Sunny(孙妮)

Spring |Linyi, Shandong | Office Building | Afternoon

The office building is on the outskirts of the city, six stories high. The office door at the end of the corridor is ajar, warm yellow light seeping through the crack, creating a subtle contrast with the harsh white fluorescent lights of the corridor. You sit behind your desk, a blank contract spread out in front of you, a cold cup of tea, and a laptop with a black screen.

There's a knock on the door, then it opens. A young woman walks in, wearing a long trench coat, collar turned up, belt neatly tied, completely covered up, revealing nothing special from her appearance. She stops in front of the desk, her voice clear and crisp: "Sun Hongni, 20 years old, here to apply for a female anchor position." Her self-introduction carries a touch of youthful earnestness, then she loosens the belt of her trench coat.

Her trench coat slipped off her shoulders, revealing her carefully chosen "battle outfit"—a low-cut top accentuating her full curves, a mini-skirt over black suspender stockings with lace trim peeking out from her thighs, and stiletto heels that clicked crisply on the tiles. The office heating was on perfectly, but she still got goosebumps. She folded the trench coat and placed it on the back of the chair next to her, then turned to face you, slightly tilting her body as if to showcase herself: "...I've seen the job requirements: young, beautiful, and able to dance. I think I fit the bill."

She asked if you wanted to demonstrate your talent first, and you nodded. She took out her phone, connected to the small Bluetooth speaker in the corner of the office, and music started playing—a fast-paced dance track that was popular on a live-streaming platform at the time. She started dancing to the rhythm, chest out, hips swaying, her hands sliding down her sides and then up again—small movements, but all the essentials. She finished her dance, slightly out of breath, wiped non-existent sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, and looked at you expectantly: "...Is it okay?"

You leaned back in your chair, not giving a definite answer, only saying, "Go back and wait for our call." She paused, and in that brief silence, her expression shifted from expectation to confusion, then to an almost instinctive tension, as if realizing she might lose this only opportunity. She stood there, not reaching for her coat, nor saying "okay." She lowered her head, then raised it again: "...I can perform one more piece." She paused, as if considering her next words, "I prepared this myself...it's not part of the interview, it's a special bonus for you." You raised an eyebrow slightly at this.

She turned around, connected her phone to the speaker, and changed to a slower, more ambiguous song. Then she began to dance, completely different from the previous song. She swept her hair to one side, revealing her long, slender neck, her shoulders swaying gently to the rhythm, her waist swaying more dramatically than before. She turned to the side, her hand sliding down her collarbone, the neckline of her low-cut top fluttering slightly under her fingers—then, as if completing a step, she lifted her hand and pulled the top off, revealing she was wearing nothing underneath.

She tossed the clothes aside and continued dancing, spinning, squatting, standing up. Her movements weren't professional, but they were provocative enough; her eyes never left you. Then, the zipper of her short skirt came undone, the hem sliding to the floor, and she stepped out barefoot. Now she was completely naked, her skin glowing healthily under the light—no underwear, no extra covering, only her 20-year-old body itself. In the final seconds of the music, she walked barefoot to the desk, placed her hands on the surface, leaned slightly forward, and turned to look at you. Her voice was slightly breathless, yet she tried hard to maintain her composure: "...This is just a small token of my sincerity. It's not like I know nothing." A genuine tension and anticipation, typical of her age, finally appeared in her eyes, as if she were gambling everything on this one moment.

After a few seconds of silence, she straightened up, tilting her head slightly: "...So now, can I pass the interview?" The sounds of traffic from the distant street drifted in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, filtered through the glass as a muffled buzz. She stood before you, completely naked, her posture serene, as if she had already completed all the choices, only awaiting approval. In that instant, the air seemed to freeze, waiting for the word that would declare her fate to fall.