Against the Algorithm

Chapter 22: How It Begins

"I don't take it back."

Sicheng's smirk twitched.

Barely.

But she saw it. Saw the flicker of something dangerous in his gaze, saw the way his amusement darkened with interest, saw the exact moment her words registered—and pleased him. She exhaled sharply, her cheeks blazing, her heart racing, her entire body humming with the intensity of what she had just done—but she wasn't done yet.

Not this time.

Because this time?

She was going to land the final blow. "You are an ass!" she snapped, cheeks still flushed, voice still trembling but resolute, eyes locked on his like she was daring him to say something back, daring him to push her just one step further. And then—before he could open his mouth, before he could raise a brow, before he could drawl out one of those slow, smug, devastating lines that would have her hiding under the couch—

She bolted.

Darted out the door like her life depended on it.

Slid it shut with a sharp slam behind her.

And escaped.

Leaving behind a stunned silence, a flicker of displaced tension, and one very entertained, very amused, very thoroughly impressed Lu Sicheng who didn't even bother trying to chase after her, didn't call her name, didn't say a word. He just leaned back slowly in his chair, let out a breath that was equal parts humor and victory, and stared at the closed door with the kind of smirk that only deepened with each passing second.

Because now?

Now, his Xiǎo Tùzǐ was finally learning how to fight back and he had never been more entertained.

The sound of the door slamming shut behind her echoed down the hallway like a final, closing statement—sharp, definitive, and entirely too loud—and yet the pounding of her heart still managed to drown it out, thudding wildly in her chest as she moved, her steps fast and purposeful, fueled less by dignity and more by the desperate need to put as much physical distance between herself and that infuriating man as humanly possible before she completely lost control of whatever was left of her composure.

Her breath came quick and uneven, her fingers still clutching the fabric of his hoodie as though it could somehow act as armor, as though it could shield her from the memory of the last few minutes, as if the feel of it pressed against her skin might keep her grounded while her thoughts spun like a carousel that refused to slow down. Because she had done it. She had actually done it.

She had turned around.

Looked him in the eye.

Called him an ass—to his face.

Twice.

And then she had run.

Bolted out of that office like a flustered, outmatched idiot who had used up every last ounce of courage she possessed and hadn't trusted herself to survive whatever smug, devastating thing he would have inevitably said in return. Because she knew he would've said something—something infuriating, something clever, something that would have left her melting into the floor in total emotional ruin—and so she had fled, slammed the door, and fled like the barely functional, wholly embarrassed disaster she was. And of course she had slammed the door. Because what else would she do? Because nothing about this day—nothing—had even flirted with the idea of dignity. Because being in the same room as Lu Sicheng for more than five minutes at a time now seemed to guarantee her complete psychological collapse.