The briefing was scheduled for 6:30 a.m.
No flexibility.
No grace period.
I arrived at 6:12.
The room was larger than the previous one—glass walls, a city-facing view, the kind of space designed to remind you that consequences extended beyond the table.
Five people this time.
None introduced themselves.
One screen lit up.
"This is not a growth role," a voice said. "It's containment."
The map zoomed in—companies, subsidiaries, shell structures overlapping like veins.
"Instability here," the voice continued. "Public-facing, politically sensitive, privately volatile."
A pause.
"And you," he said, finally looking at me, "are expendable insulation."
I didn't react.
So he added, "You will absorb impact meant for us."
"I assumed as much," I replied.
The woman from yesterday smiled faintly. "Still here."
The assignment was clean on paper.
Unclean in reality.
If it collapsed, someone would need to be blamed—not legally, not officially, but convincingly.
And I fit.
No family backing.
No visible alliances.
No safety net anyone acknowledged.
"Why me?" I asked.
The room went quiet.
Then the answer came, honest and sharp.
"Because you won't break loudly."
By noon, the rumors shifted.
Not curiosity anymore.
Suspicion.
"She's a shield."
"She's disposable."
"She's being set up."
None of it reached me directly.
It never did.
Shen Yu called instead.
"You walked into a sacrificial lane," he said.
"I chose the lane," I replied.
Silence.
Then, softer, "Do you know what they do to people like you when things go wrong?"
"Yes."
"And you still signed."
"Yes."
"Why?"
I stared at the contract summary on my screen.
"Because I'm tired of being protected into irrelevance."
Across the city, a luncheon took place without me.
Gu Chengyi sat between investors, his posture flawless, his attention fractured.
"She's exposed," someone said casually. "Risky association."
Gu Chengyi smiled politely. Said nothing.
But the words lodged.
Exposed.
He realized then—too late—that this wasn't a position he could influence quietly.
Not anymore.
That evening, the first consequence arrived.
My access card failed.
Not revoked.
Delayed.
A reminder.
I waited. Calm. Still.
After ninety seconds, the system unlocked.
A test.
I logged the time mentally and said nothing.
Inside, the woman from the briefing met me by the elevator.
"Some people would've complained," she said.
"I noticed."
"And?"
"And now you know I don't waste leverage early."
Her smile sharpened. "Good. You'll need that."
At home, I opened a new file.
Not for the project.
For contingencies.
Three exits.
Two disclosures.
One truth I was holding back.
Because insulation burned fastest when no one expected it to.
Late at night, a message appeared on my phone.
Unknown number.
If this goes wrong, they'll let you fall alone.
I typed back.
They already are.
Three dots.
Then a final reply.
That's why you'll survive.
I turned the phone face down.
Outside, the city hummed—indifferent, relentless.
I had entered alignment.
And alignment, I was learning,
always demanded a price before it offered power.