"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.
"You touched my waist!"
This sentence was like a bomb, instantly detonating the crowded subway car.
The gas station's bell rings on time, not a real bell, but a system notification sound. Every day at six in the morning, it announces the start of a new day in a mechanical yet slightly excited tone. "Go for it, working stiff!" The cartoon character on the screen waves its fist, its smile frozen, as if mocking.
Li Ming skillfully puts on his work hat, which is printed with "Today's Oil Price: 7.88 yuan/liter". This number changes every day, stimulating his nerves like a stock price. When it goes up, he sighs; when it falls, he feels disappointed, as if he has become a slave to oil prices.
Old Li died, quietly and without a sound. Just like the decades he lived, equally silent. When the community members cleaned his room, they found three bank cards and a property certificate, with a total value of nearly five million yuan. But this inheritance became a hot potato, unclaimed.
Old Li was never married, had no children, his parents had passed away early, and he had lost contact with distant relatives. It was as if he had appeared out of thin air in this city, and disappeared just as suddenly, leaving behind a pile of ownerless wealth.
Old Wang's greatest joy after retirement was organizing his "legacy list." This wasn't a traditional will, but a detailed list of every small item in his life: a tea set used for thirty years, each cup with a different chip, like the irreparable regrets in his life; a pile of expired newspapers, recording the boring news of each day, like his monotonous life day after day; and a box of matchboxes he collected in his youth, the patterns on which always reminded him of those blurred past events.
He lived in a small bachelor apartment, the walls a mottled yellow, the window looking out at towering skyscrapers. Old Wang always sat by the window, sipping his strong tea, staring at his list in a daze. The list had been updated dozens of times, the writing becoming denser and denser, like his life, increasingly complicated yet increasingly empty.
Old Wang died, on the winter solstice night, as silently as the withered green ivy on his bedside, frozen and lifeless. No one knows the exact cause of his death, just as no one knows if he ever loved anyone in his life. All he left behind were the cold numbers in his bank account: four million three hundred thousand yuan, and a thirty-square-meter old apartment in the city center.
As usual, Old Wang's "estate" was put on public notice. The notice board was covered with dense small print, like a giant spiderweb, trying to capture anyone related to Old Wang. However, a month passed, then two, then half a year, and apart from a few routine inquiries, no one came forward to claim this “windfall.”
Lao Zhang’s workstation was always piled high with delivery boxes. He was an operations assistant at a live-streaming e-commerce company, and his daily work consisted of unpacking, sorting, and taking photos to send to his colleagues in the live-streaming room. Recently, the company had been heavily promoting a product called “Original Cut Beef Rolls,” which had been selling like hotcakes. The beef roll deliveries he unpacked each day were enough to fill half the office.
Lao Zhang found it a bit strange. The company’s warehouse wasn’t that big, so where did all these beef rolls come from? Curious, he picked up a box. The packaging was exquisite, with the red characters "Original Cut" particularly eye-catching. When he opened it, a rich, meaty aroma wafted out, and the texture looked real. But he felt that something was off, maybe he was just desensitized to the smell of beef after unpacking so many boxes recently.
Zhang Qiang wakes up at seven o'clock every morning, not by the alarm clock, but by the notifications pushed by the "project reminder" app he set. This app is mandatory for every employee to install, set up by his company to facilitate the smooth progress of the "world-class project".
Zhang Qiang still doesn't understand what exactly the so-called "world-class project" is. Inside the company, the narrative shifts; sometimes it's AI intelligent evolution, and other times it’s metaverse infrastructure. In short, they are all concepts that sound grand but are hard to grasp. His job, simply put, is to spend every day in front of the computer screen, navigating through obscure code and data streams, like playing a maze game that can never be solved.
Old Wang, oh no, everyone calls me "Dianhan" now, standing on the stage of the company's annual meeting, the lights are blinding me. The audience below is a sea of black, all colleagues dressed in suits, looking like they just came off the assembly line. I'm holding this freshly baked "Dianhan 2024 Annual Work Report" in my hand, feeling a mix of emotions.
The first page of the report is a record of my hard work over the past year. I've transformed from an ordinary assembly line worker into the company's ace in the "new media strategy." Every day, I livestream, forcing a smile at the phone camera, teaching people how to tighten screws and solder circuit boards. Sometimes, I even perform a "welder's rock and roll." Fans call me "Dianhan," saying I've made the boring factory life interesting, which is considered a significant contribution to the company.
Old Wang walks into the company gate at 7:30 am sharp every day, like a robot with a set program. He likes this routine because it gives him a sense of control, at least within the company. The company is a large internet enterprise, known for its "wolf culture." Old Wang has worked at this company for five years, rising from a naive intern to a department head, but he still feels like he's running an endless marathon every day.
The morning meeting is the moment that gives Old Wang the biggest headache. The department manager, a middle-aged man always dressed in a suit and with a beaming smile, would always shout at everyone with his magnetic voice: "Keep going! Everyone, keep going!" This voice echoes in the meeting room, like an invisible spell, making everyone feel like something is burning in their chest, but no one knows exactly what it is.