The wolf awakens

[Resort/Office Building Exterior Garden, Morning]

The early summer sun shone brightly, and the wall felt as hot as a layer of fire lying on your skin.

Hu Li squatted down by the bushes, looking for the right angle by following the reflection from the glass facade. He paused his fingertip on the shutter button, held his breath, and clicked the shutter.

She looked up, checked the proportions of the lines and planes, took a half step back, and as the second shutter clicked, sweat slid from her temples into behind her ears, the saltiness pushed back by the hot air.

Before the third shutter click, the shadow appeared first.

A tall figure stood against the light between her and the wall, his footsteps extremely light, yet his breath was as cold as ice water.

He didn't introduce himself or offer any further pleasantries, simply saying, "Give me the camera."

Hu Li was startled and before he could react, his wrist was gripped. The force was crisp and decisive, like a lock.

She reflexively leaned back, her back slamming against the sun-heated exterior wall, the heat and pain exploding simultaneously. Breathless, she still managed to squeeze out, "I was doing composition work—"

She enunciated, "I'm photographing the lighting on the facade—"

She pulled her shoulder back, turned sideways along the wall, trying to get past him by the side of his arm. Her fingertips only hooked the thin strap of her small bag. She had just taken half a step when the camera bag on the ground was still there, the zipper clasp swaying slightly; the camera was held in his palm, his shadow pressed against her shoulder.

He wouldn't listen. "Stop." The two words were like a command, taking effect immediately upon impact.

He reached out and ripped off the camera strap. The lens grazed her chest in mid-air, and she let out a muffled groan, instinctively reaching out to protect herself.

The man used his other hand to grab her shoulder and arm, pressing her back against the wall.

With the hot wall pressed against her back, her skin felt like it had been branded with a hot iron; the stinging pain brought tears to her eyes, but she stubbornly held back her tears.

"Delete it," he whispered, so close you could hear his very soft breath.

She realized it wasn't a violent act, but rather the muscle memory left by years of vigilance—stop first, then question; seize first, then judge. Like a wolf.

"You can—" she whispered, moving closer to him and close to his ear, "use 'please'."

The sound was soft, but crisp, like a fine blade cutting through the air.

His pupils constricted, and he increased the pressure in his hand.

"Who sent you?" he repeated, his tone flat and emotionless.

She was forced to look up, feeling the sun approaching along with him; she smiled, a cold smile: "Nobody sent me. My surname is Hu, I do spatial planning, today I'm only shooting walls and lighting, not people."

His gaze darkened, as if weighing the truth, but he did not let go.

She tried to pull her wrist away, but couldn't; once more, her nails dug into her palm, the pain making her calmer.

"Let go," she said, each word harsh.

The man didn't move. He simply gripped the camera tightly in his palm.

The camera bag was left on the stone path at her feet; the zipper clicked and the reflection flickered.

Her breathing finally returned to normal, but her gaze grew even colder: "Give it back to me."

"Go." He gave only one word, as if dealing with a stranger who had trespassed.

He still stood ramrod straight, his shoulders taut, like a wolf that wouldn't allow anyone to cross the line; his eyes were alert, and he wouldn't give an inch.

The air was hot and sticky, and sweat trickled down the back of her neck, but she suddenly smiled—without backing down or arguing, she simply picked up her small bag that had fallen to the ground and met his gaze for a second.

In that instant, she swallowed her humiliation and anger, her teeth lightly touching the inside of her lips, like a fox hiding its fangs.

"Remember me," she whispered, sounding like a reminder, yet also like a warning.

With the next strike, she turned and broke free, quickly slipping out of his shadow before he could reach out again.

The heat wall receded, and the sunlight suddenly pressed back in.

She rushed out of the garden's shade and heat, her footsteps crackling rapidly on the stone path, without looking back.

He remained standing there, holding the camera, his palm burning from the heat of the camera body.

The camera bag was still on the ground; the zipper clasp wobbled and then stopped.

The wind rustled through the bushes, passing through the shadows of his profile. The next moment, only sound and the heat on the wall remained in the garden.

[Resort, office building exterior, morning]

He stood there, the reflection from the glass facade flashing on and off, bringing back the moment he had just struck. He finally realized he had gone too far. It was a reaction almost as natural as breathing—fast, ruthless, precise—his body acting as the sole judge before his mind could even process the thought.

He was still clutching the camera in his palm; only her camera bag remained on the floor. He bent down and picked up the camera bag.

His fingertips brushed the edge of the leather, the surface still warm, as if reminding him—the girl had just struggled in his palm. What lingered on his fingertips wasn't the sensation of touch, but a forced pulsation, fine and rapid, like someone tapping beneath the skin.

He opened his camera to check, and images scrolled across the screen one by one, all landscape compositions—morning mist, steel skeletons, light and shadow at corners, dewdrops on blades of grass, the textures of a distant lake stirred by the wind—none of them concerned him. Each one was clean and restrained, as if calculating the proportions of lines and planes, as if reserving space for breath. Her gaze, it turned out, was only on the wind and light, unrelated to him.

In that instant, his pupils dilated slightly, his fingers clenched tightly, as if something had suddenly struck his heart, dull and sharp. It wasn't evidence of a crime, but rather his own loss of control.

Mu Tianlang is always calm and adept at suppressing his emotions. At the conference table, he can turn the most incisive questions into two indifferent conclusions; in the meeting room, he can fold up all his emotions and hide them in his sleeves, even his breathing can be controlled to the point of being imperceptible. But when it comes to being secretly photographed, he always loses control.

The outside world never misses an opportunity to drag him into the abyss—secret filming, recording, malicious editing, and taking things out of context. Countless red dots lurk in the shadows, countless people prey on his past. The shadows of his youth overlap with his adult fame; he's long been accustomed to living in the narrow space between the spotlight and the shadows, constantly on guard, always prepared. He cannot afford to relax, much less make a mistake. Because even the slightest crack will be torn open; even the slightest whisper will be amplified into a storm.

But this time, he was wrong.

He looked down, his fingertips touching the identification badge hanging on the zipper of his camera bag. The words were clean and sharp, piercing his eyes—[Design Department Employee ID | Hu Li | Space Planning].

His throat bobbed slightly, and his knuckles tightened unconsciously, as if he wanted to crush the mistake at its root. This mistake was not a work oversight, nor a misjudgment, but a heavy blow that struck directly at a person's dignity.

He could have chased after her and apologized in person—but that would have only made the situation more awkward. It wasn't that he shouldn't apologize, but any approach at that moment could be seen as further coercion; he needed to maintain distance and wait for her to calm down before formally apologizing and returning the favor.

He didn't move, but simply leaned against the wall, his back straight against the sun-heated surface. The heat burned down his spine, as if reminding him—the mistake had been made, and he couldn't afford to make another wrong move.

His joints were taut, his shoulders straight, and his eyes were as cold as the night. He was like a wolf suppressing its instincts, refusing to bow his head or allow his emotions to cross the line.

He still held the identification badge in his hand, looking down at the name, his gaze dark—Hu Li. Those two characters felt like a hot iron pressed against his palm, silently leaving a burn mark. The mark wasn't on his skin, but on the very line of his self-discipline, reminding him how he had lost his temper just now, and reminding him never again to let instinct override reason.

He flipped through the employee badge twice, memorizing every word of the department and position, before temporarily putting it into his suit pocket—returning it, apologizing, and explaining.

[Resort, office building safety staircases, morning]

This is the quietest, most secluded corner of the entire building; you can hear your own heartbeat.

She escaped from the wolf's jaws, and here she gnaws at her anger, sharpening her teeth.

Hu Li ran all the way to the emergency staircase at the corner of the building before suddenly stopping. She grabbed the cold metal handrail, still breathless, her heart pounding in her chest like a hammer, each beat causing her pain. Her hands were still trembling, and the spot on her back where it had hit her throbbed with a dull ache, as if a crack had appeared in her bone. Heat and pain spread down her spine, and sweat trickled down her neck and into her collar, but she had no time to pay attention to it.

She pursed her lips, forcing back the breath that was about to explode. Resentment, humiliation, and anger surged up, burning her throat like fire, making her feel suffocated. She wasn't unfazed. For a fleeting moment, she truly believed that man was going to devour her alive—even though she hadn't done anything wrong.

She was just taking a photo for composition reference, but it felt like she'd invaded some forbidden territory. She was treated like a paparazzi, a spy, and even subjected to a forced search. Before she could even give her name, she was grabbed like a criminal and dragged to a corner. That suffocating feeling of being "unheard" was more piercing than the pain in her wrist.

She understands that explanations take time in many situations, but once a person is prejudicially defined, time is stripped away to zero.

Her eyes reddened, but she held them back fiercely. Crying was not her option; her option was to sharpen every sting of misunderstanding into teeth.

She stood firmly on the steps, panting, her back against the wall. She felt the cold, hard wall gradually cooling her anger, but the temperature only dropped on her skin. The burning in her heart was instead forced to burn even brighter by the cold.

Who was he? She didn't know. She only remembered his eyes—excessive hostility, undisguised wariness. It wasn't wariness of a stranger, but rather treating her as an enemy. It was an animalistic instinct, like a wolf, pouncing at the slightest hint of movement, even without confirmation. Those eyes didn't hesitate for a moment as they approached, as if honed from countless hunts and hunt-versus-hunts, first stopping, then assessing, taking first and worrying later.

The more she thought about it, the more indignant she became. They attacked her without any basis, offered no apology, and even acted as if they were completely in the right. She wasn't unfamiliar with being wronged, but never like this—being treated as an enemy and bitten hard without any prior knowledge of her.

She looked down at her wrist; a ring of white, then red, mark appeared on her skin, like an imprint that only became visible after being pressed down. The pain wasn't fatal, but that one blow brutally extinguished a certain need within her to be heard.

She shook her wrist violently, but found she couldn't shake off his voice. The man's voice still lingered in her mind, each word like a needle piercing her skin—"Give me the camera. Who sent you?" Every word was cold, like it was falling from the back of a knife, flat and emotionless, yet scraping against her very nerves.

She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms, letting the pain drown out the words. Okay. Fine. She remembered.

She took a deep breath, her hands still trembling, but a cold smile crept onto her lips. It wasn't a sign of weakness; it was the act of retracting her sharp teeth. She had thought this morning would only be about light and shadow, perhaps a change in wind direction, but she hadn't expected it to be about a passing wolf.

But she wasn't the type to quietly shut up after being humiliated in public. He saw her as a threat, didn't he? Then she'd make him truly remember what a threat felt like.

—You better not let me see you again.

She gritted her teeth, swallowing her words as a cold warning. It wasn't boasting, it was an order—explain things clearly next time; no one was allowed to corner her again.

She was never some helpless little rabbit. She was a fox—the kind that bites, holds grudges, and bites hard when hurt. A fox doesn't show its teeth to be cruel, but to prove it has backbone when it's being used as a shadow.

Hu Li brushed the stray hairs behind her ears, letting her skin breathe directly into the air, allowing the heat and pain to be gradually diluted by the morning shadows. She climbed the steps, then retreated, leaning against the wall, letting her heartbeat slow down to a countable pace.

She rearranged everything that had just happened in her mind: she stood in the shadow of the building's exterior wall, composing a shot of the facade illuminated by the sunlight; the sound of the shutter was amplified in the wind; a figure approached, his shadow landing at her feet first; he reached out, snatched the camera, and spoke in a commanding tone; she was pulled against the wall, her back hitting a burning heat; she wanted to speak and give her name and department, but was interrupted at the first word.

She didn't look back at these images to dwell on unpleasantness, but rather to know how to use the fewest words and the clearest evidence to refute any possible misunderstandings should she encounter any sudden suspicions in the future.

She opened her small bag to check if all her documents were complete. Her work badge was missing, but her ID was there, and her notebook was—she then remembered that her work badge had been hanging on the zipper of her camera bag, now in the man's hands. The camera was gone too. Thinking of this, her gaze grew colder. It wasn't capriciousness; it was order. She also valued order, but her order wasn't about throwing people into suspicion immediately, but about laying out the issues one by one.

She instinctively reached for her chest, only to find nothing; her fingertips paused for a moment. Her name was in his hands, but it shouldn't be defined by him.

She paced back and forth on the landing, making sure her legs had stopped trembling, before raising her head, her gaze sharpening inch by inch. She knew she would return to the garden, retrieve the camera, and make her point clearly in the simplest of sentences—not begging, but rightfully demanding its return. If necessary, she would sharpen her tone to be as direct as a knife, making it clear that what had just happened wouldn't be left unresolved.

The hinges of the security door made a faint metallic scraping sound, like a suppressed sigh. She didn't push the door open, but simply tapped her index finger on the door frame, a very light rhythm that made her heart beat in time with it.

She recalled the coldness in those eyes, a stark contrast to the light she loved. She studied design to imbue spaces with warmth; she took a camera to give light a place to shine. She wasn't there to steal from anyone; she was simply searching for a beam of light that could make a space speak.

Thinking of this, she put aside her frustration and put it into steps: return to the garden, first give her name and department, explain that it was a filming project, and ask the other party to return the camera; if they still do not return it, ask security to come and handle it, and follow the company's procedures.

She straightened her shoulders and back, letting every muscle that had clenched in anger return to its proper place. She didn't need to pretend to be anyone, didn't need to raise her voice, didn't need to compromise to get a possible kind look. She just needed to be herself—the girl who would chase the morning mist by the lake, the fox who would sharpen her teeth when misunderstood.

She raised her hand, instinctively reaching for her chest, only to find nothing; her fingertips paused for a moment. That emptiness seemed to be reminding her of a simpler message: Don't back down.

She didn't go back immediately. She needed to stop her hands from shaking. She opened her palms, then clenched them, opened them again, then clenched them again, until the warmth of her palms returned to her fingertips.

She took a breath, letting the air slide down her throat, past the places still scorched by anger, and into the depths of her lungs. She counted to three, then turned, walked down two steps, and back to the platform—counting to three again. She wasn't delaying; she was making sure every word landed precisely next time. She didn't want anyone to define her anymore. Especially not that man who didn't even know her name.

[Resort, Design Department, Morning]

She first circled back into the garden, searching along the outer wall, but saw neither the man nor anyone else. She had no choice but to compose herself and return to the design department. As soon as she reached her workstation, she noticed two new items on the table—a camera and her employee badge. The camera was off, the lens cap fastened, and the badge was still hanging neatly on the camera bag zipper, like a cold, unyielding piece of evidence. She glanced at it: the camera body was undamaged, the memory card was there, and the camera was confirmed to be intact. She untied the badge from the camera bag and pinned it back to her chest.

Someone across from her chuckled in a low voice: "She can lose her employee ID and work camera, what kind of planner is she?" Another chimed in: "Be careful she doesn't lose her client one day too." Someone coughed, but no one spoke up for her.

She was just a temporary space planner temporarily filling in for the partner, but she was like a fox that had stumbled into a hunting ground—the air was filled with hostility as soon as she stepped into the design department.

She's here because she was temporarily assigned to fill in for the project and is responsible for on-site support.

Outsourcing is unpopular to begin with, and she was a last-minute replacement. It's euphemistically called "flexible support," but frankly, it's just firefighting and filling gaps.

These things didn't just start today. She greeted me the moment she walked in on her first day.

Several people looked up and nodded, but no one replied.

When I participated in the internal discussion for the first time, my supervisor casually said, "Just listen and don't interrupt."

She submitted the suggestion form the next day, but it was shelved for three days. On the fourth day, someone "kindly pointed out" that the format was incorrect. She revised it and submitted it again, but the reply was still just "received".

One afternoon, she was engrossed in drawing when her assistant next door, not seeing her, muttered as she ate, "If she were really that capable, she would have been a full-time employee long ago. Why is she always hanging around outside?"

She didn't say anything, but finished completing the actual light and shadow measurement records and pasted the solar radiation curve on the corner of the graph. That sentence was like a fine needle, piercing her heart, and also making her lines more stable.

She briefly listed her tasks for the day, closed her notebook, and was about to leave when the corridor suddenly fell silent for a moment—

The footsteps were steady, approaching from afar, and stopped behind her workstation. The entire group unconsciously looked up.

She didn't look back, but simply pressed her pen against the corner of the page and slowly stood up. Only the administrative staff delivering samples passed by, and the air began to move again. She slung her bag over her shoulder and went to the site.

[Resort, Meeting Room, Afternoon]

A few days later, at the design department's routine meeting, Hu Li sat to the side, his drawings resting on his notebook, the air conditioning as cold as ever.

The door was pushed open. She looked up, and her gaze met those familiar eyes for a fleeting moment.

—It was him.

He was dressed in a black suit, exuding composure and aloofness, walking into the conference room as if it were his own territory. His gaze lingered on her for less than a second before sweeping across the room. He took his seat at the head of the table, his fingers flipping through documents without moving an inch.

Her palms were slightly sweaty, but the corners of her mouth turned up slightly: Sure enough, he remembered her, and was also the best at pretending not to recognize her.

Midway through the meeting, it was her turn to report on the progress. She explained each item from the original documents, and just after the first page, the main speaker began:

"This standard was revised last week, why are you still using the old version?"

The air stagnated.

Another person casually chimed in, "It's probably because the outsourcing hasn't been updated."

The supervisor frowned at her: "This kind of mistake will delay the schedule. Outsourced staff should check the document control themselves from now on, without waiting for reminders."

Hu Li clenched her fists, offering no explanation. She had asked about this standard twice beforehand, and the reply was always the same—follow the original draft. She quietly kept that chat log in her heart.

Someone in the corner muttered in a low voice, "The outsourcing is still using the old standard; don't delay the process."

Another person echoed in a low voice: "Go back and check the version before bringing it up in the meeting."

Mu Tianlang raised his eyes, his voice steady: "Don't let your mistake become the price the team pays."

Like a hammer blow, not heavy, but accurate.

She flipped back to the document, her expression calm, but a very slight smile played on her lips.

The misunderstanding in the garden, the knife wound at the meeting—all were noted.

A fox may not bark, but when it bites, it will leave no bones behind.

She wrote four words in pencil in the corner of the page: "Evidence in hand." Then she looked up, waiting for their next encounter in the hunting grounds.

Meeting adjourned. Assistant Xiao Zhou passed by, placed a folded sticky note on the corner of her drawing, and left without saying a word.

She ran her fingertip across the edge of the paper, then stopped—it remained unfurled.