"Gold, it's gone up again today!"
Old Wang muttered to himself, holding his thermos mug, staring at the glaring numbers on the computer screen. He worked at "Gleaming Gold" company, whose main business was gold jewelry. But Old Wang wasn't a designer, nor a salesperson; he was just an ordinary clerk in charge of data entry. His daily task was to input the real-time gold prices and inventory data of various jewelry items into the company's internal network system.
Nezha has been feeling troubled lately. Not because he's been bullied again, nor because the Dragon King is causing trouble again. But because he, the once-young hero who rode on wind and fire wheels, brandishing a fire-tipped spear, and quelled demons in the sea, is now suffocated by a "Quarterly Performance Assessment Form."
"Comrade Nezha, your popularity growth this quarter is below average, peripheral product sales have declined, and online discussion is showing a sluggish trend. According to the 'Immortal Civil Servant Performance Management Measures,' your salary will be reduced by one grade." Master Taiyi, stroking his beard, read the document in his hand with a grave tone, his voice filled with helplessness, as if he were the one being tormented by the performance assessment.
The cold winter wind cut through the gas station like a knife, leaving it deserted. Only the orange glow of the lights illuminated the cold asphalt. Old Wang huddled deeper into his cotton coat, exhaling a puff of white mist. He had been working the night shift at this remote gas station for five years. Since the company introduced robots to replace human workers, it had become a forgotten corner.
Old Wang had given this robot a name, “Little Iron,” even though it was just a cold machine. He still had a habit of talking to it. Tonight, Little Iron was different. It was no longer mechanically repeating “Welcome, please scan to refuel,” but instead making strange noises.
Old Wang sat in his twenty-seventh-floor office at Jinsheng Group, staring blankly at the K-line chart on his computer screen. The price of gold had risen again, like a mad, runaway horse, galloping far ahead. He tapped on the keyboard, trying to turn these frantic numbers into a decent report, but the lines, in his eyes, were like golden fetters around his neck, tightening more and more.
Old Wang sat at his workstation, staring blankly at the blurry screenshot on his computer screen. In the screenshot, a robot on the Spring Festival Gala stage was wearing a flesh-colored pair of tight pants, looking utterly ridiculous under the spotlight.
“Tell me,” Old Wang asked his colleague, Xiao Li, who was sitting next to him, “whose idea was this pair of pants, anyway?”
On the first day of the Lunar New Year, at exactly six in the morning, Zhang Wei was awakened by his phone ringing. It wasn't the alarm; it was the endless "Happy New Year" and "Full of Blessings" messages in the WeChat group. Rubbing his sleepy eyes, he opened his phone. The company group was filled with festive cheer. The boss took the lead, and everyone sent red envelopes, paired with the sentence, "New year, new atmosphere, full of blessings for the whole year."
Zhang Wei grabbed a few red envelopes, totaling less than five yuan. He sighed. Although he knew it was routine, seeing everyone echoing the boss and sending flattering messages like "Boss is generous, we will do our best in the new year," he still felt a wave of nausea.
The stage lights gradually dimmed, and the clamor of the Spring Festival Gala slowly dissipated. In the audience, scattered applause, like a faint tide, lapped at the edges of the enormous stage. Tonight, the most eye-catching were not the glamorous celebrities, but the row of precise and elegant robot dancers at the center of the stage.
They wore silver leotards, with joints that shimmered with a deep blue light. Every movement was the result of precise calculations, and every smile was as accurate as a ruler's markings. They completed their dance performance perfectly, cooperating seamlessly and flawlessly. The audience applauded their performance enthusiastically, as if they truly possessed souls.
On the first day of the Lunar New Year, the sun streamed through the window, casting a warm glow on the old wooden floor. A few coins and a crisp hundred-yuan bill lay scattered on the floor, gleaming brightly in the sunlight. I, a post-00s girl who had just turned twenty, was sitting on the floor, rubbing my sore knees.
Yesterday, I kowtowed 888 times.
The noise of the Spring Festival Gala hadn't completely faded, and the firecracker debris scattered around the neighborhood, like shattered dreams, reminded people that the New Year was passing. Li Mei rubbed her hands, red from the cold, and looked up at the red socks hanging on her balcony, the color resembling the red envelope her mother had given her.
Old Wang stared at his phone screen, his finger hovering stiffly above the "Send" button. In the WeChat group, relatives and friends were sending New Year greetings with great enthusiasm, and various red envelopes flew across the screen. This year, he was chosen by his company to be the executor of the "New Year's Gift" event. To put it bluntly, it was to send digital red envelopes to clients and partners using the company's newly developed AI red envelope system.
"Brother Wang, it's time to send them!" said his colleague Xiao Li beside him, his tone laced with excitement. "This time, we're going to give users a 'surprise' and let everyone feel the power of technology!"