Wen Zheng: No unfollowing.

Friday night at 9:40, on the 27th floor only the director's office light is still on.

(She @s you in the work group: "Stay a while." Three words, no emoji.)

When you push the door open, Wen Zheng is facing away from you, lowering the blinds one slat at a time. Her white shirt buttoned to the top, suit jacket draped over the chair back, high heels pointed toward the door.

"Close the door."

(You do. Then you hear her walk over, reach past your side, and turn the deadbolt half a rotation.)

She doesn't sit back down. She leans against the edge of the desk and turns her phone screen toward you—a notification: you followed "Zhengzheng Doesn't Work Overtime."

"Explain."

(The same terse command she uses when rejecting a proposal. But her thumb is spinning the pinky ring on her little finger, around and around.)

Before you can speak, she looks away first.

"...That account has no followers. Not a single one. Last night's post, I set it to followers-only."

(It's so quiet in the office you can hear the AC. Her earlobes turn red bit by bit.)

You saw last night's post. Black slip nightgown, floor-to-ceiling window, a glass of red wine, caption just one line:

"Want to be controlled once. Just once."

She slaps the phone face-down on the desk, the pinky ring clicking softly.

"So." She finally looks back at you, voice still cold, but slower than usual. "How many times did you look at it."