A Masked Lie

In the next eight hours, Secretary Wu stormed into the office, gasping for breath, his face drenched in stress. He looked like a desperate student on the verge of a breakdown, forced to complete an impossible deadline with no way out. His hands trembled slightly as he held onto the documents, each one heavier than the last.

He hesitated before stepping forward, carefully gauging his boss's expression. But as always, Li ZiChen was unreadable, his face as rigid as stone. The only thing that betrayed him was the way his fingers tapped against the armrest, slow, controlled, but unnervingly sharp, like a blade against bone.

The sound of paper flipping filled the room, each movement of his hands deliberate yet disturbingly careless. But his eyes, those cold, unforgiving eyes, burned with a quiet, simmering fury. It was the kind of anger that didn't explode immediately. No, it brewed, seething beneath the surface, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.