Zhou Qiming was roused by the sound of someone tapping on the subway window.
It wasn't an instant realization.
When the sound reached him, it first felt out of place—like someone appearing at a moment when no one should be there.
A rag thudded against the glass, dull and heavy. Twice.
Then a hand pointed toward the door.
He blinked, his vision blurring briefly before he realized the gesture was meant for him.
Not a question. Not a reminder.
Just a blunt declaration: this was over.
He was alone in the carriage now.
All the lights were on—glaring, almost painful. Not meant for comfort, but for exposure. The dust on the floor, the worn edges of the seats, the face reflected in the glass—nothing was spared.
His knees buckled slightly as he stood.
It wasn't fatigue.
Nor low blood sugar.
It felt more like emerging from a place where weight didn't matter—his feet already planted on solid ground, while his body was still registering that gravity had been there all along.
He picked up his bag and stepped off the train.
The platform was deserted. The announcement repeated the terminal-station message, its pace steady, without a single unnecessary pause. It was the kind of voice that made pretending not to hear impossible.
His phone vibrated in his pocket.
He took it out and glanced at the screen.
[Supervisor]: You're covering the morning shift today. The night shift called in sick.
[Supervisor]: Be here before 9.
The time read 8:17.
He stared at the two lines for a few seconds without replying.
Not because he didn't understand, and not because he was hesitating to agree.
It was an instinctive delay.
As if buying himself a sliver of breathing room that didn't actually exist.
He was familiar with this kind of delay.
Not replying didn't mean refusal. Replying late didn't count as tardy.
It looked more like he hadn't noticed than like he was making a choice.
By the time he exited the station, the morning rush was already receding.
There were still plenty of people, but no longer packed tightly enough to push one another forward. Breakfast vendors were folding their umbrellas, the sweetness of soy milk mingling with engine oil and dust, drifting toward him in uneven waves.
The air felt thick.
Each breath registered clearly.
He suddenly recalled the state he had just been in.
There had been no smell there.
Not pleasant, not unpleasant—simply no need to breathe.
The thought slowed his steps.
Not out of longing, but from a sudden awareness of contrast.
The company occupied Tower B of an office complex.
Tower A stood right beside it—slightly taller, its glass brighter, the ground at its entrance scrubbed clean every day. Tower B's entrance was tucked to the side, its elevators slow, its floor indicators slightly askew.
The elevator wasn't crowded.
Everyone stared at their phones, standing quietly, spaced just far enough apart to avoid awkwardness. No one spoke. No one fully relaxed. Like a row of devices waiting for a system update.
At exactly nine o'clock, he sat back down at his desk.
The system automatically popped up a window.
Today's Task Volume: 480
Accuracy Requirement: 99.2%
Current Ranking: Lower middle
He no longer needed to scrutinize the numbers.
A single glance told him what kind of day this would be.
He put on his headphones and opened the first task.
The moment the image appeared, his body tensed instinctively.
Blurred screenshots.
Obscured key areas.
Rows of malicious comments stacked beneath.
He had processed this content so many times he could no longer remember what it had felt like the first time.
The mouse moved.
A box was checked.
Submit.
The motions were swift—almost requiring no thought.
At some point, he realized something.
It had been a long time since he had truly seen any of this.
His eyes registered it. His judgment followed. But between the two sat something thin yet stable, holding emotion at a distance.
He paused.
That sensation felt similar to the state he'd been in earlier, in the dream.
The resemblance unsettled him.
Not fear—just a quiet sense of misalignment.
At 12:30, he ordered takeout.
While waiting, he stared at the countdown timer in the upper-right corner of the system interface. With each item processed, a small segment of time was shaved away.
It didn't feel like time passing.
It felt like being cut, piece by piece.
He thought again of the dream.
There had been no time there.
No division.
No sense of how much you have left.
The thought had barely surfaced when a faint discomfort rose in his chest. Not pain—more like someone giving a light tug, reminding him not to drift.
At three in the afternoon, the system issued a notification:
Processing efficiency declining.
He removed his headphones and went to the restroom.
The person in the mirror looked slightly older than his actual age.
Not prematurely aged—more like something worn down by repeated use. His gaze wasn't unfocused, but it lacked a point of rest, as if waiting for the next instruction.
He washed his hands but didn't dry them right away.
Water dripped from his fingertips into the sink, the sound crisp and unmistakable.
A slightly absurd thought surfaced.
If he closed his eyes now, would he return there?
The thought tightened his chest.
Not because of that place itself.
But because—
he had begun to think of it deliberately.
By the time he finished work, night had fallen.
He stood at the building's entrance, watching the lights in Tower A. The windows there were orderly, uniform, as if positioned at a slightly higher level. Tower B's lights were always uneven—half on, half off—with several floors left vacant for years.
Suddenly, he realized something.
There had been no hierarchy in the dream.
In reality, it was everywhere.
On the subway ride home, he deliberately left his headphones off.
Noise flooded in—raw, unfiltered, impossible to ignore. He forced himself to feel the hardness of the seat, the chill of the handrail, the slight imbalance when the car swayed.
But when the train plunged back into the tunnel, and the lights flickered for just a split second—
his body still relaxed.
Instinctively.
As if waiting for something.
Even he couldn't quite explain what.