Why?
Why the hell should I accept this?
A surge of anger flared up from Chi Zhan’s chest, almost instinctively propelling him to march straight up to Zhou Yanxing and demand an explanation.
But he forced himself to cool down.
Once Zhou Yanxing made up his mind, there was no changing it. He was the kind of man who said one thing and meant it—unyielding and absolute.
No amount of fury could reverse the decision. Rather than stew in frustration, it was better to seize the initiative.
In the darkness, a voice suddenly sounded behind him, completely without warning.
“You’re resigning?”
Startled, Chi Zhan’s hands shook, and the string of garbled characters he’d been typing shattered the rising momentum of his rage like a splash of cold water.
Click—the study light turned on.
The robot vacuum sat silently in the corner, fully charged and roaming around like it owned the place.
“I’m not a qualified support NPC,” Chi Zhan said flatly. “Staying by Zhou Yanxing’s side doesn’t create value. Instead of being reported and eliminated, I’d rather quit on my own terms—leave with a little dignity.”
The system’s voice came curiously: “Is it because Zhou Yanxing is unbearable?”
…Why did that sound so off?
“It’s my fault.”
Regardless of how he felt, it was best to be polite with the system.
Not that the system understood “polite.” It only took his words at face value.
“Zhou Yanxing won’t fire you. To him, you’re special.”
Chi Zhan let out a soft laugh.
“Thanks for the consolation, but I know my worth. You should probably find someone else to help you.”
Then it occurred to him—though the apartment wasn’t his and he’d moved in with nothing but a suitcase, the robot vacuum was something he bought. Could he pack it up and take it with him?
Still, having to lug a system around with him was pressure enough.
The system went quiet for a moment before speaking again.
“Zhou Yanxing’s favorability toward you is currently fifty-five.”
“Only fifty-five? That’s just…how it is.”
Chi Zhan suddenly froze, incredulous.
“What? Say that again?”
The system remained silent.
Chi Zhan was extremely familiar with the favorability system—he had access to Zhou Yanxing’s favorability panel for everyone else. Once someone crossed a certain threshold, it would trigger his supportive NPC behavior.
Favorability 0–20: strangers.
Most players never even got past that.
Favorability 20–30: acquaintances—not close, but at least recognized.
So far, only one player had breached that threshold: Su Ran. He’d managed to level up from “complete stranger” to “barely known acquaintance.”
That was already considered major progress.
Favorability 30–40: familiar strangers.
Favorability 40–50: mild fondness.
Favorability 50–60…
Zhou Yanxing actually saw him as a friend?
No way in hell.
What kind of friend stabs you in the back like that? Wait, no—what kind of lunatic thinks of their boss as a friend? That’s just fucked up!
“Are your numbers even accurate?” Chi Zhan asked, suspicious. “Who’s the NPC ranked second in favorability?”
“Conducting data scan…” The system’s eyes began to flicker, and then it spat out the names one by one. “Currently ranked second: Xiao Jia, Xiao Wang, Xiao Zhang, Xiao—”
“Why are there so many?”
Chi Zhan was stunned. How could Zhou Yanxing have space in his heart for this many people?
The system went on for over ten minutes. By the time it finished, Chi Zhan was half-asleep. Finally, it added:
“…The above rankings are in no particular order. All favorability scores are zero.”
“……”
Figures. Hundreds of employees in this company, all just disposable tools. That’s exactly the kind of setup Zhou Yanxing would have.
The system continued in its cutesy voice: “…So, only you can help him. If the company had to downsize and only one person could stay, it would still be you.”
Chi Zhan fell silent.
“And if you successfully raise Zhou Yanxing’s favorability with the player to maximum,” the system added, “you’ll be granted one wish.”
“What if I wanted to become a free NPC? I mean, not having to assist anymore, not having to worry about being sent back to the factory for reprogramming… just living a quiet, ordinary life.”
“That’s all possible. Any request within the system’s capabilities—if you complete the task, it can all be granted.”
Chi Zhan took a deep breath.
“I’ll think about it.”
If he really held a place in Zhou Yanxing’s heart, maybe that meant Zhou wasn’t as dissatisfied as he appeared.
Maybe hiring a new secretary had all been a misunderstanding.
Zhou Yanxing might have a sharp tongue, but at least he handled things aboveboard. He wouldn’t stab you in the back.
That night, Chi Zhan typed out several drafts on his phone, deleting and rewriting them over and over—yet in the end, he sent nothing.
It was better to ask face-to-face.
Just then, a message popped up on his phone—from Zhou Yanxing.
Chi Zhan’s heart sank. He hesitated, almost afraid to look.
But he opened it anyway.
[Secretary Chi, reduce the sugar in my coffee tomorrow by half a spoon.]
“……”
Expressionless, he replied with a single [1.]
***
The next morning, Chi Zhan examined himself in the mirror. Even after staying up all night, his youthful complexion helped him hold up decently.
He fixed his hair, gave himself a silent pep talk, and stepped into the office—only to be greeted by every pair of eyes turning his way.
That familiar yet subtle shift in atmosphere.
Like dominoes falling, every person he passed would lower their head, avoiding eye contact. The whole office felt cold and hollow. Except for one spot.
The HR recruitment area was bustling. Outside the interview room sat a row of neatly dressed candidates in shirts and slacks.
The company wasn’t supposed to be hiring—aside from what Xiao Jia mentioned yesterday: a new position perfectly mirroring Chi Zhan’s pay and responsibilities.
Right now, Chi Zhan wanted only one thing: To finish writing the resignation letter he hadn’t completed yesterday, slam it into Zhou Yanxing’s infuriatingly handsome face, and tell him—
- Fucking. QUIT.
