When the fox approaches the wolf's border
[Afternoon at the resort's north-facing outdoor glass walkway]
The glass windows stretched their shadows long, and the light clung to the corridor floor like a thin layer of salt. Hu Li stood still, her shoulders slightly hunched, her palm firmly pressing down on the easel. She first used a hard brush to sketch the framework of the main beams and columns, stabilizing the steel structure, dividing it symmetrically, creating a modular system, the nodes so clean you could hear them breathing. She was painting the order he wanted.
Mu Tianlang stood with his hands behind his back, his brows unmoved, but his gaze was fixed on her gestures. As she switched grips on the pen, the subtle twists and turns of her wrist, the strength in the lines she drew, seemed to draw a parallel path in his world, one that did not belong to him.
She pulled down the "order" sign, strode to the railing at the entrance of the corridor, aligned it with the center line, gently pushed it at the top edge with her fingertip, and took a half step back, saying, "This is the visual you wanted."
He only grunted in response, his eyes cold, but he didn't look away.
She snapped on a magnetic clip, took the painting down, and replaced it with a vibrant, softly textured work: plenty of white space, a rotating light corridor, chandeliers hanging like vines from the eaves, and lines that seemed to bend the light like the wind. She then changed to a third piece, superimposing two visual perspectives into a semi-transparent shadow: order on the left, warmth on the right, with a blank space in the middle that allows the viewer to pause and reflect.
In the same spot, the change in temperature made the entire corridor seem to be relit. Two employees carrying boxes passed by in the distance, their steps initially hurried, but they involuntarily slowed down in front of the overlapping shadows, exchanged a glance, and lowered their voices.
"It's not chaos, it's warmth." She spoke slowly. "A good space not only needs to be precise, but it also needs to make people want to come in and not want to leave."
He said calmly, "What are we going to do here?"
She raised her hand and pointed to the blank space in the middle of the overlapping images: "Wait for someone, catch your breath, have a conversation, or just space out for a while. Half a step is enough."
He didn't speak, watching her push the magnetic clip back into place. She pulled out the fourth sheet of semi-transparent tracing paper and marked the dimensions of the movable wooden steps, the location of the under-eave signage, and the color temperature of the LED strip. She didn't use technical terms, only saying, "With an extra 3,500 light here, the skin will feel seen."
A breeze swept through the end of the corridor, ruffling a strand of hair at her temple. She ignored it, focused on pasting images. Mu Tianlang reached out, as if to smooth the stray hair, but his fingertips paused halfway before withdrawing. He placed the back of his hand against his waist, his knuckles unconsciously tightening slightly.
She took a half-step closer to him, her breath brushing against his ear: "You know this, you're just too used to suppressing it."
Those words pierced his heart like an arrow, and ripped open a corner of his armor like a claw. His throat tightened, and he instinctively wanted to retreat, but he didn't move. The silhouettes of the two people almost overlapped in the glass, and he saw his shoulder line cut in two by her drawing, the order separated by the white space.
He whispered, "Don't get so close outside of meetings."
She glanced at him: "Are you afraid I'll get too close, or are you afraid you'll get too close?"
He remained silent, his gaze falling on her fingertips. There was a slight red mark on the base of her thumb where she held the pen, like a small, worn arc. He suddenly said, "Time."
She looked at him: "Give me half a minute."
He glanced at his watch and tapped his index finger on the dial: "Thirty."
She drew human behavior on paper with the simplest lines: "The evening breeze walks along the eaves, and people pause in the half-step zone to avoid being glared at by the frontal light. The railing is at kidney level, so hands relax when holding on, shoulders lower, conversations slow down, and steps naturally pause."
He said, "Data."
She handed him the notebook: "During the trial run, people stayed for 20 to 35 seconds longer. The order you want is still there; I'm just adding a little more heat."
He flipped through a couple of pages, his fingertips lingering on the color swatches she had pressed to the corner—a piece of wood veneer that would retain warmth to the touch. She looked away, not questioning his expression, and simply put the drawings back onto the canvas in order, leaving one blank.
She took a half step back, as if loosening a taut thread back into his hand. Her smile was faint: "You may not like it, but you will remember it."
He didn't deny it. A strand of hair from her temple blew onto his collar, and he hesitated for half a second before speaking: "Go back and finish the proposal. Give it to me tomorrow morning."
She nodded: "I'll follow the rules, but I won't compromise on the temperature."
A fleeting glint of emotion crossed his eyes, but he simply said, "Meeting adjourned."
She carefully collected the magnetic clips one by one, then walked away, her silhouette cast by the light and shadow of the corridor. Her shadow stretched long and thin on the glass, like an unmistakable handwritten mark added to his orderly work.
[Evening at the resort and the CEO's office]
The door closed, and the cold air seemed to shut out the outside world through the crack. He walked to the French windows, pressed his knuckles to his forehead, and closed his eyes for a moment. The few pieces of paper in the corridor seemed to burn like fire along the beams, reaching the place where he shouldn't have been burned.
He opened the drawer, took out a contract awaiting review, but his gaze involuntarily fell on the jacket hanging on the suit rack by the window. There was a barely visible thin line along the seam of the cuff. He knew what was there, like a secret mark visible only to him.
That painting should have been washed away long ago, and it shouldn't have been worn again, appearing in any meeting or public setting. He was always meticulous, but this piece became an exception: it was no longer part of his attire, but rather a mark left behind.
He sat down, opened his laptop, and tried to distract himself with a text message. The cursor blinked as he typed in the email box: "Tomorrow at 9:00 AM, on-site test walk of the north outdoor glass walkway." He stopped at the word "on-site," pressed the delete key, and went back to blank.
He disliked unplanned variables, yet he found himself orchestrating one. Reason intervened, and he changed his wording: "Tomorrow at nine o'clock, data verification at the north outdoor glass corridor." Before pressing send, he moved the cursor to the end and silently added: "Personal attendance required." The moment his finger pressed the button, he heard his heartbeat tap in his chest.
The phone on the table lit up once; it was a message from Assistant Xiao Zhou: "The schedule for tomorrow at 9 AM has been marked. Should I allow ten minutes for buffer time?" He replied: "No need." After a second's pause, he added: "Prepare two low color temperature work lights."
He turned his phone face down and looked at his coat. The line of ink on it seemed still warm in the evening shadows. He didn't get up to touch it, but instead pressed the back of his hand against the edge of the table, as if trying to suppress some kind of desire.
He rarely thought about his childhood, but her mention of "making people want to stop" opened a door that had been sealed for too long. He saw a table, its white cloth perfectly smooth, his father's knife and fork on the right, and his mother sitting upright, not looking at him. He remembered once when his mother turned on a lamp for him; the light was dim, only willing to illuminate the pages of the book, not him. He reached out to move it closer, and the lamp suddenly went out. No one ever turned it back on.
He flipped to the budget section of the contract, but his eyes fell on the corner of another stack of documents—the cover of the drawings she had left in the meeting room. A simple sketch of a chandelier sat there, as if lighting a small lamp for him. His fingers paused, neither opening it nor moving it away.
Reason told him not to look back, but his body was more honest than reason. He admitted—she had left her mark.
He got up and walked to the suit rack by the window, took down his coat, and pressed his thumb along the seam of the cuff. There was no stinging sensation, only a slight warmth, as if coming from a very, very far place. He murmured, "That's all for today." He hung the coat back on the rack, returned to his desk, and began to review his work. Line after line of text came into view, finally returning to his sense of order.
[Resort, poolside evening]
As night fell, the pool reflected the distant lights, turning them into a shimmering expanse of gold. Tent lights swayed among the trees, their points of light rustling softly in the breeze. The scent of earth and grass rose after the rain, sweet and slightly damp.
Hu Li walked along the damp wooden path, carrying a painting tube on her back, her shirt still damp with water. She deftly stopped her assistant, Xiao Zhou, at the corner of the corridor, her voice gentle: "Is the evening meeting over?"
Xiao Zhou nodded and lowered his voice: "Just finished."
Hu Li then asked, "Where did he go?"
Xiao Zhou lowered his voice: "He didn't go into the elevator, he went straight to the back garden—by the pool. He said he wanted to be alone for a while." He paused for a moment, then added, "He rarely goes there at this time."
"Perfect timing, I brought my new draft for him to review." Hu Li smiled and shook the painting tube, his tone light and natural.
"Wait a minute..." Xiao Zhou subconsciously reached out, his gaze sweeping from her shoulder to the painting tube. After hesitating for a few seconds, he finally stepped aside and whispered a reminder: "Walk slowly on the wooden path, it's slippery. Also—I didn't say you came to see him."
She had bypassed him and stepped onto the damp wooden path.
He watched her retreating figure, lowering his voice to mutter to himself, "President Mu hates being disturbed the most... but he hasn't really gotten angry the last time." He added very softly, "That doesn't make sense."
On the sofa by the pool, Mu Tianlang sat sideways, the light cutting across his profile, making his features appear like a blade hidden beneath his skin. An unopened document lay on the table; his gaze was fixed on the water, as if watching a silent meeting.
Footsteps approached, and he frowned, turning his head to see her. His pupils flickered, his expression momentarily relaxed, then quickly returned to normal: "Designer Hu, you always show up when I least want to be disturbed."
"What I'm good at is disturbing people." She sat down, placed the drawing tube on the table, and took out the design drafts, spreading them out one by one. "The visual extension of the entrance area, combined with the guidance of light, three sets of samples, let's pick one to test the waters first."
He ignored her teasing, focusing instead on her hands. The red marks on the back of her hands were even more noticeable under the light. He frowned slightly, his tone softening unconsciously: "How did you get that?"
She lowered her head and said, "I got scratched by the material board while selecting samples, it's not serious." After saying that, she subconsciously pulled her hand back into the shadow of her skirt.
His Adam's apple bobbed, but he didn't ask any more questions. She had already settled into her work rhythm, pressing the color swatch to the corner of the paper, and turning the page as she spoke: "This version has the smoothest color temperature, and the skin tones will look better; the height of the wooden steps here makes it stable as soon as you step on them; the wayfinding signage under the eaves is easy to see at eye level, without having to look up. You'll see the difference once you walk through it."
He listened, she spoke. He occasionally tossed out a short word: "Why?" "Data?" "Cost." She caught it, giving him answers with the fewest words possible. Halfway through her sentence, she suddenly looked up: "What exactly do you want from this space?"
He paused for two seconds, then asked, "What do you want from me?"
Her fingertips traced the edge of the drawing, lightly touching the back of his hand for a fleeting moment before withdrawing: "Perhaps it's a challenge, perhaps it's an answer. You said you wanted quality and order, and I gave you that. But you know, that's not everything."
She looked him straight in the eye: "A place that makes people want to stop should feel like home, warm and a place where they can put their hearts at ease."
He felt a jolt; the image of that little lamp from his childhood, which only shone on the pages of books and not on people, flashed through his mind, lit for a moment, and then went dark. He looked away, his tone still cold: "You're too self-righteous."
"Maybe, but at least you saw it." She straightened the drawing paper but didn't put it away. She got up to leave, deliberately slowing her pace. As she walked past him, her fingertips brushed lightly against his shoulder, like brushing away a speck of dust, or perhaps leaving a hint.
She whispered to him with her back to him, "You always live within such strict rules. Aren't you curious if it would be more comfortable to be a little off-center?"
Her voice faded into the distance, and he didn't respond, only watching her figure disappear from the lamplight. In the corner of the design drawing she hadn't taken with her, there was a line of text: "Your life can also accommodate unguarded scenery." He reached out and touched it lightly; his fingertips felt icy cold for a moment, but his heart slowly warmed deep within.
He didn't talk about home, nor did he understand its warmth. To him, home was a dining table arranged too neatly, evenings where conversations felt like rituals, and a lamp that had only been lit once. He lowered his eyelashes, his Adam's apple bobbing slightly, and for the first time, he began to wonder if he had missed something he could have had. His heart, as calm as still water, was stirred by her throwing a pebble, creating the first ripple, silent yet real.
[Nighttime views of the resort's north-facing outdoor glass walkway]
The night breeze deepened the shadows of the trees, and the light strips of the glass corridor traced a soft line along the eaves. She returned here, dragging over two temporary wooden steps, a low color temperature lamp, and a thin white powder line. She flicked the powder line across the ground, creating a half-step-wide strip that landed precisely between two pillars.
She lowered the lamp, its light like a docile little animal lying on the ground. She squatted down, tested the heat of the light with the back of her hand, then stood up and wrapped a thin hemp rope around the railing, making a spot where her hand could rest naturally.
Footsteps approached. It was Mu Tianlang. He stood in the shadows, watching her like a disobedient student secretly conducting an experiment on the training ground. His gaze shifted forward and he saw a clean half-step strip on the ground.
He took two steps closer and asked in a flat tone, "Who approved it?"
She turned around and smiled, "Just a quick demonstration, five minutes, take a look and then call it a day."
He glanced at his watch, remained silent, and stood outside the belt.
She waved to the passing cleaners and night shift security guards, telling them to take a turn: "No need to act, just walk at your normal pace."
A cleaner pushed her cart over, intending to walk straight through the corridor, but was gently reminded, "Walk through this area, and hold on here." The cleaner did as instructed, slowing her steps three beats in the half-step area, her hand pausing for two seconds on the rope, her shoulder noticeably lowered. A night shift security guard walked by with his hands behind his back, and unconsciously paused by the hand lamp, pushing up his hat brim, his gaze focusing in the light for a moment before continuing.
She turned to look at him: "People will tell you the answer themselves."
He neither nodded nor shook his head, but simply took a step forward, his shoulders still straight. She lowered the lamp further, making the light a little warmer; she raised her hand and gestured in the air: "Stand here."
He didn't move. She took a half step closer, grasped his wrist, and led him to the point she had drawn. Her touch was gentle, yet brooked no refusal.
She stopped beside him and gestured with her fingertip to indicate the height of the railing: "Here, hold on."
He placed his hand on it. The wood grain of the railing left a delicate tactile sensation on his palm, the warmth of the lantern spread across his skin, and the evening breeze swirled in from under the eaves, partially blocked by his shoulder. He suddenly realized that his shoulder had never lowered so naturally before.
She turned to look at him, her voice soft: "Now you know what 'stay' means."
He didn't answer, his gaze falling on a strand of hair that had been lifted by the wind near her temple. The strand brushed against the side of her neck, leaving a small, soft shadow. Suddenly, he reached out, as if adjusting a misplaced prop, and gently tucked the strand of hair behind her ear with his fingertips. The movement was restrained, not crossing any boundaries, yet undeniably close.
She paused for a moment, a tiny glint of amusement in her eyes, which she quickly withdrew, as if holding a spark in her palm.
He took a half step back and withdrew his hand. His tone returned to its coldness: "Put the prototype away for now."
She nodded, bent down to turn off the lamp, and the light shrank as the night receded. She straightened up: "Tomorrow I'll add the time taken for the site walkthrough and the interviews, along with the cost and timeline, without changing the structure."
He hummed in agreement, turned to leave, then stopped: "Don't change it again tonight."
She looked at him: "Afraid I'll do something reckless."
He looked up, his gaze cool and detached: "I'm afraid you'll get tired."
She paused for a moment, a slight smile flickering across her eyes: "Received."
He walked to the exit of the corridor and suddenly turned back: "Bring your camera tomorrow at nine o'clock."
She patted her camera bag: "I always carry it with me."
He said nothing more and left into the night.
She dragged the wooden step back to the barn, turned around to look at the pink line, lifted her foot and gently stepped on it, as if to herself: just half a step more, and we'll be there.
[Resort, east-facing wind gap, early morning]
As dawn broke, the clouds in the east seemed to be outlined with a thin layer of gold, and the sea shimmered with a faint light. The wind blew in from the vents, carrying salt, dampness, and a hint of the sweetness of new grass. Vitex trifolia spread low over the slope, its purple hue appearing even purer in the morning mist.
Hu Li, carrying her camera, walked up the gravel path still damp with dew. She took the camera off, switched it to manual mode, first used a white card to set the brightness, then casually placed it next to the flowers for a simple reflection. The shutter clicked softly under her fingertip, like a pebble falling into a still lake.
At this point, there's no need for additional lighting; sidelighting provides the cleanest illumination. She crouched in the windy spot, using her body to block some of the breeze so the flowers wouldn't sway too much, focused, made minor adjustments, and pressed the next shot.
A sound came from afar
The sound of a water truck, a security guard nodding at her from the other end of the walkway, morning birds skimming the sea—everything was on the verge of waking. This area was the engineering department's morning inspection point; the eastern wind vent was thick with salt fog, and the railings and glass fasteners required visual inspection every morning. Mu Tianlang had a habit of taking a look around at this time—it was one of his regular morning patrol routes.
The footsteps stopped behind them.
She knew it was him without even turning around. The place was remote, but it was early morning, the time for morning health checks; she had stopped filming last night and chose to come before dawn to take pictures, which was both safe and unobtrusive.
He stood in the shadows by the wind, remained silent for two seconds, and then spoke: "So early."
She turned to meet his gaze, her smile faint: "You said not to change it tonight. I'll wait until dawn."
He glanced at her, then looked at the patch of brambles: "Want to take a picture of it?"
She nodded: "We photograph the wind, and we photograph the seasons. The thorny bush is a weather vane here; when it blooms, people are more willing to stop and enjoy it."
She showed him the photos she had just taken, tapping the screen with her fingertip: "This is brambles after the rain, this is the sound of the wind—not words, but the direction of light."
He remained silent. The morning light made his silhouette appear even colder, and the thin thread hidden in the shadow of his sleeve did not touch it; he simply turned his gaze back to her.
She suddenly pulled a thin hair tie from her pocket and handed it to him: "Help me tie this up, the wind is too strong and it keeps hitting the camera lens."
He paused slightly, but still took it. She turned to the side, smoothing her long hair to one side, and lowered her head slightly. His fingertips lingered on her neck for half a second, then gathered her hair, wrapped it around twice, and tightened the knot at the last moment. In that instant, his fingertips brushed against the back of her ear, carrying the cool morning breeze.
He lingered for half a second on the newly tucked-in hair at the side of her neck, his Adam's apple bobbing slightly, before withdrawing his hand.
She subconsciously pursed her lips slightly, and her breathing became softer, as if she was holding back the words that were about to come out.
She whispered, "Thanks."
He suddenly said, "You're very good at getting people to stay."
She looked up: "You can stay too."
He didn't answer, only turned aside to let the wind pass a little. She put her camera back in her bag, turned to leave, and deliberately slowed her pace. As they brushed past each other, she lightly bumped him with her shoulder, as if accidentally, yet also as if on purpose.
He didn't back down. She took a few steps, then turned back: "Nine o'clock, north glass corridor."
He said, "I know."
She smiled and walked down the slope in the morning light.
He stood in the wind, the thin light seeping through the shadows of his sleeves. The little fox hid quietly, like an answer he still refused to acknowledge. The wind ruffled the corner of the unprotected paper in his pocket; he pressed it down, neither putting it away nor throwing it away.
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