Requiem at the Workstation

10:37 AM, Wednesday. Sunlight attempted to penetrate the thick glass curtain wall of the office building, ultimately dissolving into a uniform, characterless light that spread across the grey carpet of the 'Quantum Leap Solutions Inc.' open-plan office. The air was filled with the smell of caffeine, printer toner, and an indescribable metallic tang called 'efficiency'. I, codenamed K, like a silent screw embedded in a corner of this vast machine, my fingers moving across the keyboard as if performing some ancient, unquestionable ritual.

Then, Tanaka collapsed.

Without any warning, like a piece of code suddenly encountering a fatal null pointer exception. He slumped forward, his forehead lightly hitting the keyboard with a soft 'tap'. At first, nobody thought anything was wrong. Perhaps he was just tired, wanting to rest his head for a moment. In this building, everyone looked as though they had just finished an endless marathon. Fatigue was the common currency here, perhaps even a badge of honor.

But Tanaka didn't move again. His thin-framed glasses slipped down his nose, hanging halfway, the lenses reflecting the stark white lights of the ceiling like two soulless eyes.

A few seconds later, the female colleague nearest to him let out a short gasp, recoiling her hand as if burned. Then, the silence receded like a tide, leaving behind a clamor of bewildered murmurs. Someone checked for his breath, someone else fumbled for their phone, the screen's light illuminating their suddenly pale faces. I sat still, two rows of workstations away, watching it all unfold. It felt like watching a silent play through frosted glass, the sounds muffled, the movements distorted.

The manager arrived, suit crisp, his expression as serious as if heading to an important business negotiation. He directed the crowd to disperse and dialed emergency services, his voice calm and professional, as if handling a system bug. Paramedics arrived quickly, their white uniforms like foreign objects intruding into this grey world. They carried Tanaka away swiftly, like removing an erroneous process. As the stretcher passed my workstation, I caught the scent of disinfectant mixed with the lingering cheap cologne on Tanaka. The smell reminded me of how he always complained about lack of sleep, the dark circles under his eyes seemingly permanent.

Everything returned to normal with astonishing speed. In less than half an hour, Tanaka's workstation was cleared. His computer was turned off, the half-finished cup of cold coffee and a few documents on his desk were removed, leaving only an empty desk and chair. The manager convened a brief online meeting, announcing Tanaka's 'unfortunate passing' in a somber tone, emphasizing that the company would 'handle the follow-up matters appropriately' and 'hoped everyone would channel their grief into strength and continue working hard to meet this week's targets'. On the screen, colleagues' avatars were lit up, expressionless, or rather, their expressions blurred by pixels.

'Channel grief into strength,' I thought. What a remarkable phrase. It was like incorporating a primal emotion like sorrow into the KPI assessment. Perhaps soon we would receive an operational guide on how to efficiently convert grief.

In the afternoon, I stared at Tanaka's empty workstation. It felt like a small black hole had formed there, constantly sucking in the surrounding light and sound. I tried to continue working, but the code on the screen looked like a swarm of writhing, meaningless black insects. I typed on the keyboard, but my fingers felt foreign and clumsy. I seemed to have forgotten what I was doing here, and why.

I remembered the maverick pig from Wang Xiaobo's writings. So vigorous, so free, breaking through the fences of life. And us? We are pigs in cubicles, driven by invisible whips, running towards a vague goal until we can run no more. We don't even have the right to grunt, because grunting might affect team morale, be deemed 'negative energy'.

I got up and went to the pantry. The coffee machine emitted a low hum, like an industrialized requiem sung for Tanaka. I made myself a cup of instant coffee. The bitter liquid slid down my throat but brought no clarity. Tanaka liked this coffee too. He said it tasted like 'burning tires,' helping him temporarily forget who he was.

Outside the window, the city remained tumultuous. Traffic flowed like red and white blood cells rushing through steel veins. Everyone was busy, everyone chasing, as if a moment's pause would mean being swallowed by the torrent of the times. But Tanaka had stopped, in the most absolute way possible. Where was he now? In a bug-free paradise, or returned completely to nothingness?

Back at my seat, I inexplicably opened Tanaka's last project document. It was a model for predicting user behavior, dense with formulas and charts, attempting to quantify, predict, and control every subtle human action. At the end of the document, there was a comment he had forgotten to delete: "I think I hear whales singing."

Whales? In this forest of steel and concrete? A chill ran through me, not from the air conditioning, but from something deeper. Maybe Tanaka wasn't crazy. Maybe he really heard them. Beneath the endless noise of code and data, under the heavy pressure of KPIs and OKRs, there was a distant, profound call. It's just that we had all become selectively deaf.

By the time work ended, the sky had darkened. I walked out of the building, the evening breeze cool against my face. Looking up, the office building's lights were still brilliant, like a giant, indifferent star. I knew that tomorrow, Tanaka's position would be filled by a new name, and everything would operate as usual. The machine wouldn't stop humming just because one screw was missing.

I didn't squeeze onto the subway as usual; instead, I chose to walk home. Passing a corner park, I saw a black cat perched on a bench, watching me indifferently with its golden eyes. It wasn't like any cat I knew; its gaze held no ingratiation, only an ancient, all-seeing calm.

I met its gaze for a moment and suddenly felt that perhaps what mattered wasn't how fast we ran, nor where we ultimately arrived. What mattered was whether, in the midst of running, we could still hear the whales sing, still feel the gaze of a cat, still remember that we are more than just a string of code or a workstation number.

I continued walking, my pace much slower than usual. The city's clamor seemed to recede into the distance. I didn't know what tomorrow would bring, nor how long this screw, myself, could keep turning. But in that moment, I just wanted to walk slower, slower still, to listen, to see if there were other sounds in this world besides the hum of code and machines. Perhaps that maverick pig hadn't gone far; perhaps it had just found another way, continuing its freedom in some unknown corner. And Tanaka, perhaps he had finally found the sea where he could hear the whales sing.