Wang Er felt this year's spring was stickier than usual, even the wind carried a dampness, feeling like an unwiped rag against his face. He huddled in his small, north-facing room, staring blankly at the black, square block on the table—what they called a "smartphone." This gadget was his eyes, his ears, and sometimes, it seemed, his brain.
When Wang Ming first heard the news about the "Sanbengzi shortage," he paid it no mind. It was just a simply constructed, even somewhat clumsy three-wheeled motorcycle, seemingly out of place in the vast, efficient, future-bound city he inhabited. However, within days, the news spread like a silent plague. First, it was neighbors whispering in the hallway, then colleagues exchanging anxious glances in the office pantry, and finally, even the old man selling savory crepes on the street corner added worriedly while making change, "Heard they're going crazy for them over in America, probably means we'll run out here too."
It began at the supermarket named "Wanjiafu"—though, of course, it might have lain dormant long before, only revealing its true nature during this closing sale. Official records show that during the final stages of the asset inventory, the accountant, a cautious man named Wang who wore reading glasses, checked three times before reporting, with trembling hands: five hundred and seventeen shopping carts had vanished without a trace. Not damaged or abandoned in corners, but completely, inexplicably gone.
K received the notice on a Tuesday morning. It wasn't handed to him directly but was, as usual, tucked amidst the endless pile of documents on his desk, as if it inherently belonged there. A thin sheet of paper, the printing slightly blurred, exuding the smell of cheap ink and some indefinable official odor. K was an ordinary customs calculation clerk in the Tax Building, responsible for processing import duties for goods from specific regions. He had held this job for many years, long accustomed to the monotony of numbers and the tediousness of regulations, precise as clockwork, and just as devoid of life.
K, or let's call him Old Wang for now – names, after all, had long been worn down to vague designations in this endless hustle – rode his creaking electric scooter, navigating the maze-like veins of the city. Today, the system had assigned him a special order, marked "Urgent" and "Medicine." The remarks section pleaded, "Life-saving medicine, please be quick, only an old person at home." The address pointed to an old residential complex on the city's edge, a place like a forgotten fold hidden beneath the glossy surface of the metropolis.