Old Zhang was carrying a heavy combination lock suitcase, like he was holding a box of gold bars. In fact, it contained the company’s year-end bonus for employees – 300,000 yuan in cash. He carefully stepped into the elevator, the suitcase creaking, as if whispering its value. He was alone in the elevator. Old Zhang looked down at the old-fashioned mechanical watch on his wrist. It was already 6:30 PM, and the annual meeting was about to begin.
Old Liu is an early warning operator at the city's Earthquake Early Warning Center, or more precisely, the "Chief Duty Officer" of the early warning team. The reason for the addition of "chief" is not because he has superior technical skills, but because he is the most senior and has the thinnest hair, making him the team's acknowledged "fixture."
Every morning at eight o'clock, Old Liu sits down in front of his outdated computer. The screen displays various fluctuating curves, like a heart monitor in a hospital. Old Liu's job is to stare at these curves, waiting for the line representing an earthquake to suddenly twitch.
Old Wang had been with the company for fifteen years, growing from a naive intern to a balding, middle-aged man. He had participated in countless projects, witnessing the company's entire journey from a small workshop to a listed corporation. His workstation, much like himself, was old but carried too many memories.
Recently, the company launched a "trade-in" event, encouraging employees to bring in their old computers, old phones, and even old office supplies. The company would provide a trade-in value based on an assessment, allowing employees to purchase new products. Old Wang thought it was just a normal promotion, but it turned out to be a grand performance art by the company.
On the eve of the Spring Festival, Lao Wang discovered a new app on his phone called "UnionPay Red Packet Rain." It was said that to celebrate the successful inscription of the Spring Festival as a World Heritage, UnionPay, in collaboration with various merchants, was distributing digital red packets in the sky over cities at set times each day. These red packets could be used to offset consumer spending. Initially, Lao Wang didn't pay much attention, thinking it was just another gimmick used by businesses. That was until he saw people in his neighborhood wearing AR glasses, running around downstairs like a group of madmen chasing fireflies.
At lunchtime, Zhang Qiang skillfully swipes his employee badge and walks into the brightly lit ByteDance cafeteria. A dazzling array of food is on display, each with an exquisite price tag, except for the plate in his hand—the 100-yuan standard meal, which is free.
This used to be a perk that countless internet workers envied: free, abundant, and high-quality. When Zhang Qiang first joined, he was also proud of it, feeling that ByteDance's generosity and strength were impressive. However, over time, he began to feel that something was amiss.
The lights at the annual meeting flickered, a little too dazzling, mirroring Wang Wei's current mood. She clutched the thin piece of paper in her hand, which displayed her newly "won" grand prize – an extra ten days of paid annual leave. Below the stage, her colleagues were clapping, their eyes filled with envy and bewilderment. After all, who would consider valuable annual leave a prize?
"Wang Wei, congratulations!" Old Li from HR approached her, patting her shoulder with a beaming smile. "The company's really thinking outside the box this year, using annual leave as a prize. You're the first one!"
Autumn in Los Angeles, with a hint of dryness. The distant hills begin to smoke, like a kettle of boiling water.
An old man sits on his rickety wooden chair, gazing at the distant firelight, clutching a crumpled insurance policy in his hand, his last hope. His name is Carl, one of the few remaining residents at the foot of the mountain, the other neighbors having either moved away or gone bankrupt.
Old Wang has been feeling anxious lately, not because of his mortgage or KPIs, but because his daughter has become obsessed with a strange thing—a wish lighthouse.
This lighthouse isn't an antique or a tourist attraction; it's a luminous structure, a full nine meters tall, standing on the top floor of a newly built high-end office building in the city center. It’s said that if you make a wish facing it, your wish is more likely to come true.
Old Wang works in a cannery, which sounds a bit ridiculous, right? But he really is in a cannery, and his daily job is to put miniature sections of railroad track into specially made cans.
When he first entered the factory, he thought it was a joke played by some immature kid. Miniature railroad tracks? What use could they possibly be other than as a springboard for mice? On the first day, he couldn't help but laugh out loud at his colleagues on the assembly line, which earned him a scolding from the foreman, who said he was disrupting production order and deducted his pay for the day. From then on, Old Wang dared not laugh again.
The day Lao Wang decided to resign, the sky was gray, much like his current mood. He had worked at this company for a full ten years, transforming from a fresh graduate to a "Lao Wang" with thinning hair. He liked it when people called him that, it had a touch of self-deprecation and a helpless kind of intimacy.
In these ten years, he had written countless lines of code, like a craftsman polishing his work. He was used to the sound of the keyboard, used to the glow of the screen in the late hours, and used to struggling in countless bugs. He thought he had become one with these codes, like a part of his body.