Dianhan's Year-End Report

Old Wang, oh no, everyone calls me "Dianhan" now, standing on the stage of the company's annual meeting, the lights are blinding me. The audience below is a sea of black, all colleagues dressed in suits, looking like they just came off the assembly line. I'm holding this freshly baked "Dianhan 2024 Annual Work Report" in my hand, feeling a mix of emotions.

The first page of the report is a record of my hard work over the past year. I've transformed from an ordinary assembly line worker into the company's ace in the "new media strategy." Every day, I livestream, forcing a smile at the phone camera, teaching people how to tighten screws and solder circuit boards. Sometimes, I even perform a "welder's rock and roll." Fans call me "Dianhan," saying I've made the boring factory life interesting, which is considered a significant contribution to the company.

The second page of the report is a series of data: livestream duration, viewership, number of likes, and a bunch of "conversion rates," "ROI," and other stuff I can never figure out. The numbers are impressive, the leaders are satisfied, but something just doesn't feel right.

The third page of the report is my "annual insights." I wrote: "In the wave of the Internet, workers have a new identity. We are no longer silent screws, but valuable ‘content producers.’ We use our labor to create new profit growth points for the company..." I was writing this, and I nearly puked.

I glanced at the audience below, at those workmates who used to sweat together on the assembly line. Their eyes were empty and tired. The way they looked at me was no longer familiar or friendly, but a kind of complex feeling I couldn't quite understand. Maybe they were also wondering how Old Wang, who used to be soaked in sweat with them, had suddenly become "Dianhan."

The atmosphere of the annual meeting was enthusiastic. The leaders took turns giving speeches, passionately envisioning the future, as if we were not in a factory, but in an internet technology company. I was getting sleepy, and what kept popping into my mind was still the sound of the machinery on the assembly line.

Finally, it was my turn to go on stage. I took a deep breath, walked to the front of the stage, opened the report in my hand, and started reading the prepared script: "Respected leaders, colleagues, good afternoon! I am able to stand here today, and I..."

I suddenly stopped, looking at the unfamiliar faces in the audience, at those workmates who used to eat together, smoke together, and curse the boss together, at those fans who used to spam "666" in the livestreaming rooms. I felt like a puppet on strings, saying things I didn't even believe in myself.

I cleared my throat and flipped the report to the last page. That was my "personal career plan." I originally planned to write things like "continue to deepen content," "enhance IP value," but in the end, I wrote nothing at all.

"Everyone," I said, "I want to say something from my heart today." The audience went silent.

I said slowly: "I don't want to be 'Dianhan' anymore."

A wave of commotion erupted in the audience. Whispers rose like a tide. I could almost hear the roar of the leaders in the back and see their pale faces. But I didn't care anymore. I continued: "I don't want to use the identity of a 'worker' to entertain the public and create profits for the company anymore. We are not traffic, we are people!"

I threw the report on the ground and bowed deeply to the audience. "I want to go home, continue to tighten my screws, solder my circuit boards, and be a real worker."

With that, I turned and walked off the stage, not looking back and not looking at anyone's expression. I walked to the entrance of the venue, took out my phone, and opened the livestream.

"Hello everyone," I said, "I'm Dianhan, also Old Wang, and I want to talk to you today..."

The chatroom exploded instantly. Fans frantically asked what was going on, why I suddenly appeared here and not at the annual meeting continuing to perform.

I looked at the phone screen, a self-deprecating smile on my face: "Ah, I've decided to go home and continue to be my worker, a real worker."

Just then, a familiar dialogue box popped up on my phone screen:

"Congratulations, you have successfully unlocked the 'Advanced Content Producer' achievement, and have been awarded a 'Craftsmanship Spirit' medal and the title of 'Most Valuable Employee of the Year.' Your next year's goal is: 'Transformation from worker to content IP.' Please continue your efforts!"

I stared at the cold words on the screen and suddenly felt that I might never be able to go back.