Tomorrow Work

The alarm clock was set for 6:30 am. The words “Tomorrow Work” loomed large on the phone screen, like a death sentence. Li Ming sighed, rolled over, and tried to bury his head under the covers, shutting out the cruel reality. But his brain had already begun uncontrollably replaying the last day of his vacation.

When he woke up in the morning, the air still carried a hint of the Spring Festival's aftertaste, the sound of firecrackers muffled and faint by the city's tall buildings. Li Ming decided to do something meaningful, like tidying up the mountain of clutter that had accumulated during the holiday. He opened his wardrobe, only to find that the clothes inside, as if by magic, had automatically arranged themselves neatly into "Workdays," "Weekends," and "Special Holidays." When he tried to take out an old T-shirt, an invisible force pushed him back into the "Weekend" section.

He went to the kitchen, where the food in the refrigerator was also arranged like tamed beasts, categorized into "Breakfast," "Lunch," and "Dinner," and even the fruit was divided into "Pre-meal fruit" and "Post-meal fruit." Li Ming tried to take out a pre-meal apple, but the refrigerator door automatically closed and issued a voice prompt: "Please consume after breakfast."

He felt a strange sense of fear, as if he were living in a pre-set program with no freedom at all. He turned on his computer, wanting to see if any friends had shared their vacation stories. The webpage automatically redirected to the company's OA system, and a message popped up:

"Friendly Reminder: All colleagues are requested to prepare for work in advance. The closing time will be automatically delayed by half an hour to adapt to the working state."

Li Ming felt a chill run down his spine. He tried to close the webpage, but the computer screen was now covered with lines of code, like wriggling worms, gradually filling the entire screen. The code eventually transformed into a table that recorded every minute of his actions over the past year, including the webpages he had browsed, the keys he had typed, and even the frequency of each of his breaths. Below the table was a line of striking red text: "The system is tailoring your work plan for the next year based on your historical data."

He felt utterly helpless, wanting to resist, but his body felt as if it were tied up. He went to the window, where the city lights looked like countless stars. In every window, there might be someone like him, trapped in a data-constructed cage.

At this moment, he saw a group of people engaged in a strange activity downstairs. They were wearing uniform blue work clothes, doing warm-up exercises in unison like puppets. Li Ming looked closely; they were his colleagues, each with a stiff smile on their face. Their movements were highly synchronized, as if they were being controlled by an invisible baton.

"Tomorrow Work," he saw the four words on his phone screen again. This time, he didn't feel fear, but a numb acceptance. He put down his phone, walked to the wardrobe, and mechanically put on a "Workday" shirt. As he reached the door, the lock clicked and the door automatically opened.

Outside, the sunlight was blinding. His colleagues were already lined up in a neat queue, waiting for him to join. Li Ming mechanically walked towards them, like an iron nail drawn into a magnetic field.

He joined the queue, keeping the same pace and rhythm as his colleagues. At this point, he noticed a detail: all his colleagues were wearing a strange badge on their chests, with a line of flashing numbers that seemed to change with their breathing frequency.

Li Ming raised his hand and touched his own chest. Sure enough, there was a badge there too.

The badge displayed a string of numbers:

"365-24-60-60"

Li Ming suddenly understood. It was how many days in a year, how many hours in a day, how many minutes in an hour, and how many seconds in a minute!

He looked around, and his colleagues were already marching towards the company building in perfect unison, their backs looking so small and yet so unified in the sunlight. He saw one of his colleague's numbers suddenly jump to "0-0-0-0". Then the colleague collapsed to the ground like a pile of broken clothes, lifeless. The other colleagues seemed not to notice, continuing to march mechanically.

Li Ming knew, he would soon be the same.

He took a deep breath, adjusted his pace, and integrated into this torrent of numbers. He felt a sense of ease and a sense of despair.

Tomorrow, he still had to go to work.