Puppet Master: Chapter 1

Cold Meets Chaos

[📘 Content Warning:
This story contains Boys’ Love (BL) themes. Reader discretion is advised]

In the heart of a glass-and-steel empire that touched the clouds,

Wang Yibo stood like he belonged to the building itself—polished, cold, sharp-edged, and quiet.

He didn’t need a name tag.

He didn’t need a voice.

Hell, he didn’t even need to try.

Wang Yibo walked like the entire world already belonged to him—and maybe it did.

Flawless skin, sharp cheekbones, and a face so perfectly sculpted that the staff often joked he must have been grown in a lab by fashion scientists.

But it isn’t just the looks.

It’s the way he walked.

Shoulders straight. Spine upright.

Hands either in his pockets or tucked behind his back.

He didn’t move fast.

He didn’t need to.

People moved around him.

Eyes never wandering.

Expression unreadable.

He isn’t the kind of man who turned heads.

He is the kind of man that made people forget to breathe.

He isn’t just the son of Wang Zheng—the founder of Wang Corps.

He is the silent power behind it now.

His father handled the boardroom.

Yibo handled the battlefield.

Every deal closed. Every hostile acquisition.

Every crisis flipped into an opportunity—that is Yibo.

Some call him a young genius.

Others whispered he was ruthless.

But all agreed on one thing:

“Don’t cross him. You won’t even see it coming.”

He never smiled.

Never joked.

Never complimented.

Never yelled either—but when he goes too quiet during meetings,

you know someone’s getting fired later.

People greeted him with straight backs and nervous voices.

He remembers names.

And mistakes.

And he won’t say anything.

He’ll just note it somewhere.

And you’ll feel it.

They called him a walking freeze alert.

And the rare few who worked directly under him?

They called him unreachable.

Until one morning… the silence he ruled so perfectly got its first crack.

___________________________________________

A black Audi glided into the private driveway of Wang Corps.

Security stood straighter.

Before the car even stopped.

One man rushed to open the back door.

Yibo stepped out—long legs, pressed pants, white shirt with the cuffs neatly folded,

blazer hanging effortlessly off his frame.

A guard followed behind him with his tablet and files.

Yibo didn’t nod. Didn’t greet.

Just walked in like gravity adjusted for him.

Security held the elevator open.

Not a word spoken.

He stepped in.

One hand in his pocket.

Eyes forward.

The door began to close—“Hold the door, hold the—woah! Thanks!”

A hand shot between the doors and in stumbled… a man.

Not just any man.

Ridiculously handsome in that charming, non-threatening, “is-he-a-model-or-just-lucky” kind of way.

Shirt half tucked.

Backpack slung.

Hair slightly messy like he’d just stepped off a bike shoot.

And he was smiling. Beautifully Smiling.

“Man, I thought I was gonna be late,” he said casually,

brushing invisible dust from his shoulder.

“Private elevator, huh? Fancy.”

Yibo didn’t respond.

His face didn’t move.

Eyes forward.

The man noticed.

“Oh. Right. You’re probably one of those silent types. Got it.”

He stuck out a hand.

“Zhan. New assistant. Don’t worry—I’m excellent at awkward silences.”

Yibo turned his head slightly, eyes cold.

“Mr. Wang,” he corrected coolly. “Not ‘you.’”

“And I prefer silence in the mornings.”

“You’re late.”

“You’re loud.”

“And you’re in my private elevator.”

Zhan blinked.

He offered a tight smile and backed up a step, hands raised in surrender.

“Noted, boss man.”

The elevator dinged.

Yibo walked out, Zhan following a few steps behind, still taking in the view.

“Damn,” Zhan muttered, glancing around.

“Everything’s so shiny here. I feel like even the walls have better skincare than me!”

They entered Yibo’s private office.

It was huge. Minimalistic.

Elegant. Marble. Chrome.

Floor-to-ceiling windows.

A literal skyline view.

Zhan’s eyes widened as he spotted a single desk near the window—smaller but sleek.

“Whoa. I get a desk inside the boss’s office? That’s… intimate.”

Yibo shot him a look.

Zhan raised a hand.

“Don’t worry. I respect space. I’ll only breathe when necessary.”

Just then, there was a knock at the door.

It opened a second later, revealing Mr. Qiao—Wang Zheng’s long-time personal assistant.

An older man, always dressed immaculately, silver hair combed neatly, eyes sharp behind thin glasses.

He carried the kind of calm that make people stand straighter without realizing it.

“Mr. Yibo,” he said with a small bow, his voice low and steady.

“The Chairman would like to see you in the executive suite.”

Yibo gave a small nod. No reaction.

He stood, buttoned his blazer with precision, and began walking toward the door.

As he passed, Mr. Qiao’s gaze shifted briefly to Zhan.

He gave him a look—calm, unreadable—and then walked away.

The door clicked shut behind them.

As Yibo walked toward the door, Zhan looked up.

“You want me to come with you for the Personal Assistance… because I’m your assistant?”

Yibo didn’t even slow his pace.

“You can be useful by staying right here!”

The door clicked shut behind him.

Zhan blinked. “Wow.”

Then dramatically scrunched his face behind Yibo’s back, whispering to himself:

“And he thinks I’m too much?!”

Later during lunch break, Zhan was in the staff lounge, eating noodles like he hadn’t just walked through a lion’s den.

Three employees leaned in.

“You really sat inside Mr. Wang’s office?”

“And you’re still alive?”

“What’s he like? Does he talk?”

Zhan shrugged.

“Talks? Sure. In riddles. With judgmental eyebrows.”

“He’s terrifying,” one whispered.

“Last week, someone sneezed twice during his meeting. I haven’t seen him since. Might be buried under the finance wing.”

Zhan raised a brow.

“So… he’s allergic to human sounds?”

They all nodded solemnly.

Back in the office, Zhan tried offering Yibo a cup of coffee.

“I got it with less sugar. I figured a guy like you doesn’t believe in sweetness.”

Yibo took it silently. Sipped.

“You talk too much,” he said finally.

Zhan smiled.

“Thank you. I take that as a sign of good health.”

Yibo didn’t laugh.

“Don’t interrupt me when I’m working.”

“Don’t speak unless I ask you something.”

“And don’t touch anything without asking.”

Zhan raised an eyebrow, nodding.

“Understood. No speaking. No touching. Minimal breathing. Copy that.”

Then, with a mock-serious face, he added,

“You’re really into this whole ‘fun at work’ thing, huh?”

Yibo just turned his head slowly and gave Zhan a sharp look with those almond-shaped eyes—sharp enough to slice through the sarcasm without a single word.

Zhan blinked. “Cool. Copy that… twice!”

_____________________________________

Later that night, Zhan kicked off his shoes in his small apartment far from the shining tower.

He dropped his bag, loosened his sleeves—but didn’t bother changing.

His hair was still messy from the wind, his shirt wrinkled, but his focus was razor sharp.

He sat on the couch, pulled his laptop onto his lap, and opened a hidden folder.

A few clicks later, he attached a string of files—and sent them to a heavily encrypted email address with no subject.

He closed the lid.

Stood up.

And walked to the locked door at the end of the hallway.

With a quiet click, it opened.

Lights flicked on.

A low hum of machines filled the air.

It looked like a normal room from the outside, but inside—it was a war zone of planning.

Walls lined with equipment—surveillance tools,

signal jammers, hard drives stacked like files.

And in the very center, a massive corkboard, stretching almost wall-to-wall.

Every inch was covered in photographs, timelines, notes, and connections.

All of them pointing to one man: Wang Yibo.

Candid shots. Surveillance stills. Entry and exit logs. Daily routines.

Timelines. Morning arrival time. Lunch break. Gym schedule.

Even blurred photos of Yibo standing by a window in his apartment, backlit by city lights.

And in the very center of the board—A single photo.

Yibo looking directly at the camera.

Eyes cold.

Expression unreadable.

Zhan slid on his glasses—black-framed, thin, clean-cut.

Nothing flashy, but the moment he put them on, something shifted.

The charming assistant vanished.

What remained was a calculating strategist.

He stared at that one photo for a long time, arms folded, leaning against the edge of the desk.

He tapped the photo once, a small smirk curling on his lips.

He tilted his head slightly.

“After all these months of watching you from the shadows… we finally met.”

His gaze softened—for a second.

Then the smile came – Vicious. Slow. Dangerous.

“Nice to meet you, BoBo.”

“So, let’s begin the game… shall we?”

He leaned in closer to Yibo’s photo, voice soft but electric.

“Trust me… this is gonna be so much fun.”

Silence fell again.

But it wasn’t peaceful.

It was the kind that comes right before something explodes.

[To Be Continued…]