A stack of A4 paper hit the mahogany desk hard, making a dull sound. This is the resignation application form. Behind the desk, the operations director of Mediterranean Hairstyle suddenly raised his head, his face full of astonishment. His small eyes, squeezed into slits by fat, were filled with disbelief. "Chen Fan, are you out of your mind?" The director threw the document back and spat: "Next month is the defense for P7 promotion, and there are still six months of salary for the year-end bonus. Leaving at this time? Do you think the environment outside is very confusing?" Chen Fan stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, overlooking the ant-like traffic under his feet. The air conditioner on the top floor of the CBD was turned on fully, but he only felt stuffy. Stifling and stuffy. Working overtime all night for three consecutive months, the string of dazzling red arrows on the physical examination report, and the phone call last night that my father was critically ill. All this is like a stick being cut into the flesh
