Perspective: Chen Ruolan Time: Summer, 2024

 

The air conditioning in the office was set to a freezing temperature, but the irritation simmering within me wouldn’t subside.

 

The desk was piled high with resumes that felt like garbage. This was the third round of interviews for Star Weekly this year. I watched the girl in front of me—wearing an out-of-season suit and makeup so precise it looked like she was prepping for a beauty pageant rather than chasing news—and tapped my fountain pen impatiently against the desk.

 

Tap, tap, tap.

 

The sound was like a countdown in the quiet conference room.

 

“So, what do you think is the most important aspect of the fashion section?” I asked coldly, too lazy to even lift my eyelids.

 

“Is it… taste? And… chasing trends?” The girl stuttered, her eyes darting around.

 

I sighed, closed her resume, and tossed it into the tall “rejected” pile on the left.

 

“Get out.”

 

“Huh? But I…”

 

“I said get out.” I looked up, my eyes sharp as knives. “Don’t you understand Chinese? Next.”

 

The girl ran out, her eyes red. I rubbed my aching temples and sneered at the HR manager beside me. “This is the ‘elite’ talent you screened for me? They all look polished and bright, but their heads are full of straw. I need wolves who can run the social beat, not vases here for a fashion show!”

 

The HR manager wiped sweat from his brow. “Editor-in-Chief, there’s one more… but this one is a bit…”

 

“A bit what?”

 

“A bit… rustic. And her academic background isn’t top-tier, but her written exam scores were very high.”

 

“Send her in.”

 

I took a sip of the cold coffee. The bitterness spread across my tongue, much like my recently concluded marriage, which had been filled with betrayal and calculation. At that time, I had just escaped a messy divorce trial, like a wounded lioness still baring her teeth. I was full of hostility toward the world and suspicion toward humanity. Especially toward those who appeared weak and incompetent—I felt a physical aversion to them.

 

Because if you are weak, you get eaten. That was a lesson I had learned with blood and tears.

 

The door pushed open.

 

A thin, small figure entered.

 

She was wearing a white shirt that had been washed until it turned pale, slightly too big, making her look even more fragile. Her lower half was clad in plain, black trousers, and she wore a pair of old-fashioned flats. Her hair was tied into a low ponytail, and her face was nearly hidden behind a pair of heavy, black-rimmed glasses.

 

She clutched her briefcase, standing at the door with hunched shoulders, like a little rabbit that had stumbled into a wolf den.

 

“He… hello, interviewers…”

 

Her voice was tiny, quiet as a mosquito’s hum, and carried an obvious tremor. I frowned. This voice was irritating.

 

“Louder,” I said coldly. “Didn’t you eat?”

 

She was startled, her entire body jerking, and the briefcase nearly slipped from her hands.

 

“I, I’m sorry!” She bowed frantically, her voice slightly louder but still shaking violently. “My name is Song Xingran… I am a fresh graduate…”

 

Watching her timid demeanor, my disappointment reached its peak. This was the top-scorer on the written test? Are you kidding me? A personality like this to run the social beat? I feared she’d be scared to tears by the security guard before she could even knock on the door of an interviewee.

 

“Ms. Song.” I interrupted her introduction, leaning back into my chair and scrutinizing her with the most biting tone I could muster.

 

“Do you know where this is? This is Star Weekly. It’s a battlefield. Every day, we face thugs, politicians, and all sorts of scum who don’t want us to know the truth.”

 

I pointed at the door.

 

“Look at yourself. You’re trembling even while talking to me. What makes you think you’re capable of this job? Do you think news is written just by typing in an office?”

 

My voice raised involuntarily, carrying the unique hostility of that period.

 

Bang!

 

I slammed my coffee cup onto the desk.

 

“Ah!”

 

Song Xingran let out a short, sharp gasp, as if someone had stepped on her tail. She instinctively covered her ears and curled her body, her face turning deathly pale, her eyes filled with terror. That fear wasn’t faked. It was a physiological, uncontrollable terror. Looking at her useless display, the last shred of my patience evaporated.

 

“Too loud?” I taunted. “If you can’t even handle this, you’d better go home and find your mother. We aren’t lacking in punching bags here.”

 

“Next.”

 

I bowed my head, ready to draw a giant ‘X’ on her resume.

 

However, she didn’t move. That dead silence surprised me. I looked up and saw her still standing there. Even though her legs were trembling, even though her eyes were brimming with tears, her feet seemed rooted to the spot.

 

“Still here?” I arched an eyebrow.

 

“I’m not leaving.”

 

She spoke. Her voice was still shaking, but it carried an inexplicable stubbornness. She took a deep breath, as if using every ounce of her strength, pulled a thick stack of documents from her briefcase, and handed them to me with trembling hands.

 

“Editor-in-Chief Chen… I know I’m timid, and I know I’m afraid of noise…”

 

She lifted her head, and her eyes, hidden behind those thick lenses, looked directly at me for the first time. At that moment, I froze. What kind of eyes were those?

 

Clear, moist, like a frightened little deer. But beneath that water of fear, a faint but stubborn spark was burning. It was the look of someone who, even when scared to the point of collapse, refused to retreat or admit defeat.

 

“But… I am very good at writing.”

 

She pushed the stack of documents forward, her voice choked but firm:

 

“Please… take a look at my draft. Just one look.”

 

As if possessed, I took the stack of paper. The title of the top piece read: Silent Screams: A Record of Campus Bullying in Rural Schools.

 

I had only intended to scan it to get rid of her. But the moment my eyes fell on the first line, I couldn’t look away.

 

The words.

 

Sharp, precise, cold to the point of being cruel.

 

There was no flowery rhetoric in this article, no groundless lamenting. She used a surgical, precise pen to dissect the pus-filled sore in that dark corner. She described the despair in the children’s eyes, the ignorant cruelty of the bullies, and the cold, tacit permission of the bystanders.

 

Every word was like a sharp knife, stabbing into the reader’s heart.

 

The prose… it was too seasoned. It didn’t sound like it was written by a fresh graduate at all, but by an old reporter who had crawled through the bottom of society and seen through the coldness of the world.

 

I turned the page, then another.

 

In the footnotes, I saw her writing about the interview process: to get this material, she had staked out that village for hours, been chased by dogs, cursed at by villagers, and even had her forehead injured by a stone thrown to protect one of the children.

 

I looked up, re-evaluating the girl in front of me. She was still shivering. Because of my shouting earlier, she remained pale. But as I looked at her, my vision began to blur. On that young, terrified face, I seemed to see another shadow. That shadow had a sharp bob cut, wore cheap jeans, and carried the same stubbornness and unwillingness to give in.

 

That was me, ten years ago. Back then, I wasn’t the brisk, ruthless “female devil” I am now. Back then, I had just experienced the collapse of my life.

 

I remember that rainy night, holding my signed divorce papers, standing downstairs at the newspaper office, soaked through, shivering with cold. Back then, I was also afraid. Afraid of the future, afraid of loneliness, afraid of the gossip, afraid of never being able to stand up again. I, too, had been like her, so scared when facing an editor’s questioning that I couldn’t even speak clearly.

 

But there was a fire inside me. That fire told me: I won’t accept this. I wasn’t willing to rot in the mud; I wanted to crawl out, I wanted to shut the mouths of those who looked down on me. So I wrote until my fingers bled. I turned all my anger, grievances, and pain into words. My pen became sharper, my heart became harder, until I armed myself into the indestructible Chen Ruolan I am today.

 

I looked at Song Xingran.

 

I looked at those eyes that were afraid, but still stared unblinkingly at me. The resilience in that gaze, the courage of “even if I’m scared to death, I will do it”…

 

It was exactly the same as me. This wasn’t weakness. This was the most real form of bravery, grown from the soil of fear.

 

“Do you know?” I closed the manuscript, my voice no longer sharp, but lower.

 

“This article of yours… it hurts to read.” Song Xingran blinked, seemingly surprised I would say that.

 

“It hurts because you wrote your own wounds into it, too.” I watched her. “You are very sensitive. You can feel the pain of others and amplify it tenfold in your writing.”

 

“This is a gift, and it is a curse.”

 

I stood up and walked over to her. She instinctively wanted to retreat, but I reached out and pressed down on her shoulder.

 

“Are you afraid of me?” I asked.

 

“…Yes.” She nodded honestly, tears falling again.

 

“Good. You should be.” I smiled. The first smile I’d shown all day.

 

“Because this world is terrifying. A hundred times more terrifying than me.”

 

I picked up my fountain pen from the desk—the pen that symbolized the power of an Editor-in-Chief.

 

“Song Xingran,” I said her name.

 

“You are a rabbit. A timid, sensitive, easily hurt rabbit.”

 

As I watched her eyes dim, I turned the tables:

 

“But this rabbit’s teeth are sharper than a wolf’s.”

 

“Your writing is your fangs. As long as you are given the chance, you can bite a lion to death.”

 

I turned around and drew a giant circle on that resume I had already sentenced to death.

 

“You’re hired.”

 

Song Xingran jerked her head up, her eyes wide, filled with disbelief.

 

“Re… really?”

 

“Do I have a reason to lie to you?” I tossed the resume to the HR manager. “Report tomorrow. Three months of probation, one year as an intern reporter. If you’re still this ‘cry-at-everything’ type, I’ll fire you in a heartbeat.”

 

“Yes! Thank you, Editor-in-Chief! Thank you!”

 

She bowed excitedly, tears and snot streaming down her face; she looked absolutely a wreck.

 

“Also.” Just as she was about to leave, I stopped her.

 

“Go buy some decent clothes. And get a haircut, and change those glasses.”

 

I crossed my arms, resuming my arrogant, queenly demeanor.

 

“Since you’ve joined my wolf pack, don’t look like an easy target. The people I, Chen Ruolan, bring up—even if they are rabbits, they must be ‘gangster rabbits’ who can eat people alive.”

 

Song Xingran laughed through her tears and nodded forcefully: “I understand! Sister Ruolan!”

 

Watching her back as she hugged her briefcase and ran out happily, I sat back in my chair. The sun outside the window was blinding. I touched my cheek. It had been a long time since I’d felt this… this feeling of seeing hope.

 

Perhaps this is what inheritance is. I saw my former self in this fledgling bird. And this time, I want to personally hold up the sky for her and see how high she can fly.

 

See if this timid rabbit can eventually turn into someone like me, or perhaps, an even more powerful… queen.