Chapter 15
The bookstore owner secured a long-term order from a client in the building across the street.
I volunteered to make the deliveries.
It gave me the rare chance to see him—from a distance.
Qin Jinnan.
He always wore black.Every thread of him was cloaked in it.Only the faint white of his shirt collar ever broke through, barely.
He walked fast, like he couldn't wait to leave everything behind.Behind him, a trail of subordinates, all in muted suits, moving in silent formation.
He was untouchable.A cold force, untouched by time or warmth.
Not even a flicker of that night's vulnerability lingered.
Sometimes, when passing through the office floor, I'd catch the whispers in the pantry.
They called his office terrifying.Said it was a shrine of black and grey—lifeless, joyless, like him.
No plants.No paintings.Not even a single flower.
Everyone in the company knew his wife had died young.They didn't talk about her much.But her presence lingered—in the way his son showed up at odd hours, in the ring that never left his finger.
They said maybe… maybe he was still keeping a vigil for her.Maybe his ascetic life was his way of mourning.
I walked past the glittering crowd, my arms full of books.
And for a fleeting moment, I wondered—
Was agreeing to raid Qin Jinnan a mistake?