At 4:20 PM, a notification appeared on the system.
It wasn't a forced pop-up—just a brief glow in the corner, like a casual reminder.
[Notice]
Due to project restructuring, certain positions will undergo role realignment. Affected personnel are advised to pay attention to subsequent arrangements.
Zhou Qiming glanced at it but didn't open it.
Notifications like this appeared almost daily.
The content was always similar, the tone consistent—the only thing that changed was the timestamp.
Over time, he had learned to distinguish which ones required immediate response and which merely shifted responsibility in advance.
This one clearly belonged to the latter.
Ten minutes later, a new message appeared in the group chat.
[Manager]: @Zhou Qiming Qiming, come to the conference room before you leave today.
He stared at the message for a moment.
No reason given. No emoji.
Clean.
That cleanliness made it impossible to dismiss as routine.
The conference room was at the far end of the corridor, next to the fire escape.
It was rarely used.
The lighting was cool and dim. On the table were rings of water—circular marks left by a cup that hadn't been wiped away.
When Zhou Qiming entered, the supervisor was already seated.
Someone else sat beside him.
The man looked younger. His hair was cut very short. He wore a permanent staff badge, a different color from Zhou Qiming's.
He sat upright, hands resting on his thighs, completely still.
"Have a seat," the supervisor said.
No pleasantries.
No questions about whether Zhou Qiming was busy, or what he'd been working on.
"We're making some adjustments to the project," the supervisor said, flipping through the documents in a flat tone, as if reading from a script rehearsed many times. "Your current workflow will gradually be integrated into the automated review system."
When the words landed, Zhou Qiming felt surprisingly little.
It wasn't unexpected.
The idea had surfaced more than once in internal discussions—it just hadn't yet landed on a specific person.
Now it had.
He nodded.
"This isn't a layoff," the supervisor added, as if anticipating his reaction. "It's a transfer of responsibilities. The volume of content you handle will gradually decrease."
Zhou Qiming didn't speak.
He had questions.
How long did "gradually" mean? What would things look like afterward? Was there any chance of reversal?
But in this room, those questions felt unnecessary.
"So what will my main responsibilities be?" he asked anyway.
Only then did the supervisor look up.
The glance was brief, but unmistakably direct.
"In the early phase, you'll assist with debugging the new system," he said. "And help onboard new hires."
The person beside him smiled.
Not noticeably. Not audibly.
It looked like an instinctive reaction—or a check, making sure he appeared appropriately friendly.
"Your salary remains unchanged," the supervisor added.
The tone suggested reassurance.
But the reassurance wasn't handed to him—only placed on the table.
Zhou Qiming didn't respond.
Only then did he notice something—
from beginning to end, no one had asked whether he agreed.
The meeting ended quickly.
No signatures. No confirmations required.
Everything felt prearranged; he was simply being notified as part of the process.
As he left the room, he caught his reflection in the glass at the end of the corridor.
The light stretched his shadow longer than usual, making him look thinner.
It didn't feel like being pushed out.
More like being quietly shifted aside.
Not upward. Not downward.
Just a little farther from the center.
Back at his desk, he noticed the task volume in the system had been adjusted.
Not sharply reduced.
Just trimmed by a small section.
A gap had appeared in the middle of the previously continuous queue.
It wasn't a lighter burden.
It felt more like a gradual reduction of presence.
He continued working, though his pace slowed without intention.
Not deliberately.
He had simply realized that speed no longer mattered much here.
The new hire sat across from him.
The same person from the meeting room.
While working, the man asked quietly, "How do you usually judge this boundary?"
His voice was low, careful not to disturb anyone.
Zhou Qiming leaned over and looked at the screen.
The image was paused on a blurred edge case.
The rules weren't entirely clear; decisions like this usually relied on experience.
He explained it once.
No simplification. No elaboration.
Just an honest account of how he usually handled it.
The new hire listened carefully, nodding now and then. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, not rushing to act.
"Thanks," he said.
Then he lowered his head and continued working.
No further questions.
In that moment, Zhou Qiming realized—
he was handing over, piece by piece, the parts that still required his judgment.
Not taken from him.
Handed over by his own hands.
At the end of the day, he swiped his card as usual.
The machine beeped—sharp and brief.
Outside the building, he paused.
His body remembered the route.
But a small part of his sense of direction felt missing.
Not lost.
Just no longer sure why it needed to move forward.
He thought of the dream state.
There was no such thing as being replaced there.
Because there was no such thing as a position.
When the thought surfaced, he didn't suppress it immediately.
Nor did he follow it further.
He simply stood there for a moment.
Wind moved between the buildings, carrying a faint chill.
Then he turned and walked toward the subway station.
His steps were steady.
Just a little slower than before.