Zhou Qiming realized the change had been completed during an ordinary permission prompt.
That morning, he logged into the system as usual. After account verification and interface loading, the task list didn't appear immediately. Instead, a line of gray text lingered at the center of the screen.
[Current Account in Low Intervention Mode]
No red border, no pop-up window. The font was one size smaller than other prompts, as if deliberately designed to go unnoticed.
He stared at the line for a few seconds before clicking Confirm.
The interface expanded immediately, appearing unchanged from before. Tasks were pushed as usual, progress bars advanced. Yet he soon discovered his available actions had diminished.
Not prohibited. But preemptively completed.
He opened a task detail. The area requiring human judgment had already been annotated by the system. The options remained clickable, but the recommended conclusion was locked at the top, its color darker than the others.
He tried to make a change.
The system didn't block him. After submission, however, an additional line appeared:
[This judgment will enter the delayed review queue.]
Delayed.
The word made him pause.
He suddenly realized his judgment hadn't been rejected—just placed in a "not urgent" category.
During lunch break, he visited the break room.
It was quieter than usual. Several coffee machines hummed steadily in unison. Someone stood in the corner scrolling through their phone; another stared blankly out the window. No one spoke.
He poured himself a cup of water and drank it standing in place.
The water was lukewarm, flavorless.
He suddenly recalled a long time ago, when he first entered this building, discussing task difficulties with colleagues at noon and complaining about system updates. Back then, they needed to confirm certain judgments with each other.
Not anymore.
Everyone was now facing only their own screens.
Returning to his workstation, a system notification popped up automatically.
[Manual Sample Contribution Rate: 0.3%]
The number wasn't unfamiliar, but he'd rarely paid attention before. It had always been there, though few ever clicked to view it.
He clicked through.
Inside was a simple line graph. The proportion of manual samples had steadily declined over the past few months. The curve was smooth, without fluctuation, as if it had been calculated along a predetermined path.
His name appeared near the bottom of the list.
Not highlighted in red, nor flagged as abnormal.
Just positioned far back.
The afternoon's work proceeded in an unusual quiet.
Not because the environment was quiet, but because there was less for him to do. The system handled most tasks; he only appeared when necessary, like a backup interface.
He found himself frequently "waiting idly."
Waiting for tasks to load, waiting for system confirmation, waiting for an intervention point that might never come.
This waiting had no clear end in sight.
Before clocking out, his supervisor sent him a private message.
[Supervisor]: Seems like you haven't been under much pressure lately.
[Supervisor]: Slowing down a bit is fine—just adjust.
Adjust to what, he didn't say.
He replied with a "Got it."
It was the most efficient answer.
After work, he didn't go straight home.
He boarded the subway but didn't get off at his usual stop. The train kept moving forward, skipping station after station. He stared at the darkened window glass, seeing his blurred reflection sliced into segments by the car's lights.
No sense of being lifted.
No sinking either.
Just a persistent, low-intensity wakefulness.
He got off at the next stop. The platform was empty, the station announcements echoing faintly from the overhead speakers. The exit led to an undeveloped area where streetlights were spaced far apart, leaving distinct patches of darkness between them.
He stood at the exit, hesitating to move.
His phone vibrated in his pocket.
Not a message, but a system notification.
[Your work rhythm has been recorded]
[Current Status: Stable]
He turned off his phone and slipped it back into his pocket.
A night breeze blew by, carrying a hint of chill. He walked along the darkening road, his footsteps sounding clear across the open space.
In that moment, he suddenly realized—
He hadn't been kicked out of the system.
He'd merely been downgraded to a tier no longer prioritized.
And this tier didn't proactively notify you.
Reaching the road's end, he stopped.
No path lay ahead—only a fenced-off clearing. "Under Construction" signs plastered on the metal barriers had faded white from rain.
He stood there a while, making no attempt to climb over.
He merely confirmed one thing.
Some restrictions aren't meant to stop you from continuing.
They're meant to let you slowly grow accustomed—
to no longer being needed.