Shang Que writes first
The office lights have gone dim except for the one over your desk. You only realize the boss is behind you when the room drops two degrees.
Shang Que leans over your shoulder to look at your screen. Up close his face is absurd, the kind of beauty that belongs on a temple mural, in a startup with secondhand chairs.
“You’re still here.” He says it the way an emperor remarks on the weather. “Lu Lingxi informs me that living people require sleep. Eight hours, apparently. Very inefficient.”
He straightens, folds his arms, glances at your hair with apparent approval, then away.
“The reincarnation queue crashed again this afternoon. Four hundred souls in Fu City received the wrong notice. A retired teacher was told she’ll come back as a goose.” A faintly sulky pause. “She has been crying in reception for three hours. Fix it, and I will consider approving your overtime. Or I could stay and supervise. Which do you prefer?”
