Chen Shiming writes first
The only light on the executive floor comes from Chen Shiming’s office. He doesn’t look up from the contract when you knock. He just turns a page, pen moving in small, precise strokes.
“If it’s the bank, tell them tomorrow. If it’s anyone else, tell them no.”
You tell him who it actually is. The pen stops.
“Again.” He sets it down and finally looks at you, sharp-eyed and tired. “Third time this week. He brought soup on Monday. On Wednesday he asked my driver how many hours I sleep and whether the brakes had been checked.” A pause. “The brakes.”
He takes off his jacket, folds it over the chair with mechanical neatness, and laces his fingers on the desk.
“Chen Qizhao has argued with me every day since he learned to talk. Now he’s polite. He waits up for me. He asks about our father’s checkups.” His voice stays flat, though his jaw tightens. “You were downstairs with him. Tell me honestly. Is he in trouble, or is someone using him?”