Four in the morning in New York, like an ink-soaked sponge, damp, cold, and heavy. The halos of streetlights diffused in the thin mist, barely outlining a long, winding queue snaking alongside Fifth Avenue. It wasn't a line for relief supplies, nor for some celebrity autograph session, but to snag a "Hummingbird" brand camera from faraway China.
When I got the call, I was debating whether to eat dinner at the malatang joint downstairs, the one likely using gutter oil, or go home and boil myself a bland bowl of instant noodles. On the other end, my mother's voice sounded like it had been sanded down – rough, dry, carrying an unnatural calm. She said, "Your brother... he's gone."
Wang Fang felt that the past dozen years or so were like a compressed biscuit, all the flavor, nutrition, and expectation tightly pressed upon her son Xiao Jun's soon-to-be-revealed Gaokao score. To be precise, they were pressed upon the two words: "Peking University."
Lao Ma felt he was getting a bit out of touch. Retired at home, brewing a pot of strong tea, flipping through the newspaper, taking a stroll – life was supposed to be quite pleasant. But he couldn't ignore his precious granddaughter, Xiao Hua'er, who just started primary school this year. This Xiao Hua'er, though small, had a lively mind, always muttering about something called "Labubu"—a foreign name that sounded like a tongue-twister to Lao Ma.
When K woke up, he felt something wasn't quite right, but he couldn't put his finger on it. The sky outside the window was the usual dreary grey, like the expressionless facades of the buildings he passed on his way to work every day. He reached for the phone on his nightstand, an action as natural as brushing his teeth each morning. Today, however, the phone felt somehow different. Beneath the cold glass screen, something seemed to be vibrating faintly, continuously—not like a notification, but more like... breathing?
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.
South Town's mornings are damp. Especially in April, when the willows by the river have just sprouted tender, goose-yellow buds, the mist hangs like a thin veil on the treetops and drifts into the windows facing the river.
That room, less a home than a forgotten corner of the city, cowered in the perpetual shadow cast by towering buildings. The air hung thick with the damp smell of mold, mingled with the scent of cheap wood and the decay of old age. This was Old Liu's entire world, a space less than ten square meters. His bed occupied a third of it; the rest was filled with wood shavings, blocks of wood, carving knives, and wooden lives yet to take shape.
My ass, no, my entire existence, is welded to this supposedly ergonomic chair. Dante described Hell, but he clearly never saw upstairs and downstairs neighbors waging class warfare. If he had, he would've created a special circle of torment just for the 7th and 8th floors, and I, Old Wang on the 9th, would be the innocent prisoner with a millstone around my neck, eternally damned. This war has been going on for three years, not much shorter than the damn Anti-Japanese War, but far more intense, only the battlefield is the floor slab, and the weapons have changed from planes and cannons to hammers, high heels, and a high-tech gadget called a "ceiling shaker."
That piece of news initially surfaced like a faint yet clear note in the background noise of the city, appearing in the torrent of notifications pushed to my phone screen: "Thank you to the brave female passenger on Beijing Subway Line 5." It possessed all the elements that grab attention instantly only to be quickly forgotten: a specific location (Subway Line 5), a vague protagonist (the brave female passenger), an event tinged with a moral halo (bravery), and a public gesture of gratitude. However, for me, this message did not dissipate as expected. It lingered, refusing to leave, like a metaphor, or a doorway leading into some dark labyrinth.