Li Tiegen felt like a sardine stuffed into a can, squeezed into the classroom of the "International Space Station Chinese Intensive Course." Outside the window was the dark universe, dotted with a few "worthless" stars. He thought, this thing isn't even as bright as the light bulb hanging on the electric pole in his old village.

"Classmates, today we are going to learn the word '奋斗' (fèndòu - struggle/strive)," the teacher, with a thick northeastern accent, shouted at the top of his lungs, "Repeat after me, 奋——斗——"

Old Wang is an honest pork vendor who gets up at three o'clock every morning, rain or shine. His biggest wish is to save enough money for his son to buy a small apartment in the city. The pork knuckles he sells are always a dime cheaper than others, and the neighbors like his small but heartwarming benefit.

That day, as usual, Old Wang tapped "34.00" on the electronic scale. He squinted, looked at the jumping numbers on the screen, and calculated today's harvest in his heart. A customer hurried over, glanced at the pork knuckles, and dropped a sentence: "WeChat transfer!"

Lao Li, fifty years old and supposedly at the age of knowing his destiny, had been feeling a strange swelling in his chest lately. At first, he didn't think much of it, assuming it was just his blood pressure rising from arguing with Widow Wang next door. But the swelling in his chest grew increasingly strange, from a slight distension to a dull ache, and then, eventually... eventually, damn it, he grew boobs!

This terrified Lao Li. He was a real man, burly and rough, with a bristly beard. Anyone who saw him on the street would call him "Brother Li." How could he have grown these things? He secretly went to the hospital, registered, got checked, and the doctor pushed up his glasses, looking at him like he was an alien: "You have... breast hyperplasia."

老张最近有点慌。

Chicken number 9527 opened its eyes.

To be precise, it didn't know if it had "opened" its eyes, because there was no light. There was only the endless sound of clashing metal, and an indescribable, humid, nauseating smell. It instinctively felt that it was in a narrow space, surrounded by beings like itself – crowded, trembling, exuding the same fear.

In recent years, a magical phenomenon, like a virus, has spread throughout cities. It's hard to say exactly where it started, but it's everywhere.

离高考还有整一百天，学校礼堂里黑压压挤满了人。主席台上，德育处李主任正唾沫横飞地介绍着今天的特邀嘉宾——“著名成功学大师、青少年心灵导师、畅销书作家”张成功先生。

The Spring Festival is approaching, but I'm not excited at all.

These days, even celebrating the New Year is like abacus beads – you have to flick them to make them move. It's called a holiday, but it's more like "shifting" days. It's always the same number of days, but they insist on piecing them together, calling it the elegant name of "Tiaoxiu" (adjusted rest days). Ha, Tiaoxiu, Tiaoxiu, it adjusts people into anxiety and rests them until they haven't rested at all!

陈默坐在昏暗的录音棚里，面前的话筒像一个黑洞，吞噬了他所有的热情。墙上的隔音棉，像是无数张嘲笑的嘴，扭曲着，沉默着。他想起刚入行时，老师傅对他说的话：“你的声音，是你的灵魂。”可如今，他的灵魂被困在了一个个角色里，出不来，也进不去。