The Shadow Man in the Office

金狐谷（心理探索）

By Golden Foxvalley

——"You're blessed to be reading me!"

…… Knowing there's a ghost, but not knowing which one it is. Truly helpless.

Part One: The Shadow Appears

The window at the end of the corridor was open, and the wind blew the smell of aged paper and disinfectant in and out. Zhou Mingyuan came out of the director's office, clutching a document he had just revised. He looked down as he walked and nearly bumped into someone—Sun Bo was walking close to the wall, his steps as light as a cat's. He was short and plump, leaning slightly forward as he walked, like a ball rolling close to the ground. His stubble was shaved blue-black, his chin gleaming with a grayish sheen, but the top of his head was sparse, a few fine soft hairs barely covering his scalp, revealing a pinkish-white base when the wind blew. Most striking were those triangular eyes—single-lidded, with loose, drooping eyelids, yet the eyeballs were unusually bright, like two black beans embedded in flesh. His eyebrows were odd too: thick and rising at the inner corners, but sparse and drooping at the outer ends, like two small inverted brooms. Seeing Zhou, his triangular eyes narrowed and his mouth curved up first.

"Brother Zhou, working late again? Hard work, hard work." Sun Bo's voice was very low. "Your director was just talking about you, saying your writing is good, high quality."

Zhou Mingyuan nodded politely. He knew Sun Bo's words couldn't be taken seriously—that was just an opener. Sure enough, Sun Bo leaned half a step closer, his voice dropping another notch: "But—I just heard Xiao Li from the neighboring department in the water room say that your proposal wasn't fully understood by the leadership. You know how Xiao Li is—can't keep his mouth shut. I'm just anxious for you."

Zhou Mingyuan smiled. "Thanks for the reminder, Sun Bo." He turned and left. Behind him, Sun Bo's gaze clung to his back like wet cotton thread—impossible to shake off.

But after a few steps, Zhou Mingyuan's heart suddenly skipped. That smile just now—was it too cold? Sun Bo had meant well, and he hadn't even offered a warm word in return. He thought of Sun Bo's drooping single-lidded eyes and felt a trace of unease: Had I hurt him?

But then another thought surfaced: Was this person really being kind? Those "I heard" remarks, those "I'm anxious for you"—hadn't each one left him feeling blocked up for days? He hated Sun Bo, hated that plump face, hated those triangular eyes, hated that phrase "you'd better weigh it yourself." But he had to admit—in this office, apart from Sun Bo, no one would tell him these things. The director wouldn't say it, colleagues wouldn't say it. Only Sun Bo, like a cat walking close to the wall, would carry the wind from outside back to him bit by bit. He hated this cat, but he couldn't do without this cat. He couldn't tell whether Sun Bo was a good person or a bad person, or even whether he wanted to avoid him or wait for him.

Sun Bo had joined the year before last—a graduate of a third-rate university, said to have studied public administration, though no one knew what he had actually learned. His written exam scores were average, but his interview was surprisingly good, reportedly due to "strong expressive ability." After joining, he was assigned to the office, responsible for information reporting, meeting minutes, and organizing leadership speeches. No one in the office said it openly, but privately everyone knew: Sun Bo's uncle was in the province—the exact position varied according to different accounts, some said the Provincial Party Committee General Office, some said the Provincial Department of Human Resources and Social Security. Anyway, "he has someone above." This background was like a transparent suit of armor—invisible and intangible, but everyone could feel it.

Behind his back, people in the office called him the "Shadow Man." His steps made no sound, he spoke in half-sentences, his gaze drifted, and he always appeared when you weren't paying attention—at corridor corners, the water room door, the washbasin by the restroom. Those single-lidded triangular eyes usually drooped as if half-asleep, but once they fixed on someone, they shone with an eerie brightness. He did no business, wrote no documents, took no responsibility, yet he controlled more information than anyone. Director Zhang's expression had been off when talking to Director Li in the corridor last week; Section Chief Wang sat alone in a corner of the cafeteria; Director Liu's daughter didn't do well on the college entrance exam—once these bits of information passed through his mouth, they became meaningful hints.

That afternoon, Zhou Mingyuan went to the provincial committee to deliver documents and took a shortcut back through the rear courtyard path. In the distance, he saw Sun Bo standing with a certain department head under a large plane tree. Sun Bo was slightly sideways, his plump body on tiptoe, one hand on the department head's shoulder, leaning very close, his mouth almost against the man's ear. The few sparse hairs on his head gleamed with oil in the sunlight, and the two drooping eyebrow tails hung even lower, like two inverted brooms trembling in the wind. The department head, usually stern, was actually nodding slightly, a rare smile at the corner of his mouth. Sun Bo said something, and the department head patted his back, and the two laughed together. The laughter wasn't loud, but it pierced Zhou Mingyuan's ears like a needle.

Zhou Mingyuan stopped and hid behind an old van. He saw Sun Bo pat the department head's shoulder again, as intimate as old friends reunited. After the department head walked away, Sun Bo took out his phone and made a call, the smile still on his face. Zhou Mingyuan couldn't hear what was said, but he knew this scene contained too much—those "I heard," "it's all true," "you'd better weigh it yourself" probably grew from repeated shoulder-pats like this.

But at the same time, another thought surfaced: If not for Sun Bo, he wouldn't even know who the department head was patting on the shoulder. He hated this scene, but he needed this scene.

Part Two: The First Hunt

"What I'm telling you is all true—you'd better weigh it yourself." This was Sun Bo's catchphrase. When he said it, his triangular eyes narrowed into a slit, his lips surrounded by stubble pressed together earnestly, his thick inner eyebrows slightly raised, his outer eyebrow tails drooping low, like a junior seeking advice from a senior. But the words "weigh it yourself" were like a fine needle piercing your heart, making you involuntarily wonder: Have I done something wrong? Does the leadership have a problem with me? Just now when I passed the director's office, did he glance at me?

Zhou Mingyuan was the backbone of his department—in his early thirties, a master's graduate from a prestigious university, his documents clean and sharp, his work methodical. The director valued him, colleagues respected him. But precisely because of this, he became a key target of the Shadow Man.

The first incident was the department's recommendation for the annual advanced individual award. Zhou Mingyuan had the most votes, and the director said at the meeting, "Xiao Zhou has indeed done well this year." But the next day, Sun Bo appeared at his office door, holding a teacup, his plump body leaning against the doorframe, almost blocking half the doorway: "Brother Zhou, don't blame me for not warning you. I heard Director Zhao in the bathhouse yesterday saying your document was too flashy, not solid. You know how Director Zhao is—speaks bluntly, but means well."

Zhou Mingyuan was stunned. Director Zhao was from the neighboring department and had no direct work relationship with him—how could he be evaluating his document? But he still said politely, "Thanks, Sun Bo. I'll take note."

Sun Bo didn't leave. He leaned half a step closer: "Also, I heard that for this advanced individual award, the leadership originally wanted to give it to Old Chen. Old Chen has worked in the office for twenty years—no credit but plenty of hard work. You're so young and competing for this—some people aren't happy. What I'm telling you is all true—you'd better weigh it yourself." The few sparse hairs on his head fluttered as he moved, revealing his shiny scalp.

Zhou Mingyuan said nothing more. He looked down at his document but couldn't read a single word. Sun Bo's words might not be true, but like ink dropped into clear water, they spread imperceptibly. He began to notice the director's expressions, colleagues' glances, who sat next to whom at every meeting.

But at night, lying in bed, he found himself thinking about something else—when Sun Bo left today, he hadn't even looked up. That plump figure leaning against the doorframe, saying so many "truths," and he hadn't given him a proper look. Had he been too disrespectful? Would Sun Bo feel slighted? Once this thought emerged, it couldn't be suppressed. The more he thought, the more he felt he might have really hurt Sun Bo—the man had meant well, and he had been cold. He turned over, a wave of grievance rising in his heart: What's wrong with me? I'm not usually like this. How could I be so cold to Sun Bo?

But when daylight came, he felt differently. Was Sun Bo's face pitiable? When those triangular eyes narrowed, didn't they glint with an indescribable light? Those "I heard" remarks, those "I'm anxious for you"—hadn't each one kept him awake at night? He hated Sun Bo, hated him to the root of his teeth. But he had to admit—without Sun Bo, he wouldn't even know what Director Zhao had said in the bathhouse. He hated this person, but he could only hear the outside world from this person's mouth. He was like a man trapped in a room, and Sun Bo was the only window that let in air—but the air from this window was all cold wind.

The second time was a training opportunity in the province. Zhou Mingyuan wanted to go, and the director was inclined to let him. But within two days of the news spreading, Sun Bo "happened to meet" him at the water room again.

"Brother Zhou, don't be too eager about that training." Sun Bo poured hot water into a thermos, steam rising, his round face framed by stubble blurred in the mist. "I heard it's for reserve cadres—not suitable for you. Besides, Xiao Liu from your department wants to go too. His uncle is in the province, you know? What I'm telling you is all true—you'd better weigh it yourself."

Zhou Mingyuan couldn't help himself: "Sun Bo, who did you hear that from?"

Sun Bo was startled, then laughed, his stubble shaking: "Would I harm you? I'm doing this for your own good. If you don't believe me, forget it." He picked up the thermos and left, his plump figure light as a falling leaf.

Zhou Mingyuan stood there, his heart in turmoil. He knew Xiao Liu's uncle was indeed in the province, but he also knew Xiao Liu hadn't even signed up. Yet Sun Bo's words were like seeds—once planted in his heart, they sprouted. Was the director actually unwilling to let him go? Had someone pulled strings behind the scenes? He went to ask the director, who said, "Nothing of the sort. You prepare." But the knot in his heart had already formed.

What unsettled him more was—had his tone when he said "who did you hear that from" been too harsh? Sun Bo's startled round face spun in his mind all night. He felt like an ungrateful person, treating someone's concern as scheming. He sat in his chair, hands holding his head, an indescribable grievance rising in his heart—what did I do wrong? Why was I so rude to Sun Bo? He meant well—how could I not control my mouth? The more he thought, the worse he felt, and his eyes stung.

But after the bitterness came irritation. Why should he be polite to Sun Bo? What was Sun Bo? A third-rate university graduate who got in through his uncle's connections, did no business, wrote no documents, wandered the corridors all day, treated other people's private matters as gossip, and turned office rumors into a business. He hated this person, hated him so much that seeing that plump face made him nauseous. But he had to admit—he needed this person. He needed Sun Bo to tell him what Director Zhao had said, to tell him who the department head had patted on the shoulder, to tell him who had whispered behind his back. He was like a blind man, and Sun Bo was his only cane—but this cane was covered in thorns. He hated this cane, but he didn't dare throw it away.

Part Three: The Year-End Meeting

The real climax was the year-end summary meeting.

The conference room was full. On the main podium sat a certain department head. Halfway through the meeting, the department head suddenly changed tack: "Some comrades write beautiful documents but don't work solidly. Don't think the leadership can't see. I'm going to name and criticize here—Comrade Zhou Mingyuan, your special report had discrepancies in the data. Explain yourself."

The room went silent. Zhou Mingyuan was stunned. He had checked that report three times, and the data had been reviewed by the director. He stood up wanting to say "the data was reviewed," but the department head didn't give him a chance: "Sit down. No explanations. I'm just reminding you today—young people shouldn't be arrogant."

Zhou Mingyuan sat down, all eyes piercing him like needles. He saw Sun Bo sitting in the last row, his triangular eyes slightly narrowed, a faint smile at the corner of his mouth, his eyebrow tails drooping even lower. He remembered the scene under the plane tree—Sun Bo on tiptoe patting the department head's shoulder—and suddenly understood. Those "I heard" remarks, those "it's all true," those "you'd better weigh it yourself"—they all grew from that shoulder-patting hand. And the reason that hand could reach the department head's shoulder was that behind it stood another hand—in the province.

But in that instant, another thought crept in like a snake: What if it wasn't Sun Bo? What if Sun Bo really was just being kind, and he had been cold to him all along, even treating him as a ghost in his heart? He remembered Sun Bo's earnest pressed lips when he spoke, that plump body leaning against the doorframe hesitating to speak, his own countless impatiences and coldness. He suddenly felt that he might be the one who had been disrespectful. This thought was more terrifying than being criticized—he couldn't tell who the ghost was, and he couldn't tell if he himself was hurting others. He didn't know how to defend himself, and he didn't know how to face himself. He lowered his head, his lips trembling slightly, an indescribable grievance rising in his heart: I haven't done anything wrong—how did it come to this? How can I not even manage to be kind to someone?

But grievance aside, he knew clearly—he couldn't do without Sun Bo. Without Sun Bo, he wouldn't even know who had harmed him. Sun Bo was a ghost, but this ghost was his only lamp. He hated this lamp, but he was afraid of the dark.

After the meeting, Zhou Mingyuan was stopped by Sun Bo in the corridor.

"Brother Zhou, don't take it to heart." Sun Bo's voice was full of concern, his plump body blocking the middle of the corridor. "The department head is just hot-tempered. He doesn't actually have a problem with you. I'll tell you—someone whispered in his ear, saying you're arrogant and look down on old comrades. I can't tell you who, but you'd better weigh it yourself. What I'm telling you is all true."

Zhou Mingyuan looked at Sun Bo and suddenly felt very tired. Every "chance encounter" this past half year, every "what I'm telling you is all true, you'd better weigh it yourself," every ambiguous, unverifiable "I heard." He finally understood—the Shadow Man didn't need to spread rumors. He only needed to take a true statement out of its original context, place it in another context, and give it a gentle push. The rest—suspicion, estrangement, opposition, taking sides—the people in the office would complete on their own. And supporting all of this was that invisible thread, its other end in the province.

But at the same time, he felt an indescribable dependence—without Sun Bo, he wouldn't even hear these "I heard" remarks. He hated Sun Bo, but he needed Sun Bo. He didn't know if Sun Bo was a good person or a bad person, and he didn't even know if he himself was a good person or a bad person.

Part Four: The Shadow Never Leaves

Zhou Mingyuan was not promoted. He was so dejected, yet he couldn't find the stumbling block before his eyes. Could the department head be so muddled that he couldn't see that jade with flaws is still jade? But that was a leader of high wisdom, someone he respected. The next year, the training quota went to Xiao Liu. Sun Bo met him in the cafeteria, sat down beside him with his bowl, his plump body squeezing the plastic stool with a creak: "Brother Zhou, don't lose heart. You didn't make it this time, but there's always next time. I'll tell you—someone spoke ill of you up there. I can't say who specifically. What I'm telling you is all true—you'd better weigh it yourself."

Zhou Mingyuan put down his chopsticks and looked at Sun Bo—that round face framed by stubble, those single-lidded triangular eyes, those strange eyebrows thick at the inner corners and drooping at the outer tails. Word by word, he said: "Sun Bo, you're a graduate of a third-rate university. You haven't done much serious scholarship, but you've mastered worldly wisdom to a doctoral level. Your uncle is in the province. You can pat the department head's shoulder, but you can't pat people's hearts. Every 'truth' you've told, I've weighed it."

Sun Bo was startled, then laughed—a laugh like a round Maitreya, his stubble trembling, his eyebrow tails drooping even lower, his single-lidded eyes narrowed into two slits, looking exceptionally simple and honest. He patted Zhou Mingyuan's shoulder, picked up his bowl, and left, his plump figure light as a ghost's shadow, disappearing into the noisy cafeteria crowd.

The window at the end of the corridor was still open. The wind blew in, stirring the slogan board on the wall that read "Seek Truth and Be Pragmatic." Zhou Mingyuan stood by the window, watching Sun Bo walk out of the office building below and get into a taxi. That indescribable guilt rose in his heart again—maybe Sun Bo really was just concerned about him, maybe those "truths" really were true, maybe he himself was the cold one. But then he thought: If that were really the case, why was he so tired? Why did every "concern" leave his heart feeling hollowed out?

He didn't know if he had hurt Sun Bo, and he didn't know if Sun Bo had hurt him. This "not knowing" was more terrifying than any certain harm. He leaned against the window, his lips moved as if to say something, but nothing came out. He felt extremely wronged, yet he didn't know where his grievance lay.

He only knew one thing: Tomorrow, Sun Bo would still appear at the corridor corner, still lean close to his ear, still say "I heard." And he would still stop to listen. He hated this person, but he couldn't do without this person. He couldn't tell if Sun Bo was a good person or a bad person, just as he couldn't tell if he himself, in this building, was a living person or a ghost's shadow.

The Shadow Man never absents himself. He just changes to another corner and continues doing his "truths." And that hand never withdraws.

September 28, 2026, in Altay