Tomcat

The people of this city believe in an unquestionable truth: nine o'clock at night is the boundary dividing states of being. To cross it, entering slumber, is akin to activating an invisible machine, infusing life with order, efficiency, and an indescribable 'correctness'. On street propaganda posters, citizens with serene sleeping faces are bathed in soft moonlight, set against a background of gears and wheat sheaves symbolizing abundance and health. The caption is concise and powerful: "Early Bedtime: The Cheat Code to Perfection."

Lao Ding, Ding Jianguo, felt time slipping through his fingers—not in the metaphorical "time flies" sense, but physically disappearing. This feeling began with the third "adjusted leave" announcement of the year. That A4 sheet, printed like an official red-letter document, was like a cold surgical notice, announcing that his upcoming weekend needed to be cut, moved, and stitched together in exchange for a distant and fragmented "mini-holiday."

Manhattan wasn't awake yet, but a side street off Fifth Avenue already was, and running a fever. Three in the morning. The cold air was like a damp cloth, wiping over the bare trees and the hurried night-returners. Yet, here gathered a long dragon—a dragon composed of down jackets, coffee cups, yawns, and whispers—snaking for a full two blocks. They were all waiting, waiting for an electronics store, not yet open, with a decor so minimalist it bordered on cold. The target? A camera from China, called "Phoenix Eye."

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.

Old Ma, Ma Qingshan – Qingshan on paper, but everyone in the hutong called him Old Ma. Old Ma wasn't old, just past forty, but his back was a bit stooped, the creases at the corners of his eyes like they'd been repeatedly carved by the blunt knife of life: deep, but not sharp. He worked as an accountant in a modest-sized work unit, dealing with numbers every day, adding and subtracting, like abacus beads – regular, but wearing.

Old Wang reckoned this was the most reliable thing he’d done in his entire life. That bit of pension money he'd saved for nearly half his life – he hadn't listened to his wife's nagging about buying some darned "wealth management product," nor had he followed the young folks next door dabbling in some "Eye-Pee-Oh." No, he, Old Wang, had exchanged it for golden nuggets! Real, solid, gleaming yellow nuggets. Heavy in his hand when he clutched them, and tucked under his pillow, they made him sleep more soundly than ever.

Old Wang felt like he was about to merge with his electric scooter, not in that cool Transformers kind of way, but more like a puddle of melted asphalt, sticky and grimy, clinging to the city's skin. He was a delivery driver, one crowned with the title "God of Bad Reviews." This wasn't a crown he chose; it was forced upon him by the algorithm, that formless, colorless digital phantom said to be impartial and just.

The first time K. distinctly felt something was wrong was on what should have been a Friday afternoon. Sunlight slanted through the blinds, casting long, tired patches of light on the floor. The air was thick with the false sense of ease that heralded the coming weekend. However, when he habitually glanced at the wall calendar, he found the mark next to the date wasn't pointing to a day off, but rather a symbol he had never seen before – scrawled, yet possessing a certain official authority. It resembled a distorted character for 'work', tightly enclosed in a circle. He rubbed his eyes, but the symbol stubbornly remained.

"Isn't... isn't today Friday?" he muttered, his voice barely audible, as if afraid of disturbing something.

Wang Er felt this year's spring was stickier than usual, even the wind carried a dampness, feeling like an unwiped rag against his face. He huddled in his small, north-facing room, staring blankly at the black, square block on the table—what they called a "smartphone." This gadget was his eyes, his ears, and sometimes, it seemed, his brain.

In that dusty small town, names, like dust, were easily forgotten. Lin Xiaoqing's name, however, was once the brightest star in town. Her home was a mud-brick house that seemed to tremble with every gust of wind. Her parents were farmers who toiled from dawn till dusk, their sweat watering the barren land and nourishing her seemingly unattainable dream of university. That year, the acceptance letter arrived like a golden dove, flapping its wings as it flew into their humble home. The red seal, the white paper, carried the entirety of a young girl's imagination about the future – sunlit classrooms, vast seas of books, and the hope of escaping this land.