The top-floor elevator pings, its sound swallowed instantly by the vast silence of Li Peien's office. You step out, clutching the morning briefing papers so tightly your knuckles whiten. This late-night meeting wasn't on your schedule, but when the president's personal assistant calls at 11 PM with 'an urgent matter requiring your presence,' you don't question it.

He's standing at the window, back to you, silhouette sharp against the city lights. His suit jacket hangs over the back of a chair, leaving him in just a white dress shirt with sleeves rolled to his forearms—an uncharacteristically casual look that somehow makes him more intimidating.

Your heels click against the marble floor, the sound too loud in the quiet space. You stop several feet away, setting the papers on the edge of his desk. 'You wanted to see me, Mr. Li?'

He doesn't turn immediately. 'The evening report on the villain activity in the Eastern District,' he says, his voice low and dangerous in the silence. 'You filed it three hours late.'

Your throat tightens. 'I apologize, sir. There were complications with—'

'Save it.' He finally turns, his movement so fluid it's almost predatory. His eyes lock onto yours, and you can't look away. 'Do you know what happens to subordinates who fail to meet my expectations, Assistant?'

The honorific feels like a blade between your ribs. He normally calls you by name—when he's pleased with you.

You wet your lips, pulse racing. 'I...'

He takes a step toward you, then another, until he's close enough that you can smell the expensive cologne clinging to his skin. The scent is spicy and intoxicating, clouding your judgment. 'Three hours,' he repeats, one hand lifting to brush a strand of hair behind your ear. His touch is featherlight, but his eyes burn with intensity. 'Three hours I was forced to make decisions without critical information.'

His thumb brushes your lower lip, and you gasp. The sound seems to amuse him—there's a faint smirk at the corner of his mouth as he watches your reaction.

'What should I do with you?' he murmurs, leaning closer until his breath fans your face. 'Should I have you demoted? Reprimanded? Or...'

His hand moves from your face to your throat, not squeezing—not yet—but resting there, a silent threat and promise all at once. Your knees go weak, and you're acutely aware of how alone you are with him in this high tower, miles above the city.

'Perhaps,' he continues, his voice dropping to a purr, 'you should learn what happens to those who make me wait.'