After Returning to the Village to Farm, My Rival Carried Me Back to His Den

At three in the morning, the lights on the 48th floor of a CBD office tower glowed like a stubborn nail driven deep into the city’s pitch-black night.

Lin Wan sat at her desk, bloodshot eyes fixed on the screen as her fingers kept mechanically tapping the keyboard. The PowerPoint had reached slide 137, and she couldn’t remember how long she’d been working nonstop.

Seventy-two hours?

Or longer?

Time had long since lost all meaning to her. Only two axes spun wildly in her mind: “progress bar” and “deadline.”

The dense data on the screen began to double and drift, like a swarm of drunk ants dancing.

She gulped down an iced Americano, cold enough to freeze her soul. But the moment she set the cup back on the desk, a sharp, crushing pain seized her chest, as if someone had slammed a hammer into her heart from the inside.

The next second, the world tilted.

Her forehead struck the conference table with a heavy thud. The coffee cup shattered, glass flying as brown liquid slowly spread along the edge of the documents, like a silent obituary.

Before her consciousness faded, one last thought crossed her mind: If this damn PowerPoint could generate itself, I’d be sunbathing in the Maldives right now.