Secret codes in the eye of the storm

Mu Tianlang has been acting a little differently lately. Not explicitly, but in a pause during a sentence, or for half a second when his gaze lingers on her hand.

"Do this line my way." During the meeting, Mu Tianlang said without looking up.

A hush fell over the room. Hu Li didn't move his pen, but his heart felt as if someone had lightly tapped it with their knuckles.

She began to wonder if this was tacit consent, or if he had finally allowed himself to see her outline.

That night, she walked back to the temporary office area alone, looking back at the empty construction site. The remaining light between the wooden beams and white walls resembled a certain emotion being revealed: unclear, yet undeniably present.

[Afternoon in the Inner Courtyard Transition Space]

The light shattered into layers of shimmering flakes on the water's surface, and the pillar grid cut the movement lines into stable squares. She crouched down to measure the light, shielding her eyes from the reflection with her arm. Her elbow accidentally brushed against an unfinished wooden strip, leaving a faint red mark on her skin.

She gasped softly, and before she could even look down, his steps quickened by half a step, his shadow looming over her.

"How did this happen?" He squatted down, lifted her wrist with his fingertips, and examined her inch by inch with a sharp gaze.

"I got it." She laughed, not pulling her hand away. "Mr. Mu, your reaction will give the gossip something to talk about."

He raised her wrist slightly, his tone low and direct: "It's not finished yet, don't get too close."

"Don't get too close either." She looked up, her eyes curving slightly at the corners, like a mist gently enveloping a wolf.

His knuckles tightened, as if he were pressing some emotion back into his bones.

"It's a minor injury." She tilted her head, her voice soft. "It won't ruin your skills."

The measuring tape snapped back with a "click," and a sliver of light danced on her eyelashes. He released his grip, stepping back to a polite distance, but his gaze lingered on the red mark for a moment before moving away.

[Evening trial of the walkway on the east side of the pool]

The sky hung between blue and black, like someone holding back their breath. A salty, damp smell wafted in from the east vent; the lights weren't fully on yet, and the pond was so still you could see your own face reflected in it.

She placed her painting tube and cloth bag by the walkway, with two sample pieces side by side: one was the original glass design, and the other was the anti-glare coating she had brought. She handed him her phone: "Take a picture here, and take a step."

As he answered the phone, his fingertip brushed against hers, his wrist tensed, and he quickly switched hands. A point of light passed through the first pane, the glare exploding into white spikes along the edge of the glass, and he blinked instinctively; when it landed on the second pane, the spikes seemed to be contained by a soft cloth, and a section of the bright light on the water's surface was shaved off.

"Just half a step more," she whispered, aligning the toes of her shoes with the edge of his position.

He took another half step, stopping beside her shadow. The sound of his shoes scraping against the stone slabs was cut into small fragments by the wind. After a moment, he brought his breathing back to normal and handed the phone back to her.

"This experiment will speak for itself." She put away her phone, sliding her fingertip from the first to the second. "It's not about pandering, it's about reducing the time people are exposed to the sting. It's about letting people see the path clearly and choose which way to go."

He neither nodded nor denied it; his silence was like a ray of light, slanting across her profile.

"You can also leave a little bit of your life unguarded," she added, as if pressing her fingertips against the hardest spot on his chest before withdrawing them.

He turned his head slightly, his lips twitching as if in a smile, but it wasn't quite. His assistant, Xiao Zhou, strode up from around the corner, carrying meeting agenda documents: "President Mu, the board meeting has added—"

He didn't look at his assistant, but only said to her, "Give me the drawings tonight."

She responded, her fox-like eyes lighting up, and she snapped the pen cap back on. She left first, while he lingered there for a while. The pond water, under the light, seemed to breathe in and out like a chest. Missed calls lined up on the screen; he stared at the one with only "Tomorrow" written on it for three seconds, then dimmed the screen.

[Late at night in the CEO's office]

The night cast a deep, dark blue shadow over the park outside the glass. He placed the flowchart back in the center, and as his pen touched the paper, the image of her circling numbers at the poolside flashed through his mind—the sound of the pen rubbing against the paper was like a tiny, almost imperceptible bite.

The sound pushed him back to his childhood study: a huge desk, eraser shavings flying everywhere. His brother patiently corrected his line drawings: "Don't press too hard, the paper will tear." From then on, he reined in his strength into order, into the length of each breath.

He stood up, walked to the wood-paneled wall, and lightly pressed his fingertips on the subtle patterns. With a "click," the narrow door slid open and closed. This was his own soundproof space: sound-absorbing cotton and wood strips intertwined, elastic adhesive on the floor, and a black sandbag hanging from the steel beam in the ceiling.

He unbuttoned his shirt, took it off, wrapped bandages around his wrists, and put on gloves. Left jab, right straight punch—"Bang, bang." The leather bounced dully, and the ground trembled almost imperceptibly. He took a half step back, swung his fist, the force traveling along his knuckles back to his chest, and then pushed out again.

With each strike, he shattered the pent-up heat of the day. Sweat trickled down his temples to his chin. He pressed his arm against the cold stainless steel door frame, his forehead against it. The vent gave a low hum, his arm went numb, and he felt as if all his strength had been drained away.

He pulled off his gloves, pushed open the door to the washroom, and felt the cold water rush down his wrists to his fingertips. He bent down and washed his face, wiping the sweat from his forehead and neck with a towel. His breathing returned to normal, and he straightened his shirt, buttoning it up one by one, his expression returning to its usual calm. When he returned to his seat, the person who had been in the boxing room was completely different from him.

Back at his desk, he opened their chat window, typed "Thank you for tonight," paused for a second, then deleted it. He pressed his fingertip on an empty space on the edge of the desk, as if pressing his heartbeat back down.

[Night in the Staff Dormitory]

She unfolded the drawings, changed the angles in two places, wrote the test steps in the lower right corner, and left blank after each line. Her email rang: Headquarters authorized—pilot test in Area A of the east side walkway of the swimming pool, to be implemented according to Hu Li's plan. Sender: Mu Tianlang.

She stared for three seconds, a slow smile playing on her lips. Without replying, she forwarded the message directly to the supplier and copied the materials department. Opening her chat with him, she typed "thank you," then hesitated and deleted it. Turning to the middle of the booklet, she wrote: "Let the wind have a place here." At the end, she drew a small circle, like reserving a seat for someone in the night.

The chandelier was neither too warm nor too cold, just right to illuminate the room. She leaned back in her chair, looked up at the circle of light within the lampshade, and her heartbeat slowed down.

[East Side Trail at Midday]

The sunlight illuminated the stone's texture clearly. She returned to the spot and checked the rhythm of the light again. He arrived as well, his first glance falling on the red mark on her fingertip: "Does it hurt?"

"It doesn't hurt." She pulled down her sleeve. "You look like you've slept a little today."

"I was awakened by the wind," he said calmly.

"Then it's my turn." She held up the sample, as if showing her teeth, then smiled and withdrew it.

He paused for a second, then hummed in agreement. His assistant raised his hand in the distance. He turned back and said, "I'll go over there." Before leaving, he added very softly, "Be careful, don't cut yourself again."

She replied softly, "You too."

Only after he had walked away did she read that sentence aloud in her mind, like pressing a small nail into wood—silent, yet firm.

[Park at Dusk]

As dusk fell, the glass corridor of the park was bathed in a warm golden light. Hu Li stopped at the corner, placed her paint tube against her feet, and raised her hand to make a directional mark, as if giving herself a hint. She didn't rush to leave, but stood there in the light.

He approached from the other end, his steps still steady, but his gaze swept over the surveillance cameras on both sides and the dark corners before finally settling on her. He stopped an arm's length in front of her and said in a deep voice, "What is it?"

"It's alright, I was just waiting for you to pass by." She smiled, her eyes crinkling, her tone light yet provocative, like a fox flicking its tail in front of a wolf.

The setting sun's breeze rustled through the coconut trees, carrying a mingled scent of sea salt and the fragrance of coconut palms, flowing between the two. He didn't back down, nor did she move; the twilight light silently locked them together in the same frame, like a still painting subtly electrified.

[Lunchtime in the construction site's break room]

The kettle gurgled, steam rising from the small window. She came in carrying blueprints and saw him pouring water to make coffee. A plate of simple snacks sat on the table; she picked up a cookie and smiled, saying, "Mr. Mu, you come here too?"

He said casually, "Convenient."

She leaned against the table, shook the cookie, took a bite, and asked with a smile, "Want a bite too?"

She thought the wolf would remain still as before, but to her surprise, Mu Tianlang suddenly lowered his head and bit into the edge of the biscuit.

She froze, her fingertips hovering in mid-air, not expecting her outburst to be caught so readily. Her heart skipped a beat, her cheeks flushed, and she could only feign a cough to try and cover it up.

He raised his eyes, his voice cold yet carrying a restrained pressure: "Don't keep challenging me."

She tilted her head and smiled, her tone flippant: "Afraid I'll win?"

He didn't respond, only setting down his cup and tapping his knuckles lightly on the table, as if reminding himself to restrain himself. Deep down, however, he knew—he actually cared more about this game than she did.

[Night at the Resort Staff Dormitory]

She: [The lighting angle I just tested seems about right.]

He: [Okay]

She: [I'm not used to you agreeing so quickly]

He: [The reasons are sufficient]

She smiled at the screen, paused her fingertips on the keyboard, and then didn't send anything more.

Under the lamp, she organized the annotations from the day, copying the data into the booklet. As she turned the page, she pulled out a thin piece of paper with his annotations from earlier that day. The ink had been pressed down before it was completely dry, leaving a faint fingerprint on the corner. She traced that spot with her fingertip, her heart suddenly tightening, but she didn't write anything more. Instead, she drew a half-eaten cookie in the corner, as if she were secretly laughing, or perhaps mocking herself.

[Late at night in the CEO's office]

The night breeze seeped in through the window cracks. He stopped writing when he finished reviewing the last document, his gaze falling on the black, matte-colored mug on the corner of the table. The watermarks at the bottom of the mug had dried, but a faint ring remained. He reached out to wipe it away, then stopped. After a moment, he simply turned the mug upside down, as if leaving himself a subtle mark.