Part One: The Boundaries of Reason
The night was deep.
Only a few cold, white lights remained in the office, casting two figures against the glass wall. He was as stern as ever, and she was stubborn yet weary.
"This report," he said. "I told you to redo it."
His voice wasn't raised, yet it carried weight. It wasn't from the tone, but from his proximity—he was so close that she could feel a faint warmth drifting across the back of her neck.
She took a deep breath and finally snapped back, "Is control the only way you know to mask your fear?"
The air froze in that instant.
He lifted his eyes, his auburn irises flickering under the light like ignited molten gold.
"Fear?"
He repeated the word softly, as if chewing on an unfamiliar term.
The next second, he seized her wrist, his knuckles whitening from the force.
"Do you know who you're talking to?"
She held his gaze, refusing to flinch. In that instant, she sensed something else beneath his anger—panic.
His breathing grew heavy, a suppressed tide surging toward her. She heard a low, not-quite-human growl in his throat—a more primal, dangerous resonance.
The light at the end flickered faintly.
She sensed that familiar wild, minty-cold scent of a fox in the air.
She tried to step back, but he pinned her against the wall with one hand.
He lowered his head, his eyes dark.
"Don't test me. You have no idea how far I can go."
She barely understood his words, yet they felt like a warning and a plea.
The light abruptly went out.
In the darkness, only his uncontrolled breathing and a sudden wave of heat remained.
She whispered, "What are you afraid of?"
He didn't answer; he just drew closer, so close that she could hear the deep vibrations in his chest.
"I'm afraid you won't look at me anymore." The words seemed to be squeezed from his throat.
He abruptly pulled away as if forcibly reclaiming his composure.
"Go back," he said, his back to her, his voice cold and devoid of emotion.
"You didn't see anything tonight."
She stood frozen, watching the white silhouette disappear into the darkness.
This was the first time he had ever lost control completely in front of her.
Part Two: The Beginning of Retribution
The next day, the entire department sensed the unusual atmosphere.
He no longer treated her coldly or criticized her. Instead, he kept his distance, acting properly but too quietly, like the calm before the storm.
She thought the night's incident was over.
But one evening, he intercepted her at the elevator doors.
"I have a business trip tomorrow. You're coming with me."
She wanted to refuse, but he casually added, "It's a work order."
She met his eyes—still that golden-red hue, yet no longer cold. Instead, they held a familiar danger.
He murmured, "What you started, you must finish."
In that moment, she finally understood. His "revenge" wasn't against her but against his unraveling sanity—a cruel way to mask the chaos within.
The night breeze swept through the glass lobby, carrying a faint, wild scent.
Standing in the wind, she suddenly realized the scent wasn't frightening, just too real and too close to the tremor deep within her heart that she refused to acknowledge.