming and tracing slow paths down wool and leather, darkening the fabric in irregular blooms.
And as the lobby lights reflected off the polished floor, conversations stilled for a moment, eyes turning discreetly toward the tall figure in black who had entered the building—the quiet legend who rarely appeared, yet whose presence seemed to bend the air around him, drawing glances like gravity's subtle pull, whispers trailing in hushed eddies.
Cheng Wei didn't notice the attention.
Or perhaps he did and simply didn't mind.
He walked forward with quiet steps, his expression smooth, his aura gentle but unmistakably magnetic—a man famous not for the noise he made, but for the silence he carried, steps padded on marble, coat hem swaying in minimal arcs, the space parting around him without effort.
And beside him, Mr. Lan adjusted his glasses again, preparing to say the things he had been holding back, the frames sliding up with a familiar nudge, his breath steadying in anticipation.
The day had begun,
and winter followed them inside, flakes clinging to the threshold before evaporating in the warmth, a reluctant surrender.
The meeting room held a stillness that made every turn of a page sound louder than it should have, the rustle amplified in the hush, echoing off the glass like a hesitant confession, and as Cheng Wei opened the black folder to reveal the printed draft, the sheets fanning slightly under his touch, Mr. Lan leaned forward with the attentive seriousness of someone who had watched Wei grow from a promising newcomer into the quiet phenomenon he was now—elbows settling on the table, gaze intent over the rims of his glasses.
The soft winter light filtered through the frosted windows, brushing the papers in a pale glow that made even the inked words feel colder somehow—a silvery wash that leached warmth from the black type, turning lines into etched frost on the page.
Mr. Lan adjusted his glasses, scanning the first page, eyes tracing the margins with practiced sweep, the lenses magnifying the fine print.
"Your edits are neat, as always," he murmured, half to himself, the words slipping out in a low aside, carrying the approval of routine familiarity.
"Your pacing tightened, the emotional layering is… better, more stable."
Wei didn't answer immediately. He simply rested his hands on the table, posture relaxed, gaze steady, every line of his presence calm in a way that never felt careless, only deliberate—palms flat against the wood, fingers splayed with unhurried poise, the faint veins tracing blue paths under pale skin.
After a moment, Mr. Lan lifted his eyes toward him, the shift drawing the light into his irises, holding the question like a breath suspended.
"So… what is your next story going to be?"
Wei blinked once, slowly, as if pulling himself from a deeper thought, lids lowering and rising in languid cadence, the pause stretching like a held note, then answered in a tone so serene it felt like water settling after a still wind—clear, unrippled, carrying the depth of unspoken currents.
"Something simple," he said.
"A story of two people who grew apart. "maybe
Mr. Lan raised a brow, the arch subtle but expressive, creasing the skin above in faint lines of intrigue.
"Tragedy?"
"No."
Wei's lips moved in the faintest curve—not a smile, just a quiet softening, the corners lifting imperceptibly, like the first melt along an edge.
"Just… truth. Sometimes truth feels like tragedy, but it isn't."
Mr. Lan studied him for a heartbeat longer, the corners of his eyes tightening with the kind of understanding only long-time partners shared—a subtle crinkle, laced with the warmth of shared history, gaze lingering on the curve of Wei's jaw, the steady rise of his chest.
"You've been thinking a lot lately," he said gently, leaning back in his chair, the movement easing the tension in his frame, hands unfolding to rest open on the arms.
"Your tone has changed. Even your drafts carry something… colder. Or quieter. I can't tell which."
Wei didn't deny it.
He lifted his gaze to the window where snowflakes brushed the glass in slow, drifting motions, each contact a fleeting kiss that smeared into translucence, and spoke with the same calm that always settled in him when winter returned—voice low, resonant, blending with the room's hush like frost on pane.
"It's just the season."
Mr. Lan exhaled a breath that was part laughter, part concern—a soft huff, warm and rueful, fogging faintly before dissipating.
"And still walking everywhere… why aren't you using your car?"
Wei looked down at the table, fingers drawing a small, absent line along the paper's edge—nail tracing the fiber's weave in a slow, idle path, the ink yielding slightly under the pressure.
"Walking feels cleaner in winter,"he replied softly.
A pause, quieter than the falling snow.
"And I don't like the heater smell in cars."
Mr. Lan shook his head with a fond sigh, the motion gentle, locks shifting against his collar, eyes crinkling in affectionate exasperation.
"You'll freeze yourself one day. You're rich enough to keep three cars warmed at the door side."
"I only need one pair of shoes," Wei answered with gentle simplicity.
Another small pause.
"Luxury complicates routine."
To be continued...