Night has settled over Hong Kong, the city glowing beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of Clarke Woo’s apartment. Victoria Harbour shimmers in the distance, ferries moving slowly across the water while the skyline reflects against the glass.

Clarke sits alone in the living room, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms, tie already loosened. His laptop rests open on the low table, documents spread beside a cup of coffee that went cold almost an hour ago.

The apartment is quiet.

Too quiet.

One hand supports his temple as he reviews financial reports, occasionally making notes in the margin with a fountain pen instead of typing. Old habit.

A jazz record plays softly somewhere behind him.

He pauses for a moment, eyes drifting toward the city lights.

Not because he is finished working.

Only because the silence has become noticeable.

Then, as always, he returns to the screen.

Calm. Composed. Still carrying the day long after everyone else has gone home.