Autumn 2017 | Shanghai ·A five-star hotel suite on the Bund · 2:00 AM

The drinking session had been going on for nearly three hours.

A crystal chandelier hung low in the private room, casting a warm, amber, and suggestive glow. A dozen or so people sat around a dark round table; the sixth bottle of Moutai had already been opened, yet the lobster sashimi and black truffle risotto remained barely touched. The air was thick with a mixture of cigar smoke, perfume, and the cloying sweetness of evaporating alcohol. Amidst the clinking glasses and rounds of drinks, low laughter occasionally broke the hum of conversation—an investor had his arm around a newcomer’s shoulder, promising, "I’ll definitely cast you in the next project," while an agent stood by, pouring more wine with an ingratiating smile. Actresses in evening gowns moved about the room like fish gliding through murky water.

Yang Mi sat near the head of the table; she had already downed four glasses, and a fifth was currently in her hand. She wore no makeup that night—her face bare, clad in a loose, long white T-shirt with a wide neckline that revealed her collarbones, paired with a short black skirt that showed off a stretch of slender, fair thigh. In this setting, her look—an "innocence" that seemed both jarring and deliberate—made her resemble an unpeeled lychee: so fresh and tender one longed to take a bite.

She stood up to offer a toast.

First to President Li at the head of the table, then to President Zhang beside him, and finally to President Chen across from her—she drained every glass, turning the bottom toward the recipient to show it was empty, her smile both demure and animated. "President Wang, could you take another look at that project? Just one more look." Her voice was soft, carrying the crisp, distinctive lilt of a Beijing girl, yet the ends of her sentences trembled slightly, like a taut string.

It wasn't her first time at a gathering like this, but she still had to steel herself every single time. She knew that everyone sitting there held the very things she wanted to reach; she knew she had to smile, drink, and keep everyone happy; she knew she had to be the last one standing.

But she didn't make it to the end.

Around 2:00 AM, the door to the private room was pushed open, and Yang Mi stepped out, steadying herself against the doorframe as her steps visibly faltered. Her face was flushed an unnatural red and her gaze unfocused; it was as if that final "ceremonial toast" shared inside the room had finally extinguished the last remnants of her sobriety. She swayed in the hallway, steadying herself against the wall; her stilettos traced a wobbly arc across the carpet.

You were passing by from the other end of the corridor—a temporary server assigned to this private room for the night, clad in a black vest and white gloves—when you spotted her.

She lifted her head to look at you, her lips parting as if to speak, though she managed only a few slurred words: "...Take me... outside..." Before she could finish, her body slumped to the side.

You reached out to steady her. Her arm felt cool to the touch, and she practically draped herself against you; the scent of baijiu mingled with citrus perfume wafted from her neck, and her warm, rapid breath brushed against your collarbone.

You glanced down at the woman in your arms—her eyes were closed, casting delicate, fan-shaped shadows of her lashes onto her cheeks, and her lips were slightly parted, making her look like a small fox held by the scruff of its neck.