Old Liu's biggest hobby after retirement is to wander around the farmers market at the entrance of his neighborhood every afternoon, picking out some fresh goodies. Recently, he's become obsessed with cherries. Those bright red fruits are just delightful to look at. But something feels off to him.
Zhang Qiang looked at the "Resignation Application Flow Chart" on his computer screen. It was densely packed with 26 steps, each step corresponding to a stamped circle, like a maze. He sighed, spread the printed resignation application form on his desk, and counted from the beginning with his finger, making sure he hadn't missed any "necessary steps."
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.
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.
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.
Old Wang was the company’s “overtime model worker.” Leaving at 9:30 PM was considered an early departure for him. He sported the characteristic programmer's receding hairline and perpetually wore dark circles under his eyes, looking like an insomniac panda. An unwritten “truth” circulated within the company: overtime is a virtue, not doing overtime is a lack of ambition.
Old Wang, once a veteran shoemaker at “Guirenniao,” is now a chicken farmer at “Golden Crane Agriculture.” The transition was so rapid that it left him a little dazed.
Old Wang's new mobile phone number ends in seven zeros. In their company, this represents absolute authority and even a touch of mystique. Old Wang isn't the boss, nor is he a senior executive; he's just an ordinary data analyst, but he is more obsessed with the perfection of numbers than anyone else.
Old Wang hasn't been quite himself lately. He no longer complains about the office coffee machine always being broken, nor does he secretly play games during his lunch break. He spends his days holding a strange device, tapping it repeatedly, making a "dong dong dong" sound, like some primitive rhythm. His colleagues were initially curious, but later got used to it, assuming Old Wang was up to some new trick.