Black ink crawled across the tabletop like a living thing, snaking over sketches and swallowing the neat lines of a designer at the next station. The ruined draft lay dark and unreadable under the stain.
The woman at that table frowned and glanced toward Wen Yin, then fixed her gaze on Shen Ziying. "What happened?"
Shen Ziying's eyes flickered with uncertainty. Wen Yin's presence felt like a cool blade—calm but fierce—and for a moment Shen couldn't meet it. She fumbled for a diversion.
"Um... I didn't mean to knock it over," she stammered, about to pin the blame on Wen, but the faint, knowing smile on Wen Yin's face stopped her. It made her remember Wen's earlier words and the one small leverage Wen had over her.
Wen's voice carried a chill. She still held the clue to Shen's misstep in the back of her mind. Shen swallowed and reluctantly admitted it.
She lifted her face, eyes brimming with contrived tears, and forced out a plaintive, "Sorry—I'm really sorry, sister."
The other designer waved it off after a moment, seeing the show's sincerity. "Be more careful next time. There are a lot of original pieces here. You can't afford to lose them."
Shen nodded quickly, her earlier bravado gone. Despite being the favored daughter of the Shen family, this internship was hard-won by her father. If she messed it up—if she gave them reason—she couldn't imagine the fallout. She'd only gotten into this circle by clinging to the right connections.
She sighed inwardly and turned toward Wen, putting on a different face. "Wen Yin, why don't we tidy this up together?"
The mess on the table made her hands itch to avoid touch; better to have Wen—the provincial girl she thought of as uncultured—do the cleaning for her. She could help a little and craft an image of being industrious to the seniors.
Wen Yin looked up slowly from her own page, lifting a pale eyelid with a small, almost-smiling curl at the corner of her mouth that didn't reach her eyes. "So you want me to clean up your mess?"
There was no heat in her voice, only a clean, cold undercurrent. "Do you think I'm a scapegoat for other people's mistakes?"
A prickly little chill ran down Shen's spine at the barely-veiled smile. She retorted, thinly, "What's wrong with that? I'm only asking for a small favor. Aren't we supposed to help one another? Would you really leave me to clean this alone?"
She puckered her lips and went on with a whining, coquettish tone. Wen didn't move. She folded the draft closed and looked at Shen with unembarrassed frankness.
"I can bear it," she said. "I can even be cruel enough to refuse your guilt trip."
She glanced at the watch on her wrist as if checking the time, then added flatly, "And—because of you—the schedule for both pieces we're responsible for has been set back. I'll be moving to another desk. And if you're not careful, that special ink will soak into the tabletop."
With that she rose and left without giving Shen another look.
Shen stamped her foot in private fury, then begrudgingly grabbed a stack of tissues and began to dab at the blackened paper. Damn Wen Yin. If she didn't want to help, fine. But "moral blackmail"? The word stung.
Their little scene had drawn attention. The studio worked in groups; people were close enough to overhear and interested enough to whisper. A few recognized them and began to speculate.
"Wasn't that Shen Ziying and Wen Yin? Weren't they hired together last week? They looked close at first—what happened?"
"Wen Yin won top at the last show. Ever since she got that little honor, she's been distancing herself from everyone."
"She seems so cold in person. She's nothing like on stream."
"Maybe she's pulling a diva act."
Shen heard the murmurs and tilted her lips into an insultingly calm smile. If others wanted to talk, let them. She forced herself to ignore them and moved to Wen's desk after she finished tidying.
"Do you need any help?" she asked, sliding into the chair beside Wen Yin and watching the other woman's hand work the pen across the page.
Wen's expression was indifferent; she didn't pause. "No. But the team leader asked for the two of us to finish this. You can add your ideas."
Shen's eyes widened a fraction as she watched Wen refine the sketch. She'd noticed Wen's talent back at the last show—there had been something singular about her work—but seeing the draft take shape so quickly, so cleanly, was almost shocking. How could someone from the countryside have such an instinct for composition? And yet she did.
Jealousy burned under Shen's ribs. She could not—would not—be outshone by Wen, not when she'd spent her life being propped up by tutors and pedigree. She remembered the necklace Wen had torn earlier and felt it as a slap across her face.
"Let me see," she said before Wen had quite finished. She grabbed the paper and began to scribble, changing lines, adjusting proportions. When Wen moved to look, Shen slid in front of the page and hid it.
"You watching me makes me lose my flow," Shen pouted, shoving Wen aside without much ceremony. "Go get to know the fabrics."
Wen paused only a second, then stepped aside, trusting that Shen wouldn't do something truly destructive. She walked over to examine swatches, letting ideas form in her head as she worked them out in her mind.
By evening, Shen handed her amended draft to the team leader. Wen was busy selecting fabrics and mentally sketching variations—an exercise in concentration that made her seem like someone who'd stepped out of a painting: composed, precise fingers stained faintly with graphite.
A colleague tapped Wen on the shoulder and nodded toward the team leader's office. "The leader wants you and Shen Ziying in there."
Wen's face registered nothing but professional curiosity. She thanked the colleague and headed out. Before she reached the door, a woman's voice rose from inside, high and sweet but edged with impatience.
"Where's Wen Yin? Why isn't she here yet?"
Then Shen's voice, thin and saccharine, floated through the doorway. "Team leader, I—I'm not sure. I called for Wen, but she still hasn't showed."
"Does Wen Yin not want to work?"
The team leader's patience snapped. Paper slapped against the desk with a loud, furious clap.