A Package from the Abyss

The city, this vast labyrinth built of steel and glass, exhales weary neon and clamor at dusk. And deep within the maze, behind an unremarkable window, lived Old Wang. Old Wang, a name as common as a roadside pebble, his existence too, like a pebble, swept along by the torrent of the times, submerged in a corner of the metropolis. He was once a diligent cog in a factory, polishing away half his life in exchange for the tranquility of this small room in his later years, and a string of digits in his passbook—modest, yet enough to console his declining days.

This day was no different from any other. The golden glow of sunset, stingily piercing through the gaps between tall buildings opposite, slanted into the room, coating the old furniture with a fleeting warmth. The doorbell, an apparatus seldom rung, suddenly let out a sharp, persistent cry, like an uninvited guest intruding upon the silence.

Outside stood a young man in a blue uniform, a programmed smile on his face, holding a medium-sized cardboard box. "Mr. Wang, your delivery."

Old Wang froze. He hadn't bought anything recently. Memory, like a rusted gear, ground slowly, confirming no trace of online shopping. "I... I didn't buy anything," he murmured, his voice carrying the hesitation typical of the elderly.

"Your name and address are correct," the delivery man verified, checking the label, his tone firm, leaving no room for doubt. "Perhaps someone sent it to you. Please sign for it first."

That unquestionable certainty, carrying a kind of modern, impersonal efficiency, left Old Wang unable to object. He signed his name and took the unfamiliar package. It was light; shaking it produced faint, rustling sounds from within.

Back inside, Old Wang examined the uninvited object. On the cardboard box, the sender's information was blurred, as if deliberately erased. A vague unease, like a damp fog, began to spread in his heart. Was it a prank? Or... some forgotten gift? Someone lonely for too long harbors unrealistic fantasies about any ripple from the outside world.

He opened the package with trembling hands. Inside was no shock, no surprise, only a crudely printed flyer and a small packet of cheap tea. The flyer featured a QR code, beside the words: "Lucky Customer Reward! Scan to claim a 100 yuan phone credit!"

One hundred yuan. Not insignificant for Old Wang, but not an irresistible temptation either. Yet, the QR code, like a deep, dark eye in the dim light, seemed to be staring at him. He hesitated. He had heard about QR code scams, in the newspapers, on TV; those cold cases seemed distant, yet also close at hand.

But the package had broken the monotonous silence. Like a stone tossed into stagnant water, it sent out ripples. Maybe... it was real? One hundred yuan could pay for several calls to his faraway grandson. This small hope was quietly amplified in his lonely heart.

He found his old smartphone, used almost exclusively for calls, and clumsily opened the long-unused scanning function. The lens focused on the "eye." A soft "beep," and the screen jumped to a gaudy page, requesting his phone number.

He entered it. The page changed again, displaying "Verification code sent, please enter to claim." A moment later, the phone chimed with an SMS alert. He opened the message, copied the string of numbers, pasted it, and clicked "Confirm."

A small firework animation popped up on the screen. "Congratulations! Your 100 yuan credit will arrive within 24 hours!"

Old Wang breathed a sigh of relief, feeling a flicker of joy. See, it wasn't a scam. He casually placed the packet of low-quality tea on the table, mentally planning what to say to his grandson tomorrow.

However, the true abyss often opens its gaping maw precisely when one's guard is down.

The next day, the phone credit did not arrive. Instead, there was a call from an unknown number. On the other end, a woman with a sweet but urgent voice. "Hello Mr. Wang, this is the XX Communications Center. Yesterday, our system detected an anomaly with your account, possibly related to the unknown QR code you scanned, putting your bank card information at risk of being compromised. For your financial security, we need your cooperation for a security verification."

Old Wang's heart plummeted. His bank card! It held his entire life savings, his support for old age, his only shield against illness and the unknown!

"What risk? My money..." His voice trembled.

"Mr. Wang, please don't panic," the woman's voice had a soothing, professional tone. "It's just a risk assessment. We need you to provide your frequently used bank card number and receive a security verification code, then enter it into the ‘Official Security Authentication Platform’ link we'll send you. Once the system verifies it, the risk will be eliminated."

"Official platform? Where?" Fear gripped Old Wang's heart, stripping him of basic judgment.

"I'll send you the link right away. You just click it and follow the prompts. It’s very simple, and your privacy is fully protected."

The SMS alert sounded again, accompanied by an unfamiliar web link. Old Wang's palms began to sweat. He felt as if he were facing a vast, invisible bureaucracy, being told he must follow complex procedures he couldn't understand or face disaster. He felt dizzy, helpless.

"But... I..." he tried to speak, but his throat was dry.

"Mr. Wang, time is critical! Criminals could transfer your funds at any moment! Please cooperate immediately!" The woman's voice turned stern, carrying an air of unquestionable authority.

Authority often easily shatters the psychological defenses of an ordinary person. Old Wang hesitated no longer. Like a drowning man clutching at a straw, he clicked the link. A crudely made, yet convincingly imitated, bank interface popped up. Following the instructions, he entered his card number, then the verification code he had just received, marked "Security Verification."

The moment he clicked "Confirm," time seemed to freeze.

No confirmation of risk removal, no success message. The page reverted to blankness.

Old Wang's heart sank completely into an icy abyss.

Trembling, he dialed the bank's customer service number. The hold music stretched on like a century. When the familiar, cold electronic voice reported his account balance as "zero," Old Wang's vision went black, the phone slipped from his hand, crashing to the floor, its screen cracking like his shattered heart.

Five hundred and twenty thousand. It was the sum he had accumulated, drop by drop, through sweat, humility, and long years. His final bastion against this vast, indifferent world. Now, it was gone. Devoured completely by an uninvited package, a false promise, a call from the abyss.

He slumped onto the chair, the room filled only with his heavy breathing. Outside, the city remained bustling, neon flashing, traffic flowing, as if nothing had happened. No one knew that within this giant urban machine, a tiny cog had just been crushed.

He wanted to scream but could make no sound. He wanted to weep but could shed no tears. An overwhelming sense of absurdity and despair washed over him like a tide. The package, the QR code, the phone call—they were like incantations from another world, stripping him of everything through a logic he could not comprehend. He was left naked, destitute, abandoned on the wasteland of modern civilization.

He reported it to the police. They came, took notes, offered a "We’ll do our best to investigate," and left. Their procedural sympathy felt as cheap as the tea in the package. He went to the bank, where staff told him that once the money was transferred, the chances of recovery were minimal. That cold reality stood like an insurmountable wall.

Days later, Old Wang still sat by the window. The sun still paid brief visits to his small room, but its warmth could no longer reach his heart. He watched the hurried passersby below, knowing that any one of them could receive an uninvited package, any one of them could, in a moment, be lured by whispers from the abyss, ensnared, and dragged down.

The empty cardboard box still sat in the corner, like a mocking monument. It was more than evidence of a scam; it was an allegory for our times: in a world increasingly connected yet isolating, invisible predators, cloaked in technology, lurk in every corner, and the most helpless, the most lonely souls, are often their first prey.

Old Wang's tragedy, like a stone dropped into the abyss, caused only fleeting ripples before being swallowed by the boundless dark. And the abyss remains, in every corner of the city, quietly waiting for the next uninvited package, and its next chosen victim. Beneath the city's gleaming surface lie the silent cries and struggles of countless individuals, a wordless dirge woven from human fragility and the coldness of modern civilization.