Old Wang has been troubled lately. To be precise, it has been for a while. Since he joined the company's "sleep optimization" program, he has had to lie on a special "sleep optimization bed" every night. This bed, more of a technological cocoon, monitors your sleep data and uses micro-current stimulation to "optimize" your sleep quality.

Old Chen had worked at the aquarium for thirty years, transforming from a naive young man into a middle-aged man with thinning hair. He was familiar with the habits of every fish, knew which sea turtle liked to daydream in the corner, and which eel loved to hide behind the artificial rocks. Recently, the aquarium had introduced a new batch of sunfish, round creatures that looked adorable but were exceptionally delicate.

Old Wang was known as "Mr. Standard" at work. His life, just like his punctual 7:30 am clock-in every morning, was precise and meticulous. He loved rules, viewing them as the lighthouse guiding his life's voyage. This was not only reflected in his work but also in every detail of his life. For instance, he used the same needle every day to pierce the same capsule, extracting the fish oil inside, and then precisely dripping it into his morning oatmeal. This was his health regimen he had adhered to for twenty years.

This morning, as usual, he took out the polished steel needle, ready to pierce today's capsule. However, when the needle tip touched the capsule shell, it felt like hitting steel, unable to penetrate at all. Old Wang frowned, carefully inspecting the needle, the tip was intact, neither bent nor broken. He tried again at a different angle, but still, it didn't work. The capsule seemed to be enveloped by an invisible barrier, impenetrable.

Old Li has recently become obsessed with watching the 999 Cold Remedy commercials. Not because he has a cold, but because the line "There's always warmth on the road" inexplicably brings him a sense of comfort. He works overtime every day until late at night, is crammed into the subway like a sardine, and then has to face mountains of reports when he gets home. He feels like a screw, tightly screwed onto the company's machine.

Old Wang was once again sitting on an empty waiting chair in the hospital, he was used to it. Ever since the notice "Imported drugs withdrawn from public hospitals" was posted, the place had become eerily quiet. In the past, it was crowded with anxious patients and their families, the air thick with the smell of disinfectant and unease, but now, only the cold wind whistling in the corners and Old Wang's heavy breathing could be heard.

The red light in the ambulance flickered on and off, like a tired eye. Lao Li looked at his watch, the second hand stubbornly ticking forward. He wasn't racing against time to save lives, but to meet a deadline. More precisely, to meet a "time requirement."

That day, the sun was shining brightly, so much so that Li Ming, stuck in traffic, felt a little cheerful. He was driving his newly bought red car, slowly crawling along in the traffic flow. Suddenly, a piercing siren grew louder, and Li Ming looked up to see a fire truck stuck behind him, flashing its urgent red and blue lights.

Old Liu was a gardener. His days were spent trimming lawns and watering plants, a life as monotonous as concrete. His greatest pleasure was keeping several koi in a large fish tank on his balcony.

"Brother Wang, the feed mix for the cranes has been adjusted today. Could you take a look at whether this batch of corn kernels meets the 'Golden Crane' standard?"

Zhang Qiang dragged his tired body into the hotel called "Anxinju." During check-in, the receptionist's smile seemed a bit mechanical, and her white uniform made him feel like it was overly formal. He didn't think much of it, assuming the hotel had a "minimalist" style.