As the meeting broke up, the noise stayed low.
Not the light chatter of people relaxing.
More like residual heat after a verdict.
The kind of murmur that only dared to exist once everything was decided.
Someone packed up his laptop. "That was… intense."
Someone else muttered, "This newbie was something."
Most people said nothing. They just glanced at me from the corners of their eyes, like they were re-sorting which box to file me in.
I didn't move.
I stayed by the podium.
One hand on the edge of the table.
The other hung at my side.
The muscles at the base of my neck were still tight. Not fully released.
Wang Fan turned as if she was about to leave.
She adjusted her sleeve, and—like an afterthought—added:
"Oh. Right."
Her voice wasn't loud.
But the room wasn't empty yet, and it carried.
"From then on, any projects under her would go through internal review first."
She said it naturally.
Like telling admin to print two extra copies.
"No need to waste everyone's time on external presentations."
"Run the data internally first. If there was an issue, we'll address it then."
No personal edge.
No sarcasm like earlier.
No sneer.
There was even a thin layer of "professional prudence" to it.
And because of that—
it was more lethal than anything she'd said all day.
This wasn't a jab.
It was a rule.
A structural downgrade.
For a project owner, it meant one thing:
By default, your work wasn't trusted.
Anything with your name on it got filtered first.
You didn't get to show up in external-facing settings.
I understood.
So did everyone still in the room.
A few mid-level managers nodded automatically.
Small movements.
Natural.
Conditioned.
Because they knew this wasn't a discussion. It was an instruction.
Someone even chimed in, "Yeah, internal review first was safer."
No emotion. Just alignment.
And it hit me—
that whole tug-of-war in front of everyone had settled exactly one thing:
She couldn't erase me on the spot.
But she could push me to the edge, slowly.
No drama.
No open conflict.
Just procedure.
Ten times harsher than calling me names.
A thought flashed through my head, clean and cold:
It was easier to squeeze someone out of the system than to fire them.
Wang Fan finished and started to move.
Her assistant stepped in, asking quietly about her next meeting.
She nodded, turned slightly, ready to walk—
And in the less-than-a-second gap as she pivoted—
someone spoke.
Not loud.
But clear.
"Director Wang."
The room froze mid-motion, like someone hit pause.
That voice wasn't mine.
It was Wang Shanshan.
She stood from the back row.
She didn't rush forward to block Wang Fan's path.
She stayed by her chair.
She only raised her voice enough for the people still present to hear.
"Hmm?" Wang Fan looked back.
A flicker of impatience crossed her eyes.
The earlier "evaluation" gaze was gone—replaced by something purely superior.
"Something else?"
Steady tone.
Clear message: Meeting was over.
Wang Shanshan didn't smile. Didn't look nervous.
Her rhythm stayed even.
System-standard.
"I had a suggestion."
The moment the words landed, the room went quiet again.
Because in a setting like this, adding a "suggestion" after Wang Fan's closing remark was rare.
Either you were performing—carefully.
Or you were volunteering to get hit.
Wang Shanshan didn't look like the first type.
She wasn't someone who stole spotlights.
She continued.
"Regarding the project currently under Liu Keying."
She didn't look at me.
Didn't look at Wang Fan either.
Her eyes stayed forward, as if she was discussing a neutral process issue.
"If we move it straight into internal review, it would affect data continuity."
Wang Fan narrowed her eyes slightly.
"Continuity?" A small laugh. "Continuity could be adjusted."
Wang Shanshan nodded, smooth.
"It could."
She didn't contradict her.
Her tone stayed light—
and then she delivered the line that dropped the room into a sharper silence.
"But the person currently responsible for this project was me."
Something cut through the air.
Several managers paused mid-motion.
A hand that was halfway to a water glass set it back down.
Because they understood:
This wasn't "speaking up for the newbie."
This was taking the weight onto herself.
Wang Fan's smile thinned.
"You're responsible?" she repeated, slow.
Not a challenge.
A confirmation.
"Yes." Wang Shanshan nodded once. "I signed when the project was filed."
"Changing the process midstream broke the responsibility chain."
Her wording was careful.
She didn't say protect the new hire.
She didn't mention fairness.
She didn't say a word about whether I was competent.
She only talked about one thing—
responsibility.
And that was the one thing Wang Fan couldn't brush off.
Because Wang Fan loved using that card.
Now it had been flipped and placed neatly in front of her.
"My suggestion was," Wang Shanshan continued, "give her a three-week adaptation period."
"After three weeks, we run a second evaluation on the model."
"Then we decide whether to move it into internal review based on the outcome."
The phrasing was almost painfully standard.
The kind of wording you only learned inside a system like this.
She wasn't giving Wang Fan another opening to press the "newbie" angle.
She reframed it as schedule, checkpoints, process integrity.
If anyone objected then—
they'd be objecting to her.
And to the project logic.
And to the integrity of the responsibility chain.
Wang Fan looked at her, the cold in her gaze tightening.
But she didn't answer immediately.
For a moment, the room felt tighter than it had at any earlier peak.
Because this was the first time someone had gone against her—
not emotionally.
Institutionally.
If Wang Fan forced it back then, she'd be admitting:
I don't care about the process you're describing.
And that would put a crack in the "professional image" she'd built for years.
Cracks were what she couldn't stand.
She watched Wang Shanshan for a long time.
Longer than she watched me.
Like she was recalculating her from scratch.
"This project," she said at last, "you're sure you want to carry it?"
Her voice dropped slightly.
A warning, clean and explicit.
"If there was a problem with the model later, it won't just be on her."
"It'll be on you."
Wang Shanshan nodded.
Calm.
Crisp.
"Yes."
"I'll carry it."
Someone in the room sucked in a quiet breath.
Some out of respect.
Some because they thought she was out of her mind.
Wang Fan went silent for a few seconds.
Not weighing the project.
Weighing the cost—
of saying no.
In the end, she gave a small nod.
"Fine."
One word.
A temporary reprieve.
"Since you're willing to carry it."
"Three weeks."
She glanced at the time.
"After that, we look at the results again."
"If nothing's changed, I proceed with the original plan."
Her eyes stayed on Wang Shanshan.
"Don't say I didn't give you a chance."
Wang Shanshan nodded.
"I won't."
Wang Fan said nothing else.
She turned.
And left.
Her heels were distinct on the floor.
One step.
Another.
Tapping into distance.
The meeting room door closed.
The air loosened—just a little.
Someone muttered, "Wang Shanshan really went head-to-head today."
Someone else shook his head. "Was she crazy?"
Others looked at me, and their eyes had shifted.
From suspicion—
to something closer to reassessment.
Wang Shanshan walked toward me a few steps.
No pat on the shoulder.
No don't be afraid.
She only looked at me once.
Brief.
Then lowered her voice.
"You could hold on, right?"
Not comfort.
Confirmation.
Like she was asking a teammate:
Could you stay in the game?
I nodded.
My throat was dry.
"I had to," I said. "Even if I couldn't."
She watched me. The corner of her mouth twitched.
Not a smile.
More like restrained approval.
"Good."
Then she turned back and started gathering her things—
like nothing had happened.
But I knew.
After that day, in a lot of people's eyes, she'd earned a new label:
She backed me.
And I had a new position too.
Not just "the one Wang Fan was watching."
But—
the new hire someone was willing to take a calculated risk on.