Puppet Master: Chapter 7

Glass Walls

[📘 Content Warning:
This story contains Boys’ Love (BL) themes. It explores deep emotional connections between the characters with intense moments. Reader discretion is advised.]

The days bled together.

Yibo didn’t flinch.

Didn’t break.

Not in front of anyone.

But Mr. Qiao noticed it.

No matter how perfectly neutral Yibo kept his face, something was off.

He was too quiet. Too still.

In meetings, his eyes would drift.

His responses came slower, more mechanical.

He was there—but not really.

And with Zhan on an extended leave… it didn’t take a genius to see the threads unraveling beneath the surface.

Yibo barely slept.

He barely ate.

He completely stopped going to the penthouse—the one place that once gave him peace.

Now, every corner of it echoed with Zhan’s presence.

The memories, the laughter, the quiet evenings—they haunted him.

It had become unbearable to be there.

And no matter how hard he tried—he couldn’t get that image out of his head.

The room. The board. Zhan.

It haunted him.

He kept replaying every word.

Every kiss.

Every moment that felt real—wondering which ones were fake.

Which ones were calculated.

And which ones… he still wanted to believe in.

Zhan, meanwhile, had stopped going out altogether.

His aunt watched him silently as he moved through her house like a shell.

He didn’t talk much. Barely responded.

And when he thought no one was watching, he’d stand near the window with that same photo in his hand—the one with Yibo’s head tilted slightly against his shoulder, mid-laugh.

He tried calling Yibo a few times again.

Just to hear his voice.

Just to explain.

But the calls either went unanswered… or were disconnected.

Yibo was done listening.

And Zhan didn’t blame him.

But it didn’t stop the ache.

The silence between them was louder than anything he’d ever heard.

———————————————–

That morning, Yibo sat alone in his office, his hand hovering above a document but his mind miles away.

The city skyline glared through the glass windows.

He couldn’t focus.

His fingers curled into a loose fist before slowly relaxing again.

Then, without another thought, he stood up.

He walked out of his cabin, ignoring the curious stares, took the elevator, and pressed the button to the floor above.

The floor of the Chairman’s office.

Once the doors opened, he walked down the corridor, every step echoing louder in his chest than in the hallway.

He stopped in front of the tall glass doors of Wang Zheng’s cabin.

Inside, Mr. Wang Zheng was staring at his screen, eyes half-lidded in focus.

Yibo knocked.

The sound was soft—but sharp enough to make the Chairman look up.

Their eyes met.

There was a brief flicker of surprise in Wang Zheng’s eyes.

He raised an eyebrow and, after a beat, gestured silently for Yibo to enter.

Yibo stepped in slowly, the door clicking shut behind him.

Wang Zheng leaned back in his chair, arms folding.

“Well, well,” he said dryly.

“Did you book an appointment with Qiao first? I thought that’s how things worked now.”

Yibo remained silent.

The Chairman continued, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“Where is your precious assistant, by the way? The one you don’t hesitate to raise your voice for. The one you protect like your own shadow?”

Still, Yibo didn’t respond.

Wang Zheng tilted his head slightly.

“I heard he hasn’t shown up in days. What happened? Did he abscond?”

There was an edge to his words.

Testing. Taunting.

Yibo stood still.

Then, slowly, he looked up.

“I just came to meet you, Dad.”

The words felt foreign on his tongue.

He hadn’t called him that in months.

There was a beat of silence.

And then, in a quiet voice—raw, tired—Yibo added,

“I’m sorry.”

Wang Zheng’s expression softened.

He stood up from his chair.

Walked over.

And placed a steady hand on Yibo’s shoulder.

His voice lowered.

“Boy… is everything alright?”

Yibo didn’t respond.

His eyes flickered, but he kept them down.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Wang Zheng asked.

Yibo shook his head.

“No.”

A pause.

He took a deep breath and finally said,

“It’s nothing I can’t handle by myself, Dad.”

“You sure?”

Yibo looked up at his father then.

Eyes tired. But resolute.

Yibo gave a small nod—just once—as if answering his father’s question again, without words.

They stood there for a while.

Then, after some time, the door opened gently.

Mr. Qiao stepped in, holding a folder, but stopped short when he saw Yibo standing there.

Yibo glanced over his shoulder.

Their eyes met.

He gave Mr. Qiao a small, polite smile.

Then walked past him and out of the room.

Mr. Qiao stood frozen for a moment.

Watching Yibo’s retreating figure.

A quiet sigh escaped his lips.

Something about that boy’s silence… always said more than words ever could.

———————————————–

That evening, Yibo stepped out onto the terrace garden of the Wang Corps building to get some fresh air.

It had become suffocating to sit in his cabin with everything that was happening inside his mind.

The wind was cool.

The noise of the world below muffled.

For the first time in days… he allowed himself to breathe.

He was so lost in his thoughts, he didn’t notice the quiet footsteps behind him.

“BoBo.”

Yibo turned slightly.

It was Mr. Qiao.

The older man came to stand beside him, his hands folded neatly behind his back.

“Everything alright?”

He asked, voice gentle.

“You’ve been… quiet lately. And Zhan hasn’t been around. When is he returning?”

Yibo didn’t respond at first.

He kept his eyes on the skyline.

“I don’t know.”

He said eventually.

 “I see.”

Mr. Qiao nodded slowly.

There was a pause.

Yibo glanced at Mr. Qiao and asked quietly,

“Uncle… how do we decide if someone is truly wrong? Especially when we’ve seen something with our own eyes—something we never expected from them—but our heart still refuses to believe they’re guilty?”

“Sometimes…” Mr. Qiao continued,

“What we see—even with our own eyes—is not the whole truth.”

Yibo’s jaw tensed.

“It’s easy to believe what’s in front of us. But clarity doesn’t always come that way.”

“Sometimes… we have to ask. We have to give people the chance to explain.”

Then Yibo asked quietly.

“And what if the only answer you get is silence?”

“What if all you get is… nothing?”

Mr. Qiao gave a soft smile.

“Then perhaps it’s worth asking why they’re silent. Silence doesn’t always mean guilt. Sometimes, it’s protection. Sometimes… their hands are tied.”

Yibo didn’t reply, but his eyes flickered with something unreadable.

“BoBo…” Mr. Qiao said gently.

“if your heart is still telling you that someone isn’t what the world is making them out to be—maybe it’s because they aren’t.”

He turned to face Yibo fully.

“We shouldn’t cut ties with people who mean something to us… not without trying to understand the truth first. Our eyes may deceive us. But the heart? It rarely does.”

Yibo looked at Mr. Qiao then—really looked at him—as if he knew something.

And Mr. Qiao, catching that look, smiled faintly.

“I knew.”

He said gently.

“I’ve seen the two of you more than once—sneaking around in the parking lot, catching stolen moments. I also knew that Zhan was spending time at your penthouse.”

Yibo didn’t say anything, his expression unreadable.

Mr. Qiao patted his shoulder lightly.

“Don’t worry. I never told the Chairman. And I won’t. Some truths are better left between hearts.”

He turned to leave, then paused and added softly,

“It’s hard to find good people who truly love you, BoBo. Don’t let them slip away without knowing the whole truth. Sometimes, all it takes is one moment of clarity to change everything.”

Yibo looked away.

And for the first time in days… he wondered if his anger had been louder than his heart.

————————————————-

That night, far from the steel towers of Wang Corps, Zhan stood at the threshold of Mrs. Meilin’s study.

“I want to go back,”

Zhan said, breaking the silence.

Mrs. Meilin looked up, calm but watchful.

“Are you sure?”

Zhan nodded slowly.

“We have a mission. A plan. Years of preparation… it can’t fall apart now. Not because of this. Not because of me.”

“And what about him?” She asked.

Zhan hesitated—just for a second.

“I still have a hope.”

He added softly.

“That once his anger fades… he’ll give me a chance to explain. Because I know him. No matter what he found, no matter how broken he looked that day—he knows what we had wasn’t fake. That my love for him… wasn’t a lie.”

Mrs. Meilin’s expression flickered. She folded her hands slowly.

“I won’t stop you. But I won’t push you forward either. You have to be sure—strong enough to finish what you started… and brave enough to face him again.”

Zhan nodded, gaze heavy.

“I know what I’ve done. I know I broke him. And I broke myself with it. But I can’t stop now. The mission… it matters.”

“I love him.”

He continued.

“Even if he hates me now. Even if he never forgives me. I’ll never stop loving him. And I’ll never stop trying to protect him.”

Mrs. Meilin reached for his hand and squeezed it gently.

“Then go. Just remember who you are. And why this matters.”

That night, Zhan packed his things in silence.

And by morning… he was gone.

Back to the apartment.

Back to the city.

Back to the place where love and betrayal were still fighting for space in the same broken heart.

—————————————————

It had been almost two weeks since Zhan returned to his apartment.

He held himself together, barely.

The silence was different here now.

Heavy. Permanent.

The space that once felt like his sanctuary now echoed with absence.

No more of that soft, heart-melting smile.

No ‘Zhan-ge’ whispered like it meant everything.

No touch that lingered longer than it needed to.

No arms around his waist.

Just emptiness—and the sting of everything he lost.

But the mission hadn’t changed.

And it wasn’t just his anymore.

It was for Yibo, too.

Weeks ago, Zhan had submitted his resignation.

And today… he got a call from Wang Corps’ HR department.

It was time to collect his things and complete the formalities.

There was no going back now.

Next day morning, Zhan got up quietly, got dressed with practiced calm, and stepped out of his apartment.

He didn’t take his car—just booked a taxi.

And for the first time in weeks… headed toward Wang Corps.

The city outside the window blurred as the car moved forward, but inside his head—everything was sharp.

Will I see BoBo?

If I do… what will I say?

How do I even look at him after everything?

And if I don’t see him….

He didn’t finish that thought.

It already hurt too much.

By the time the building came into view, his chest felt tight.

He made his way to the HR department.

The woman there was polite, but distant—clearly briefed.

The paperwork felt endless.

Robotic.

And when it was all done, she handed him a cardboard box with a faint smile.

“You can collect your belongings from your cabin.”

Zhan nodded.

His fingers curled slightly against the box.

As the elevator doors closed around him, the familiar chime hit something in his chest.

And as it opened again, revealing the corridor that led to Yibo’s cabin… his heart began to pound.

His steps slowed.

He wasn’t sure if he was afraid, or bracing himself.

The cabin was empty.

For a moment, he just stood there.

Not knowing whether to feel relieved or disappointed.

He walked in quietly.

The space looked almost the same.

But colder.

Lifeless.

Zhan went to his desk—the corner spot beside Yibo’s.

He began placing his things in the box, one by one.

A pen holder. His charger. A coffee mug with a tiny chip on the rim.

His eyes kept drifting to Yibo’s chair.

The chair that used to roll slightly every time Zhan bumped his knee against the table.

Where Yibo used to sit with one eyebrow raised, pretending to be annoyed while Zhan stole his post-it notes.

As he reached the last drawer, his fingers brushed against something small.

Crushed paper balls.

He paused.

Then pulled one out.

A small smile appeared.

Faint.

He remembered.

He used to crumple notes and toss them at Yibo during calls—just to annoy him.

Yibo would glare.

Pretend to be mad.

But he never really was.

That smile on Zhan’s face faded almost as quickly as it came.

He closed the box, picked it up in both hands, and looked around the cabin one last time.

Quiet. Still. Final.

He walked out slowly, and as he did—he saw Mr. Qiao walking down the hallway.

They both stopped.

Offered each other a faint smile.

“So,” Mr. Qiao said gently,

“All done?”

Zhan nodded. “All done.”

A silence hung between them.

Then Mr. Qiao said softly.

“It’s okay. Everything’s going to be alright. It’s just a phase.”

Zhan didn’t reply.

He simply nodded again.

And turned toward the elevator.

He didn’t look back.

As he reached the lobby, he paused to speak with the security guard—a familiar face who always smiled too wide.

They exchanged a few quiet words.

Zhan chuckled softly at something the man said.

Then raised his hand in a gentle goodbye.

A taxi pulled up.

He got in. And left.

But from one of the upper floors—behind the glass of a silent meeting room—

two almond-shaped eyes were watching.

Yibo stood still, not moving.

He had known Zhan was coming.

HR had informed him that morning.

So he stayed away from his cabin—on purpose.

He didn’t want to run into Zhan.

He couldn’t.

But watching him now…

Watching Zhan walk away with that box in his hands…

It still felt like something cracked inside his chest.

And he admitted—at least to himself—

That seeing Zhan still felt special.

But it still hurt just the same.

Yibo walked back to his cabin.

Each step heavy with the weight of what he had just witnessed.

The silence felt even more suffocating now.

And as he moved toward his desk, something caught him off guard.

It was faint, but unmistakable.

The lingering scent of Zhan’s perfume.

A fragrance he hadn’t realized he’d been missing until it was gone.

He paused.

His heart stuttered for a beat.

It felt like a piece of Zhan was still here, hanging in the air.

Yibo made his way to his chair, sitting down slowly, almost as if not wanting to disturb the fragile atmosphere.

His gaze flickered to the corner where Zhan’s desk used to be.

It was completely empty.

Not a trace of him left behind.

A chill ran down Yibo’s spine.

It was as if Zhan hadn’t just left the office.

No, it felt like Zhan had left this chapter of his life entirely.

Like he’d taken himself out of Yibo’s reach forever.

Yibo sat there, unmoving, the absence of Zhan’s presence more overwhelming than anything he could have prepared for.

The space around him felt colder.

Empty.

————————————————

Zhan pulled himself out of grief, one thread at a time, and quietly continued with his plan.

The very next night, he parked his car near the gates of Wang Estate.

Hidden in shadows, he pulled out his binoculars and began surveillance—like old times.

A habit he thought he had buried.

He caught a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye.

His gaze shifted upward.

And there he was.

Bobo…

Standing alone on the balcony in loose grey house clothes, holding a glass of something amber in his hand.

The breeze ruffled his hair.

His expression unreadable—but his loneliness… visible, even from this far.

Zhan lowered the binoculars slowly.

His chest ached.

But still, he didn’t look away.

Not immediately.

He couldn’t.

Zhan raised the binoculars again, needing to see closer.

Needing to see him.

Yibo’s face was unreadable—but his eyes were tired, distant.

And Zhan could tell… he was lost in thought.

Maybe remembering.

Maybe breaking all over again.

Something twisted inside Zhan.

A sharp, unbearable ache.

He couldn’t take it—not tonight.

So he lowered the binoculars, stepped back from the shadows, and silently walked towards his car.

As Zhan sank into the car, the door clicking shut behind him, the weight of the day settled in his bones.

He gripped the steering wheel, his hands slightly trembling, and just as he exhaled, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

He didn’t need to look at the screen to know who it was.

Aunt Meilin.

He answered with a sigh, his voice strained, though he did his best to sound calm.

“Hello, Aunt.”

Her voice came through the receiver, warm yet distant, carrying that familiar comforting tone.

“How’s everything going, Xian?”

Zhan leaned his head against the headrest, eyes staring ahead at the empty street.

“It’s fine. I’m focusing on the plan.”

But it was a lie.

He could feel it pressing against his chest like a stone.

Then she asked softly.

“Did you… Did you see him?”

Zhan’s throat tightened, and for a moment, he couldn’t speak.

He thought of Yibo— standing alone on the balcony.

And the way his heart had cracked all over again.

“No.”

Zhan replied, his voice low.

“I didn’t see him. I think… it’s better this way. Seeing him isn’t going to make it any better, not for me, and maybe not for him either.”

Another lie.

The silence between them was suffocating.

Zhan tried to swallow down the ache in his chest.

His fingers tightened on the steering wheel.

Her voice was quieter, a little softer.

“You’re stronger than you think, Xian. Things will work themselves out.”

He didn’t respond.

He couldn’t.

Instead, he stared out at the passing cars, the city lights flickering like distant stars.

He felt frozen.

Not just physically—but emotionally.

The words had no meaning.

He didn’t know how things would work out.

He didn’t know if they ever could.

The silence stretched on until Mrs. Meilin finally broke it, her voice gentle.

“Just take care of yourself, alright?”

Zhan nodded, even though she couldn’t see him.

“I will.”

With that, the call ended.

He sat there in the car for a long time.

His fingers drummed on the steering wheel absently.

His mind was far away, replaying the image of Yibo—his eyes, his silence.

Was it better this way?

Was leaving him alone the right choice?

Zhan didn’t know.

He only knew that the ache was unbearable.

Like a thousand unspoken words stuck in his chest.

Finally, with a sharp breath, he started the car.

The engine hummed to life, and the headlights flickered on.

Casting long shadows against the empty street.

He pulled away slowly, the city lights blurring past him as he drove aimlessly.

Wondering how—if—things could ever be right again between them.

At the red light, he gripped the steering wheel tighter.

He hated this feeling.

This half-life.

This ache that refused to leave.

Across the street, he saw a couple laughing at something on a phone.

The girl clutched the boy’s arm like the world hadn’t fallen apart.

And Zhan looked away.

He used to laugh like that.

He used to hold on like that.

He used to be held like that.

Now, all he had was silence and a memory of a voice that no longer called him “Zhan-ge” with affection.

The light turned green.

He didn’t move.

Cars honked behind him.

But Zhan just sat there, frozen.

Until finally, a tear slid down his cheek—hot, silent, and defiant.

He wiped it away quickly.

May be because there was nothing left to wait for.

Not anymore.

———————————————–

Later that week, one late evening.

Zhan sat at his desk with a cup of coffee growing cold between his palms.

The room was quiet—but his mind wasn’t.

Thoughts of Yibo stirred beneath everything he tried to bury.

But he forced himself to focus on the next part of the plan—because time was slipping through his fingers, and delays weren’t an option.

He needed to move fast.

So he decided to clear his head.

Zhan got up, changed into something warm, slipped on a jacket.

Locked his apartment behind him.

The elevator ride was quiet, his reflection in the mirrored walls unreadable.

As he stepped out of the building and onto the dimly lit street.

He barely took a few steps before his legs froze.

Even in the shadowed hush of the evening, under the soft flicker of city lights—he recognized him instantly.

Standing a few feet to the left, by the pavement…

It’s him.

Zhan turned his head slowly, disbelief tightening in his chest.

Tall, lean, and distant like a memory.

Yibo stood with one hand tucked in his coat pocket.

A long black overcoat falling sleek over a grey turtleneck.

His dark jeans hugging him just right.

Polished shoes, silent against the pavement.

Just him—dark hair, barefaced, sharp-jawed and heartbreakingly real.

But his eyes… still carries storms Zhan doesn’t know how to calm.

“Bo—” he stopped himself.

“Mr. Wang.”

Yibo looked at him—face calm, eyes unreadable.

But beneath the quiet, something flickered—something Zhan hadn’t seen in weeks.

Yibo could see it in his eyes—Zhan is surprised.

The kind of surprise he had once hoped to see the day he showed up unannounced at Zhan’s apartment.

The day everything went wrong.

But tonight, it was real.

The disbelief.

The silence.

The moment suspended in time.

Under these dim city lights… the pause between two heartbeats…

Neither of them knew what to do with.

The street was noisy—but the silence between them was louder.

[To be continued…]