Nuocheng didn’t wait for Manager Zhang to finish pointing out the aisle inventory.
Near the back wall, Sicheng hoisted a fifty-pound cargo box onto a wooden pallet. His dark sleeves were rolled to the elbows, sweat glistening along his collarbone under the harsh fluorescent tubes.
Nuocheng cut across the concrete. The gold buckles on his heels clicked against the dusty floor—a sharp, metallic rhythm that cut through the low hum of the forklifts.
"Han Sicheng."
Sicheng’s shoulders locked. He set the box down, wiped his brow with the back of his wrist, and turned around. His eyes swept over Nuocheng’s pristine white suit, dropped to the gold-strapped heels, and settled on Manager Zhang hovering behind with a clipboard.
A muscle in Sicheng’s jaw twitched. He dusted off his palms, his chest rising and falling in slow, controlled breaths.
"You work here?" Nuocheng asked, adjusting his lapel. "I had a walk-through scheduled for today. Small world."
Sicheng folded his arms across his chest. He stood perfectly still, his frame blocking the pallet behind him.
"Is it?"
"Is it what?"
"A coincidence." Sicheng’s eyes flicked from Nuocheng to Chenxi, who stood three paces back, tablet tucked under his arm. "Yesterday at the register. Today at my shift. You move fast, Mr. Gu."
Nuocheng’s smile faltered. He shifted his weight, the leather of his shoe creaking against the floor. "This facility belongs to our logistics division. I came for an inspection."
"Then inspect it." Sicheng gestured toward the far end of the warehouse with a nod of his chin. "Don’t let me hold you up."
Silence stretched between them. A forklift roared past in the next aisle, the vibration rattling the steel shelving above their heads. Manager Zhang shifted on his feet, his clipboard tapping against his thigh.
"The work here is heavy," Nuocheng said softly, his eyes dropping to the damp collar of Sicheng’s shirt. "If you need a shift adjustment—"
"Don’t."
The word cut through the air. Sicheng took a single step forward, narrowing the distance between them until Nuocheng had to tilt his head up to meet his gaze.
"Don’t touch my hours. Don’t speak to my manager. And don’t use this building as an excuse."
Heat crept up Nuocheng’s neck, settling behind his ears. "I came here for work."
"Good." Sicheng reached into his back pocket, pulled out a pair of heavy work gloves, and tossed them onto the stack of boxes. "Then do your work."
He grabbed his jacket off an empty crate, swung it over his shoulder, and walked past Manager Zhang without a second glance. The heavy plastic flaps of the loading bay door slapped together behind him.
Manager Zhang’s pen hovered over his paper. Sweat beaded along his hairline. "Mr. Gu... should I—"
"No." Nuocheng’s voice came out lower than intended. He pulled at his tie, loosening the knot a fraction. "Leave him."
Chenxi tapped a key on his tablet, the soft beep puncturing the quiet. "Loading dock four is next, sir."
Nuocheng swallowed, squared his shoulders, and walked toward the exit. "Right."
The back seat of the car smelled of expensive leather and air freshener. Nuocheng pressed his forehead against the cool window glass, watching gray highway barriers slide past.
He loosened his collar further, the silk choking him. "He thinks I brought Zhang down there to flex."
Chenxi kept his eyes on his phone, thumbs flying over the screen. "An executive walked into a low-wage loading dock with a manager in tow twenty-four hours after making an unsolicited proposition. The optics speak for themselves."
Nuocheng let out a breath that rattled in his throat. He rubbed his thumb over his palm, tracing the grain of his trousers. "I didn’t mean it like that."
"Intent rarely matters when someone’s rent depends on the person standing in front of them." Chenxi didn’t look up, but his tone softened slightly. "Give it air."
By six, dusk threw long shadows across Nuocheng’s office desk. Papers lay scattered under the warm glow of the desk lamp, unread.
The landline buzzed.
Nuocheng picked up the receiver before the second ring. "Gu."
"Mr. Gu. Manager Zhang." The voice sounded thin through the speaker. "Regarding the temp worker. Han Sicheng."
Nuocheng sat up, his spine straightening. "Speak."
"He turned in his badge at the desk twenty minutes ago. Canceled his remaining shifts with the agency." A pause stretched over the line. "The staffing agency asked for a reason. Do you want me to file a contract breach?"
Nuocheng closed his eyes. The desk lamp hummed in the quiet room.
"No," Nuocheng said. "Approve his full hours for the week. Pay it out of my discretionary fund. Clear his record with the agency, and don’t contact him again."
"Understood, sir."
The line went dead. Nuocheng set the receiver back on its cradle, leaned back in his chair, and dragged both hands down his face.