The Shadow of Numbers

Shi Lei felt like a firefly in this vast cavern, tiny, yet compelled to glow—though his light merely illuminated a small cracker smeared with foie gras or strawberry jam. The membership warehouse club where he worked, named 'Giant Warehouse' (Ju Cang), resembled a mountain range built of steel and concrete, piled high with a dazzling array of goods cascading from ceiling to floor, forming colorful cliffs. People pushed enormous shopping carts, like vessels on a river, navigating the canyons of this mountain range, their faces wearing a mixture of curiosity and possessiveness.

Shi Lei's station was an inconspicuous corner within this mountain range. He wore a blue apron emblazoned with "Giant Warehouse Welcomes You," standing behind a small food stand. His task was to offer tiny cubes of cheese, thin slices of ham, or small spoonfuls of imported yogurt on toothpicks or little spoons to the endless stream of customers, all while maintaining a perfectly calibrated smile—neither fawning nor cold. He was like a perpetual motion machine, repeating the motions of cutting, arranging, offering, smiling. The air hung thick with the mixed scents of baked bread, cooked food, and some kind of disinfectant. The ghastly white fluorescent lights illuminated every face, and also the ever-rolling price tags.

On his first day, the expressionless woman from HR handed him a thick contract. One page was deliberately turned open, displaying the words "Confidentiality Agreement" in bold font. The woman tapped a specific clause with the tip of her pen: "Employee compensation, benefits, and related information are considered company trade secrets. Disclosure in any form, including but not limited to verbal, written, or social media, is strictly prohibited. Violators are subject to immediate termination of the employment contract, and the company reserves the right to pursue legal action." Shi Lei, relieved just to have found the job, signed his name on the last page almost without hesitation. His signature looked particularly lonely and scrawled amidst the blocks of small printed text. He needed this job like a desert traveler needs water. As for the clause, it seemed like just another inconsequential screw in the vast machinery. Salary? He barely earned a meager amount each month; what was worth keeping secret? The thought flickered through his mind like a speck of dust and vanished, lost in anxiety about the future and submission to the present.

Days flowed by in repetitive motions and the unchanging smile. He saw countless mouths chewing in front of him, heard endless murmurs of "Hmm, not bad" or "Too sweet," felt innumerable gazes, scrutinizing or indifferent. He was like a living prop, showcasing Giant Warehouse's generosity and quality. Sometimes, he'd drift off, feeling that he and the samples in his hand were no different—objects to be appraised, selected, and consumed.

That afternoon, the flow of people thinned slightly. A young man, also in a blue apron but tasked with cleaning the floors, looking about Shi Lei's age, mopped his way over to the stand and asked in a low voice, "Hey buddy... how much do they pay here?"

Perhaps it was the shared blue uniform that bridged the distance, perhaps it was the undisguised inquiry in the young man's eyes that struck a chord within Shi Lei, or perhaps it was simply the fatigue born from hours of forced smiling and silence. Almost subconsciously, Shi Lei uttered the number in an equally low voice. That meager number, barely enough to sustain his basic existence in the city.

The young man sighed after hearing it, a wry smile touching his lips. "About the same, huh... Working ourselves to death..." He said no more, dragging his heavy steps forward, leaving a damp trail on the floor that quickly evaporated in the dry air of Giant Warehouse.

Shi Lei didn't give the brief exchange much thought. It was just a moment of tacit, mutual confirmation between low-level workers, like two sparrows shivering in the cold wind, briefly drawing near to share a flicker of warmth.

However, two days later, he was summoned to the department manager's office. It was a small, windowless room, directly facing the vast wall of surveillance monitors from the sales floor. The manager was a middle-aged man with meticulously combed hair and a blank expression. He simply pushed a printed form across the desk towards Shi Lei.

"Shi Lei," the manager's voice was flat and cold, like a machine's command. "You violated the company's confidentiality agreement."

Shi Lei froze, momentarily unable to process the words.

"According to surveillance records and... uh... relevant feedback," the manager paused, seeming to choose his words carefully, "you disclosed your salary information to another employee during work hours. This is a serious breach of the contract terms."

Shi Lei's heart plummeted as if plunged into an ice cave. He remembered the conversation with the cleaner two days prior. Just that one sentence, one number, had floated like a ghost for two days, finally materializing as a hand tightening around his throat.

"I... I just..." he tried to explain, but found his words pale and powerless. What could he say? That it was unintentional? That the number wasn't really a secret? That the rule itself was absurd, a joke?

The manager cut him off. "It's written clearly in black and white in the contract. Rules are rules. Giant Warehouse has its system." He pointed to the signed copy of the contract, where Shi Lei's signature remained lonely and scrawled. "We must act according to the regulations. As of today, you are dismissed."

A wave of dizziness washed over Shi Lei. He looked at the manager's impassive face, at the myriad flickering figures and goods on the monitor wall, at the cold dismissal notice on the desk. Suddenly, he felt he wasn't being fired by a person, but by this giant steel mountain, by the flashing numbers, by the very "Confidentiality Agreement" whose weight he had never truly understood. It felt like a Kafkaesque trial – the charge vague, the verdict preordained and absolute.

He silently took off the blue apron, folded it neatly, and placed it on the desk. It seemed to still carry the faint scent of cheese and ham. He walked out of the office and through the bustling store floor. The customers, to whom he had once offered food, continued pushing their carts through the mountains of merchandise, none noticing his departure. He was like a discarded part ejected noiselessly by the machine.

Outside the Giant Warehouse doors, the afternoon sun was harsh. He stood at the edge of the vast parking lot and looked back. The building loomed like a silent behemoth, devouring crowds and tiny individuals like him. He had only a few loose bills left in his pocket. And that number, the one he had casually blurted out, representing the value of his meager labor, now cast a heavy shadow over him, making him feel an unprecedented coldness and confusion.

He didn't know what happened to the young man who had asked about his salary. Perhaps he too was just another easily replaceable screw in this vast machine. In this world meticulously controlled by numbers and rules, human value could sometimes be lighter than a feather, while silence was endowed with immense weight. Shi Lei took a deep breath of air thick with exhaust fumes and walked aimlessly onto the street, merging into the boundless sea of people. His figure quickly vanished into the vast, indifferent urban jungle. That silent pact concerning numbers, like invisible shackles, seemed to interrogate every soul struggling at the bottom: Who defines your worth? And where can your voice even be heard?