Old Wang has been feeling like a battery every day at work lately, except that he's not charging himself, but being forcibly "energized" by others. This is all thanks to the company's newly launched "Energy Gas Station" project.
Old Wang, or rather, former Old Wang, is now "Glass King." Ever since he was sued by Haidilao, this nickname has spread throughout his neighborhood. Old Wang wasn't angry; instead, he thought the name was kind of artistic, like a performance artist.
His "artistic" career began last month when he discovered a secret: Haidilao's free snacks occasionally contained broken glass. This wasn't some conspiracy theory but rather a low-probability event on the production line. However, Old Wang seized this "low probability." He began his performance, biting down, spitting out glass shards while the staff watched in horror, and then demanding "emotional distress compensation" with a look of deep suffering.
Old Mike has become a celebrity in the neighborhood ever since the "Vegetable Garden Game" was launched. Not because he grew any rare herbs, but because he gesticulates and mumbles in front of the bare patch of land in his yard every day.
At first, everyone thought Old Mike had dementia. After all, he was in his seventies, living alone in a small house in the suburbs, and aside from occasionally watering his flowers, he didn't have any other hobbies. But recently, he had suddenly become obsessed, running to his yard every morning, waving his arms in front of the empty space, and mumbling to himself, as if he were talking to someone.
Old Wang held his heavy "Annual Outstanding Employee" medal, his heart filled with mixed feelings. The medal was substantial, its metal cold to the touch, and on its face, a line of gilded lettering shone dazzlingly under the lights. In the office, his colleagues cast envious glances his way, showering him with compliments. Old Wang just smiled awkwardly, as if the medal was not a symbol of glory but a kind of heavy shackle.
The office lights stung the eyes. The clock on the wall listlessly pointed to ten o'clock. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city had plunged into darkness, with only scattered lights twinkling, like distant stars in the cosmos, indifferent and detached.
Old Wang rubbed his sore eyes, mechanically tapping on the keyboard. The dense code on the screen was like a menacing devil, tangling his nerves. He had been working overtime for two weeks straight, at least ten hours a day, sometimes even longer. He felt like a lemon that had been squeezed dry, leaving only an empty shell.
"Welcome, what kind of style would you like today?" Xiaoya offered a professional smile, her tone as sweet as if it had been laced with three spoons of sugar. She had to repeat this phrase at least fifty times a day, addressing all sorts of nails with varying attitudes, slowly grinding away at her own self.
Today, a young woman wearing black-rimmed glasses walked into the shop. She was dressed in a well-tailored suit, her nails neatly trimmed but utterly unremarkable, resembling a typical white-collar worker from a cubicle. She pushed her glasses up her nose, her voice a bit tired, "Give me a simple solid color, something that makes my hands look whiter."
"You see, isn't this height perfect?" the doctor said with a smile, pointing to the X-ray image. On the image, in the middle of my shin bone, there was a steel rod, like a scar that stretched across.
I stared at the steel rod. It wasn't perfect, it was even a bit ugly. But in the doctor's eyes, it represented the height I had dreamed of, the height accepted by society.
Teacher Zhang has been a bit bothered lately. It's not because of the mountain of exam papers at the end of the semester, nor is it the endless pleasantries of "Teacher, you've worked hard" in the parents' group chat. Instead, it's because he's recently become obsessed with a "new course" – human behavior studies, and a practical one at that.
The location of this course is a bit unusual; it's his colleague Teacher Li's single dormitory. The method is also simple: he installed a pinhole camera in the desk lamp next to Teacher Li's bed.
"You touched my waist!"
This sentence was like a bomb, instantly detonating the crowded subway car.
Old Wang, before retiring, was the director of education at a school, a man who adhered to rules and regulations his entire life. Now, he was frowning at the New Year's Eve dinner table. What worried him was not the lack of New Year's goods or his children not being by his side, but his grandson, Xiao Bao, who was in elementary school.