The afternoon sun slanted across the greasy tabletops of the "Lao Yutai" teahouse, dust motes lazily swirling in the beams of light. Inside, it was the usual crowd of regulars: Second Master Zhang, carrying his birdcage; "Big Mouth" Zhao, with his booming voice, who loved to discuss national affairs; and Mr. Qian, who drank his tea quietly, occasionally interjecting with a startling remark. The teahouse owner, Lao Wang, with his slight paunch, carried the long-spouted copper kettle, leisurely refilling everyone's cups.

"Have you heard? Down south, no, southwest, over in Myanmar, the earth dragon turned over!" Big Mouth Zhao took a sip of scalding jasmine tea, lowering his voice slightly, yet still managing to drown out the chirping of the thrush in the birdcage. "Tsk tsk, heard on the radio, it was quite a commotion, lots of houses collapsed, people...唉!"

K needed a new piece of clothing. This should have been the most ordinary of things, like eating when hungry, or sleeping when tired. However, as she pushed through the heavy, revolving glass door and stepped into the cold gleam of the department store's interior, an inexplicable premonition gripped her, as if the air was permeated by a subtle yet undeniable rule, one she knew nothing about.

Wang Er got himself a new phone, shiny like a spring roll wrapper just fished out of a wok. But that wasn't important. What mattered was the app inside called "Omniscient and Omnipotent Life Assistant." The name sounded like an ancient emperor's title, exuding an air of undeniable authority. Wang Er liked that kind of thing. He felt life should have a bit of that "who else but me" swagger.

This app really had something. In the morning, it would remind Wang Er to get up like a gentle female secretary, casually telling him the weather and which route had the least traffic—even though Wang Er rode a rickety old bicycle where everything rattled except the bell. It could also, based on Wang Er's search history for "how to make braised pork less greasy" the previous night, push him a coupon for the highest-rated deli nearby, adding a note: "According to your health data, your recommended fat intake for the week has reached its limit, but occasional indulgence is good for mental well-being!" Wang Er felt this app understood him even better than his own mother, especially the "occasional indulgence" part—that really hit home.

Lao Wang hadn't been sleeping soundly lately. It wasn't due to physical ailments or neighborly disputes; what troubled him was something intangible yet weighty – gold.

David felt as though his lungs were about to be deformed by the air that had been circulating in the cabin for eighteen hours, tinged with the smell of disinfectant and a faint weariness. He wasn't a tourist. His suit jacket lay wrinkled on his lap, tie loosened, his eyes a mixture of almost absurd determination and unconcealed anxiety. He, David, who had once owned a small gift-wrapping shop in Massachusetts, USA, was flying across the Pacific, destination: that Eastern country rumored to be able to "make anything." His mission, sounding a bit ridiculous yet starkly real: sourcing. Not buying the latest electronics for his neighbors, but for his own long-failed business, searching for a tiny spark... perhaps the last one.

His shop closed three years ago. It started with small goods – the exquisite ribbons used to adorn gifts, tiny metal clasps, oddly shaped wrapping paper. He had once taken pride in finding "Made in USA" suppliers, even if the price was a bit higher. But soon, customers began complaining about the prices, showing him pictures from some Chinese e-commerce platform on their phone screens, looking at him with eyes that basically asked, "Why don't you just rob me?" Then, he tried to pivot to higher-end wedding accessories, like custom lace gloves and veil decorations. He discovered that forget finding American workers willing to do such delicate work (the news talked about training seamstresses, which seemed like a fairy tale), even the suitable raw materials, the incredibly fine mesh netting and beads, originated from across the ocean. Ultimately, even the designs he thought were "unique" appeared on wholesale websites within weeks, priced at a third of his cost.

Li Ming felt like his legs were practically part of his electric scooter. Raindrops, like cheap beads from a clearance sale, hammered his helmet, trickled down his neck, and seeped towards his hot, aching back. This city, this steel jungle, always had a way of throwing cold water on you—literally and figuratively—right when you were most exhausted.

Old Li was feeling troubled recently. His company was being restructured and he was facing layoffs. He was busy looking for a job during the day and couldn't sleep at night due to anxiety. He believed in a saying: it's not advisable to make major decisions at night. He saw this saying online, attributed to experts, who claimed the brain tends to be impulsive and judgment is impaired at night.

Li Weidong became famous. Not because he was admitted to Tsinghua or Peking University, but because he reported the school for starting classes early.

Old Wang recently made a fortune. Not from demolition, and not from winning the lottery, but from... eating dog meat.

Li Xiang adjusted his black-rimmed glasses, the light from the computer screen reflecting on his slightly tired face. "'Tie Tie' (贴贴)?!" he raised his voice, the sound echoing in the empty conference room, sounding particularly jarring.

Across from him, Manager Wang from the planning department smiled like a Maitreya Buddha, his face shiny with oil. "Editor Li, this is what's popular now. Look, 'Nezha 2 Nezha 1 Tie Tie,' trending number one! It's the traffic password!" He pointed to a picture on the PPT of two chibi Nezhas hugging each other, his eyes gleaming with excitement.