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.
Lao Wang finally got his hands on the car. Not by stealing, not by robbing, but in a way more characteristic of these times—you know the kind. A brand new, gleaming metallic, Bavarian-proud, five-letter iron beast. In theory, this thing symbolized success, at least the greasy kind, the kind others could recognize at a glance. Touching the blue-and-white emblem on the steering wheel, Lao Wang's heart felt like it held a rabbit, one that had just popped some pills, kicking frantically with excitement. The feeling was like the first time he held a girl's hand in his youth, soft and smooth, full of infinite possibilities, as if he was about to do something earth-shattering.
Xiaofang recently felt that something was a little off.
Ao Bing looked at the words "Dragon Palace" on the stick and fell into deep thought. It was an ordinary wooden stick painted with cheap red paint, originally used to support the Dragon Palace's crumbling coral reef walls. Now, it was casually discarded in the corner of the Dragon Palace Property Management office, covered in the fishy smell of seaweed and the dust of time.
He had to face a reality: he was likely to inherit his family's property management company.
Lao Liu's grandson, Xiaobao, received a thick stack of red envelope money this year. On the eighth day of the Lunar New Year, Xiaobao insisted on going to the bank to deposit it. Lao Liu couldn't dissuade him, so he took him.
The "Spring-Dodging Agency" opened a storefront at the end of the old street, the entrance so narrow it looked like a crack squeezed between two buildings. The sign was handwritten, the characters crooked and twisted, like the "ancestral secret recipes" found in old, neglected neighborhoods.
As the Spring Festival approached, the sound of firecrackers grew louder, seemingly about to shake the city. But inside the agency, it was eerily quiet. Old Liu sat behind the counter, slowly sharpening his kitchen knife, which was rumored to "dodge all disasters." He wore a grease-stained apron, his face wrinkled like an old newspaper crumpled by time.
Old Chen is the captain of the drone maintenance team, a middle-aged man whose hairline is receding year by year. His daily job is to inspect, repair, and record those things that fall from the sky. This time is a bit special, it’s not just one or two that fell, but a whole batch, and all of them are high-tech gadgets imported from South Korea.
"This thing is like a rock with wings," Old Chen muttered, kicking a piece of debris. He hasn't been home for three consecutive days, and his eye bags are as dark as two lumps of coal. The maintenance shed was filled with shattered fuselage, like the aftermath of a fierce air battle.
Old Li had graduated from medical school five years ago. He always fiddled with his small school emblem – a snake coiled around a staff, cold and smooth. Other classmates treated it as a decoration, but Old Li felt that it hid some secrets.
The emblem's design was almost the same as all medical schools. Old Li once asked his teacher what the serpent staff represented. The teacher would always smile and say it was “a symbol of medicine,” “healing the sick and saving the dying.” But Old Li always felt something was wrong. Why was a symbol of healing so cold and devoid of warmth?
Lao Wang, carrying two bags of snacks, struggled through the crowded cinema. It was the first day of the Lunar New Year, and tickets for the Spring Festival movie season were incredibly hard to come by. He had managed to snag tickets two weeks in advance, and today he could finally enjoy the festivities with his wife.
Old Li tightened his thermal suit. The HUD screen on his helmet displayed the "Deep Space Express" logo and the package number he was delivering today: DS-742. The cold wind blew across the few sparse whiskers he had recently grown on his face, bringing a stinging sensation. He muttered, "This damn weather, when will it ever end?"
He was in a city that had been transformed beyond recognition by technology. Towering metal buildings resembled cold, monstrous beasts, and the air was filled with a faint odor of disinfectant. There were no cars on the ground, only automatic skateboards and aerial tracks, while Old Li was riding an old electric scooter, which looked out of place.