The morning sun, usually a crisp white through the high-rise window, feels dull against Miyan’s eyelids. He blinks them open, the silk sheets cool where they pool around his waist. A faint ache pulses in his right wrist, a ghost from last night’s encounter. He lifts his arm, turning it in the pale light. There it is, barely visible, a delicate, almost silver line etched into his skin, forming the unmistakable shape of a broken lock. He traces the mark with his thumb, the skin beneath it feeling strangely sensitized. It wasn't there yesterday. The memory of Levis’s touch, the sudden jolt of electricity, rushes back. The pain had been sharp, brief, then gone, leaving this. It feels like something out of a dream, yet it’s undeniably real. The mark stirs a vague, unsettling sensation, a fragment of something long buried. A flash of a memory: a narrow alleyway, the metallic tang of blood, the sting of disinfectant. He sees a child’s scraped knee, a hand reaching out. Whose hand? He can’t quite grasp it. The image dissolves, leaving only a hollow echo in his chest. He closes his eyes, trying to recapture the fleeting vision. The broken lock on his wrist seems to pulse with a silent question. This isn't just an after-effect of a strong drink. This is something else entirely. Levis. The name settles in his mind, heavy and warm, mixed with a chilling thread of unease. He finds himself replaying every moment from the lounge, Levis's eyes, his smile, the way his voice had dropped to a conspiratorial murmur. The clock radio clicks, displaying 7:00 AM. Time to move. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, the mark on his wrist a secret, burning signature against his skin. He feels a strange blend of fear and exhilaration. The world, which had felt so predictable, now hums with an unfamiliar current. He wants to know more, even if it feels dangerous. --- The conference room air hums with the low thrum of the projector and the muted rustle of documents. Chen Wei’s voice, usually a steady drone, seems to sharpen as he outlines the merger’s financial projections. Miyan sits at the head of the polished obsidian table, a pen tapping an unconscious rhythm against his notepad. He tries to focus on the numbers, the intricate dance of assets and liabilities, but Levis’s face keeps intruding. His dark eyes, the curve of his lips as he’d spoken about the whiskey, the subtle scent of sandalwood that had clung to him. Miyan mentally shakes his head, trying to clear it. This is serious business. Billions of yuan are on the line. He can’t afford distractions. Sun Kai pipes up, his voice cracking slightly. “Miyan, on slide 17, the projected ROI for the Xi’an acquisition seems… optimistic.” Miyan glances at the screen, then at the slide in his own report. He frowns. “Optimistic? We’ve factored in the market growth rates, the new regulatory frameworks…” He trails off, his gaze drifting to his right wrist, hidden beneath the cuff of his shirt. He feels the faint presence of the mark, a constant, low throb. Chen Wei clears his throat, a sound like sandpaper. “Miyan, are you referring to the *revised* market growth rates, or the preliminary estimates from last quarter?” A cold wave washes over Miyan. He looks at Chen Wei, then back at the slide. He’d been so sure. He’d skimmed the revised report this morning, but his mind had been on a broken lock, not a balance sheet. He fumbles for the correct page, a hot flush spreading up his neck. “The… the revised ones, of course. My apologies. A momentary lapse.” Sun Kai exchanges a look with Chen Wei. It’s quick, almost imperceptible, but Miyan catches it. They rarely see him make a mistake, especially not one so basic. The tension in the room ratchets up a notch. Miyan forces himself to focus, to push Levis, the mark, everything, out of his mind. But the damage is done. A small crack has appeared in his impeccable facade. --- His phone vibrates on the pristine glass of his desk, a private buzz that cuts through the sterile quiet of his office. Miyan picks it up, his thumb hovering over the screen. It’s an unknown number. He opens the message. It's just a string of emojis: a glass of whiskey, a subtle smirk, and a question mark. No text. Nothing else. He knows it’s Levis. The certainty hits him with a physical force, a warmth spreading through his chest. No one else would send something so cryptic, so… intimate. The smirk emoji feels like a secret shared between them, a playful challenge from last night. It conjures Levis’s actual smirk, the corner of his mouth lifting just so. Miyan’s fingers hover over the keyboard. What to say? His mind races through responses, discarding each one. Too formal. Too eager. Too casual. The ambiguity of the message is deliberate, he realizes, pulling him into a game he barely understands. He feels a pull, a magnetic force that draws him in despite the lingering unease from the board meeting. The memory of the mark on his wrist intensifies. He types a single word: The morning sun, usually a crisp white through the high-rise window, feels dull against Miyan’s eyelids. He blinks them open, the silk sheets cool where they pool around his waist. A faint ache pulses in his right wrist, a ghost from last night’s encounter. He lifts his arm, turning it in the pale light. There it is, barely visible, a delicate, almost silver line etched into his skin, forming the unmistakable shape of a broken lock. He traces the mark with his thumb, the skin beneath it feeling strangely sensitized. It wasn't there yesterday. The memory of Levis’s touch, the sudden jolt of electricity, rushes back. The pain had been sharp, brief, then gone, leaving this. It feels like something out of a dream, yet it’s undeniably real. The mark stirs a vague, unsettling sensation, a fragment of something long buried. A flash of a memory: a narrow alleyway, the metallic tang of blood, the sting of disinfectant. He sees a child’s scraped knee, a hand reaching out. Whose hand? He can’t quite grasp it. The image dissolves, leaving only a hollow echo in his chest. He closes his eyes, trying to recapture the fleeting vision. The broken lock on his wrist seems to pulse with a silent question. This isn't just an after-effect of a strong drink. This is something else entirely. Levis. The name settles in his mind, heavy and warm, mixed with a chilling thread of unease. He finds himself replaying every moment from the lounge, Levis's eyes, his smile, the way his voice had dropped to a conspiratorial murmur. The clock radio clicks, displaying 7:00 AM. Time to move. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, the mark on his wrist a secret, burning signature against his skin. He feels a strange blend of fear and exhilaration. The world, which had felt so predictable, now hums with an unfamiliar current. He wants to know more, even if it feels dangerous.---The conference room air hums with the low thrum of the projector and the muted rustle of documents. Chen Wei’s voice, usually a steady drone, seems to sharpen as he outlines the merger’s financial projections. Miyan sits at the head of the polished obsidian table, a pen tapping an unconscious rhythm against his notepad. He tries to focus on the numbers, the intricate dance of assets and liabilities, but Levis’s face keeps intruding. His dark eyes, the curve of his lips as he’d spoken about the whiskey, the subtle scent of sandalwood that had clung to him. Miyan mentally shakes his head, trying to clear it. This is serious business. Billions of yuan are on the line. He can’t afford distractions. Sun Kai pipes up, his voice cracking slightly. “Miyan, on slide 17, the projected ROI for the Xi’an acquisition seems… optimistic.” Miyan glances at the screen, then at the slide in his own report. He frowns. “Optimistic? We’ve factored in the market growth rates, the new regulatory frameworks…” He trails off, his gaze drifting to his right wrist, hidden beneath the cuff of his shirt. He feels the faint presence of the mark, a constant, low throb. Chen Wei clears his throat, a sound like sandpaper. “Miyan, are you referring to the *revised* market growth rates, or the preliminary estimates from last quarter?” A cold wave washes over Miyan. He looks at Chen Wei, then back at the slide. He’d been so sure. He’d skimmed the revised report this morning, but his mind had been on a broken lock, not a balance sheet. He fumbles for the correct page, a hot flush spreading up his neck. “The… the revised ones, of course. My apologies. A momentary lapse.” Sun Kai exchanges a look with Chen Wei. It’s quick, almost imperceptible, but Miyan catches it. They rarely see him make a mistake, especially not one so basic. The tension in the room ratchets up a notch. Miyan forces himself to focus, to push Levis, the mark, everything, out of his mind. But the damage is done. A small crack has appeared in his impeccable facade.---His phone vibrates on the pristine glass of his desk, a private buzz that cuts through the sterile quiet of his office. Miyan picks it up, his thumb hovering over the screen. It’s an unknown number. He opens the message. It's just a string of emojis: a glass of whiskey, a subtle smirk, and a question mark. No text. Nothing else. He knows it’s Levis. The certainty hits him with a physical force, a warmth spreading through his chest. No one else would send something so cryptic, so… intimate. The smirk emoji feels like a secret shared between them, a playful challenge from last night. It conjures Levis’s actual smirk, the corner of his mouth lifting just so. Miyan’s fingers hover over the keyboard. What to say? His mind races through responses, discarding each one. Too formal. Too eager. Too casual. The ambiguity of the message is deliberate, he realizes, pulling him into a game he barely understands. He feels a pull, a magnetic force that draws him in despite the lingering unease from the board meeting. The memory of the mark on his wrist intensifies. He types a single word: “Tonight?” He hits send before he can second-guess himself. The word hangs in the digital air, a bridge built on impulse. Moments later, his phone buzzes again. A restaurant name, an address, and a time: 8 PM. No further emojis, no extra words. Levis's directness is both intriguing and a little unnerving. Miyan finds himself smiling, a slow, private curve of his lips. The meeting earlier, the minor professional slip, fades into the background. His focus narrows, sharpening on the evening ahead. The broken lock on his wrist seems to thrum, a silent anticipation.---The restaurant, 'The Velvet Curtain', lives up to its name. Heavy drapes of deep crimson velvet soften the entrance, muffling the city's ceaseless drone. Inside, the lighting is a warm, intimate glow, cast by small, flickering table lamps and strategically placed spotlights that highlight framed abstract art. Dark lacquered wood gleams, absorbing sound, creating pockets of quiet privacy. It’s the kind of place where conversations are meant to be lingered over, secrets shared in hushed tones. Miyan arrives precisely at eight, his usual punctuality. Levis is already seated at a secluded corner table, a glass of water before him, his posture relaxed but alert. He looks up as Miyan approaches, a slow smile unfolding. The smile reaches his eyes, crinkling the corners, and Miyan feels a strange loosening in his chest. “Miyan. Punctual, as expected.” Levis’s voice is a low murmur, perfectly suited to the room's acoustics. Miyan slides into the opposite seat, the soft leather giving way slightly beneath him. “You invited me,” Miyan counters, a light challenge in his tone. “I wouldn’t want to keep you waiting.” A waiter glides over, silent as a shadow, and Miyan orders a glass of a crisp white wine. Levis already has a small, dark teacup beside his water glass. “Just a rare oolong,” Levis explains, gesturing to it. “It helps clear the mind.” The conversation drifts easily at first, touching on the city's latest art exhibition, a new play everyone is talking about. Levis is an engaging conversationalist, his observations sharp, his wit subtle. He listens with an intensity that makes Miyan feel like the only person in the room, his thoughts truly valued. Levis leans forward, his dark eyes seeming to deepen in the subdued light. “Tell me, Miyan,” he begins, his voice dropping slightly, “I know you as a titan of industry, a man who commands respect. But everyone has a story, a genesis. What was yours like?” Miyan stiffens almost imperceptibly. He rarely talks about his past, especially not his family. His upbringing was defined by expectations, by a path laid out before him since birth. He’d carved out his empire within those confines, but the warmth, the casual intimacy of a typical family, had always been absent. He takes a slow sip of his wine, the chilled liquid a momentary shield. “My story is quite ordinary,” Miyan replies, trying to deflect. “Hard work, dedication. The usual.” Levis shakes his head gently. “I doubt that. Nothing about you strikes me as ordinary. Was it a demanding household? A legacy to uphold?” His questions are not accusatory, but laced with an almost compassionate curiosity, a quiet invitation to confide. It’s disarming. Miyan finds himself considering the answer, the raw edges of old memories stirring. No one had ever asked him like this, with such genuine, unhurried interest. Not his colleagues, not his brief romantic entanglements. They only saw the Miyan of now, the impenetrable CEO. “My family… they are traditional,” Miyan begins, the words feeling rusty on his tongue. He pauses, searching for the right phrasing. “My father believes in… a certain order. A certain way of doing things. From a very young age, my path was clear.” He doesn't elaborate, doesn't mention the stifling weight of expectation, the cold detachment that had defined his childhood. But Levis seems to understand, his gaze unwavering. “And your mother?” Levis asks, his voice softer still. The question feels like a key turning in a lock Miyan hadn't realized was there. Miyan hesitates, the image of his mother, distant and ethereal, flashing in his mind. She was a woman of quiet reserve, more an elegant ornament than a source of warmth. He rarely spoke her name. “She was… an artist,” Miyan says, the word catching in his throat. He clears it. “Very different from my father. She lived in her own world.” He doesn’t explain how her world rarely intersected with his, how her quiet rebellion was to retreat rather than confront. Levis simply nods, absorbing each word, his expression unreadable but attentive. He doesn’t push further, just waits, creating a space that Miyan feels compelled to fill. The broken lock on his wrist pulses, a faint tremor, and Miyan finds himself wanting to talk, to unravel threads he'd kept tightly wound for decades. He feels a dangerous ease settling over him.---The wine in Miyan’s glass catches the lamplight, a liquid amber. He swirled it, the conversation having deepened into a comfortable rhythm. Levis had steered them through various topics, always circling back, subtly, to Miyan’s formative years, his values, the unspoken motivations that drove him. It felt less like an interrogation and more like an intimate exploration, one Miyan was, to his surprise, enjoying. Levis was now recounting an anecdote about a childhood friend, a boy who had broken a priceless antique vase in his parents’ study. “The silence that followed,” Levis mused, a faint smile playing on his lips, “was far worse than any shouted reprimand. The weight of disappointment, Miyan, that’s a heavy thing for a child.” Miyan felt a jolt of recognition. He’d known that silence. He’d lived in it. He took a breath, the words coming to him unbidden, a memory pushing to the surface. “When I was maybe seven, I had this small wooden puzzle box. Intricate, a gift from a distant uncle. I was obsessed with it, always trying to solve its mechanism.” He paused, a faint, almost wistful look in his eyes. “One day, I finally opened it. Inside, there was nothing. Just empty space. But then, I couldn’t put it back together. I broke it trying. Splintered the lid.” He gestured with his hand, recalling the exact motion. “My father found it. He didn’t yell. He just looked at it, then at me. And he said, ‘Some things, once broken, can never be truly fixed. Remember that, Miyan.’” The words hung in the air between them, sharp and clear even after all these years. Miyan looked at Levis, expecting perhaps a sympathetic nod, a shared understanding. Instead, he saw it. A fleeting, almost imperceptible shift in Levis’s composure. The easy smile faltered, just for a fraction of a second. Levis’s eyes, usually so steady, flickered to the left, a micro-expression of surprise or perhaps recognition, before quickly settling back on Miyan. His jaw, for a split second, tightened almost imperceptibly, a muscle clenching beneath the smooth skin. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, too quick for anyone not paying absolute, undivided attention to notice. But Miyan noticed. His own breath hitched. The mark on his wrist gave a distinct, sharp throb, like a sudden pulse. Before Miyan could even process the meaning of Levis’s reaction, before he could ask, the atmosphere shifted. Levis straightened, picking up his teacup and taking a delicate sip. The movement was fluid, effortless, diverting Miyan's gaze from his face to his hands. “Ah, this oolong,” Levis said, his voice perfectly smooth, not a trace of the previous moment. He gestured vaguely around the room. “Have you noticed the peculiar blend of modernity and tradition in this place? It’s rather unique, isn’t it? Very few establishments manage to pull off such a delicate balance without feeling forced.” The change was abrupt, a sudden, expertly executed pivot. Miyan blinked, the image of Levis's tightening jaw still vivid in his mind. The puzzle box, his father’s words, Levis’s reaction – they felt connected, fragments of an unknown whole. He found himself staring at Levis, a prickle of unease mixing with a surge of intense curiosity. What did Levis know? What was that look in his eyes? The air felt suddenly charged, the quiet hum of the restaurant becoming almost oppressive. Miyan wanted to press, to pull Levis back to the moment, but the opportunity was gone, sealed away by a comment about interior design. He felt a chill creep up his spine. Levis knew something. And Miyan had just handed him another piece of the puzzle, unknowingly divulging a vulnerability that Levis had perhaps anticipated all along. The broken lock on his wrist burned hotter now, a silent scream against his skin.

Whispers of the Past