Darkness Under the Lamp

Old Liu Tou recently felt a constant tightness in his chest, like a lump of poorly chewed wotou stuck there. That old locust tree at the entrance to the hutong, its leaves had yellowed and greened, greened and yellowed again; it had witnessed Old Liu Tou age from "Little Liu" to "Old Liu," and it had witnessed his son, Minghui, grow from a little tyke into a young man who had made something of himself, gotten into that... oh right, "Intelligent Monkey Academy," a company so bright it dazzled the eyes.

Speaking of this "Intelligent Monkey Academy," Old Liu Tou was both proud and apprehensive. Proud because his son was successful, earned good money; he heard that just by tapping away at a computer, Minghui could 'feed' knowledge to kids all over the country. Apprehensive because this job was too draining. When Minghui came home, he always wore an exhaustion on his face that wouldn't wash off, his eye sockets deep-set, like a monk in a temple with no incense offerings. When father and son ate, Minghui would shovel down a couple of mouthfuls before picking up his phone to reply to "work messages," mumbling words Old Liu Tou didn't understand like "growth," "iteration," "user profiles."

"I'm telling you, Hui'zi," Old Liu Tou took a sip of his erguotou, "You can never earn all the money in the world, your health is what matters."

Minghui would just chuckle, a bit dismissively: "Dad, you don't get it, in this industry now, you have to hustle. Fall behind one step, and you're left behind. Besides, young people have strong 'firepower'!"

Strong firepower? Old Liu Tou looked at his son's increasingly sparse hair, and the lump of wotou in his chest felt even heavier. When the old neighbors in the hutong saw him, they'd all say with envy: "Old Liu, you're set for a comfortable life! Your son's so successful, he'll move you into a big apartment building later!" Old Liu Tou could only manage a dry laugh, wondering inwardly: No matter how nice that apartment building is, is it as grounded as this hutong?

The day the bad news arrived, the sky was overcast, looking like it was holding back a downpour. It was a call from Minghui's company's "HR," a young woman with a sickly sweet voice, speaking in extremely standard, emotionless Mandarin: "Mr. Liu? We regret to inform you that your son, Mr. Liu Minghui, had a sudden... uh, accident, while working overtime at the company early this morning. We are currently handling it."

"Accident?" Old Liu Tou's mind went "buzz," he almost dropped the phone. "What accident? Hui'zi, he..."

"Regarding the specific situation... we will have dedicated personnel liaise with you. Please remain calm and accept our condolences." The phone clicked dead.

Old Liu Tou stood frozen, unable to process anything for a long while. Calm? Condolences? Was that even human speech? He seemed to see Minghui's exhausted face, hear his "strong firepower" comment, and the lump of wotou in his heart finally lodged itself completely in his throat, suffocating him, making his vision go black.

By the time Old Liu Tou, supported by neighbors lending many hands, arrived at the "Intelligent Monkey Academy," he finally understood what "bright it dazzled the eyes" meant. Huge glass curtain walls reflected the lead-grey sky. Figures moved indistinctly inside, like fish in a tank – quiet, orderly, but emanating an indescribable... busy deadness.

He was received by a young man in a sharp suit and leather shoes, his hair slicked back shiningly, who introduced himself as "Manager Wang." Manager Wang wore a professional mask of sorrow, spoke politely and considerately, every word measured as if by a ruler.

"Mr. Liu, regarding Minghui's unfortunate passing, we feel deep sorrow," Manager Wang's voice echoed in the spacious reception room. "The company will certainly take its due responsibility, please rest assured."

Old Liu Tou's lips trembled. He wanted to ask how his son had really died, why it was an "accident," but the words that came out were: "Did he... did he eat anything last night?"

Manager Wang paused for a second, seemingly unprepared for this question. The assistant beside him quickly whispered something. Manager Wang regained that perfectly calibrated look of sympathy: "According to colleagues, Minghui was busy with a project sprint all night. It seems... he ordered takeout, but didn't get a chance to eat it."

Didn't get a chance to eat... Old Liu's heart felt like it had been pricked by a needle. He remembered his son as a child, with such a good appetite, able to eat three big bowls of zhajiangmian in one sitting.

What followed was a long, procedural "communication." Manager Wang and a woman who looked like she was from legal affairs patiently explained the company's "humanitarian care package." A stack of documents lay before Old Liu Tou, covered in dense text that made his eyes swim. They repeatedly emphasized that Minghui's death was an "accident due to personal health reasons," but the company, "out of concern for the employee and his family," was willing to provide a sum as "condolence money."

Listening, Old Liu Tou felt the air in the room grow increasingly thin. He looked at these people before him, their faces clear yet somehow indistinct. They represented the giant "Intelligent Monkey Academy" that had swallowed his son, and even represented this rapidly spinning world that left one breathless. They were polite, their logic was clear, everything they said was reasonable, yet lacked a shred of human warmth. They discussed the end of a life as if processing a write-off for damaged office supplies.

He suddenly recalled the numb onlookers in Mr. Lu Xun's writings, observing others' suffering like watching some unrelated sideshow. These people weren't onlookers; they were part of the play, perhaps even among its directors, yet just as terrifyingly numb.

"He... he was worked to death, wasn't he?" Old Liu Tou finally voiced the thought in his heart, his voice hoarse.

Manager Wang's brow furrowed almost imperceptibly, then smoothed out again. "Mr. Liu, we understand how you feel. But the causes of sudden death are complex, modern medicine also..." He began reciting some popular science facts about cardiovascular diseases, as if giving a health lecture.

Old Liu Tou didn't speak again. He looked at the glass of water on the table, almost untouched, its surface reflecting the sickly pale lights overhead like a pupil-less eye, coldly observing everything. He thought of the old locust tree at the hutong entrance, of the cool breeze and cicada song on summer nights, of his son as a child, chasing dragonflies like a little fool. Those vivid, warm memories formed a stark contrast with the cold, procedural present.

He felt like a moth trapped in a glass maze, surrounded by bright walls, able to see outside but unable to break through. This "Intelligent Monkey Academy," this whole high-speed society, was a giant, gleaming maze, trapping people inside, squeezing out their last ounce of energy, then telling them: "This was your choice, you had strong 'firepower'."

Ultimately, Old Liu Tou pressed his fingerprint onto the stack of documents. Not because he accepted their explanations, nor because the "condolence money" could compensate for anything, but because he was tired, he couldn't fight anymore. He just wanted to leave this place as quickly as possible, return to his familiar hutong, dilapidated perhaps, but full of human warmth.

Stepping out of the "Intelligent Monkey Academy" main entrance, a drizzle had started sometime. Beijing spring, warm one moment, cold the next. Old Liu Tou pulled his old padded jacket tighter around him, standing blankly by the roadside. Skyscrapers stood tall, traffic streamed endlessly, neon lights flashed with alluring colors, giant smiling faces on billboards advertised a better life.

Everything looked so bright, so full of hope. But Old Liu Tou knew that beneath these dazzling lights, there were always dark corners, pitch-black where you couldn't see your hand in front of your face. His son, and many young people like him, had exhausted themselves in that "darkness under the lamp."

He walked slowly forward, his steps unsteady. The fine rain dampened his hair, but he didn't bother to wipe it. This world, he suddenly felt, was like that lump of wotou in his chest - seemingly solid, but actually dry and hard inside, choking the life out of people. And those "Intelligent Monkeys," perhaps they were hiding in even brighter places, calculating the next "growth point," completely unaware that it was raining outside, soaking an old man who had just lost his son.

As he walked, Old Liu Tou couldn't help but look back one last time at the enormous glass building. It still gleamed in the drizzle, like a silent, man-eating monument. He sighed, turned around, his back hunched, and disappeared into the misty rain and the crowd. The old locust tree in the hutong was still waiting for him, but who knew, come next autumn when the leaves fell, whose story would be silently buried beneath the city's clamor.