The next day, Zhou Qiming woke up ten minutes before his alarm.
The sky hadn't fully brightened yet. Outside the window, a color somewhere between gray and white held no distinct sense of direction. He lay still, staring at a small patch of peeling paint on the ceiling, his consciousness already awake.
His body felt no fatigue.
This state was uncommon.
It felt more like being awakened prematurely, though he couldn't pinpoint why.
He still rose, washed, and left at his usual time. His movements remained unchanged, his routine unbroken, save for fewer moments of distraction. His entire being felt compressed, all superfluous pauses squeezed out.
The subway wasn't crowded.
The morning rush seemed slightly delayed, leaving many empty seats in the car. Some leaned against the handrails, dozing off; others stared at short videos on their phones, the screen's glow flickering across their faces.
Zhou Qiming stood by the door, watching the tunnel lights flash by in segments outside the window.
The lights pulsed rhythmically.
But there was no need to remember them.
When the arrival announcement sounded, he followed the flow of people off the train, neither pushed nor blocked.
He swiped his card at the office entrance. The turnstile beeped.
This time, he noticed an extra line on the display.
[Access Log Synced]
No anomaly alerts.
He walked into the office area, sat down, and logged into the system.
The interface loaded quickly.
But the task list was empty.
It wasn't lag, nor did it seem like a network issue. A faint prompt sat at the bottom of the page, almost blending into the background.
[No manual intervention required during current period]
He stared at the line for several seconds.
His mouse hovered motionless over the center of the desktop.
This had happened before, but usually lasted only minutes. Tasks would soon populate the list, as if the system were recalibrating assignments.
Not this time.
Ten minutes passed. The page remained unchanged.
He opened the system logs to check for loading errors. The log page loaded smoothly, filled with dense entries. The latest one read, "Account status verification completed."
And that was it.
He closed the logs and returned to the main interface.
The task list remained empty.
People around him were working.
The clatter of keyboards, clicks of mice, the occasional scraping of chairs as someone stood—all sounded perfectly normal. No one noticed his screen.
Suddenly, a detail struck him.
His workstation was positioned in a blind spot.
The glass door of the supervisor's office faced the central area, offering a clear view of most screens. His, however, was partially obscured by the partition and the edge of his monitor.
It wasn't intentional.
It just happened that way.
Before noon, he hadn't received any tasks.
The system showed no alerts, no reminders to wait. It was as if his existence had already been factored into the "negligible items" category.
He went to the cafeteria for lunch.
When he swiped his card, the machine hesitated a beat before confirming the payment. Carrying his tray, he scanned the empty seats. Though many were available, he subconsciously chose the one furthest from the wall.
People around him were discussing work.
Projects, metrics, details of some system update.
He understood all the words, yet felt no urge to join in. The topics no longer pointed directly at him, as if separated by a layer of transparency.
Halfway through his meal, his phone vibrated.
Not a message, but a schedule reminder.
[No mandatory tasks today]
He placed his phone face-down on the table and continued eating.
The food was fine, the temperature just right, but the flavor faded quickly. Chewing became monotonous, like completing a necessary step.
In the afternoon, he still had no tasks.
The system remained online, the time ticking away in the upper right corner.
He began noticing details he'd never paid attention to before.
For instance, the cursor flickered briefly during screen refreshes;
For instance, the system alert tone was set so low it was barely inaudible;
For instance, the border color around his account avatar was slightly lighter than others'.
None of this mattered.
No one would bother to point it out.
Quitting time arrived.
The system didn't pop up a "End Work Session?" confirmation box. The page remained unchanged, as if assuming he could leave anytime.
He shut down his computer, stood up, and gathered his things.
Stepping out of the office area, he glanced back at his workstation. The screen was already dark, reflecting only the surrounding lights, obscuring whatever had been displayed moments before.
He was alone in the elevator.
The descending floor numbers skipped one by one without pause.
The first floor arrived, and the doors opened.
He stepped out and stood in the center of the lobby, suddenly struck by an unsettling sense of unreality.
It wasn't emptiness.
It was an excessive stillness.
Not the absence of sound, but the absence of anything requiring his involvement.
Returning home that evening, he didn't turn on the lights immediately.
The room was dark, illuminated only by the light filtering through the window, casting a blurred patch of brightness on the floor.
He stood there, motionless.
After a moment, he realized—
Not a single system had truly needed him all day.
He switched on the light and stepped inside.
The moment the room brightened, that feeling didn't fade.
Like a minimized window,
still running in the background,
yet never to be clicked open again.