Zhang Qiang was the 9.6 millionth person to squeeze into the live stream. He stared at the scrolling IDs on the screen, his heart pounding. It was Huang Zitao's live stream, and the prize was said to be the latest limited-edition interstellar spaceship model. Zhang Qiang had upgraded his home WIFI to 10G overnight for this lottery, and his fingers were almost numb from tapping.
"Fifth time, still a busy signal," the governor's assistant murmured, his fingers gliding across the phone screen as if it were burning hot. "The president is probably busy," he added, his tone laced with a reassurance he himself didn't believe.
A-Qiang looked in the mirror, once again confirming the shape of his face. It was truly a perfect isosceles trapezoid, expanding outwards from his forehead down to the sharp right angle of his chin. He thought, he had completely said goodbye to the word “beauty” for the rest of his life.
On the third day after the earthquake, Lao Wang, a member of the rescue team, found another child in the rubble. The child was very small, wearing a comical yellow baseball cap, their little body crushed under a concrete slab, emitting a faint moan. Lao Wang's heart tightened, and he quickly called for colleagues to help.
Liu Qiang opened his computer, and the words "Welcome to Myawaddy" popped up on the screen. It was his first day at his new company, and he was a little excited. He had previously worked 996 at an internet company, working himself to the bone with a low salary, but this time he finally made a successful job switch. The new company not only offered double the pay but also had overseas work opportunities, which was a dream come true.
Li Ming has been staring blankly at the golden medal lately. The medal isn't big, but it feels heavy. On the front, it reads "Selfless Dedication, Exemplary Model," and on the back, it says "Government-Sponsored Study Abroad." This medal was awarded to him by the school after he carried his injured classmate out of the teaching building during that earthquake.
"Rules and regulations, please understand." Security guard Lao Wang repeated this phrase expressionlessly, like a robot with a preset program. In his hand was the takeout—a small package of antipyretic medicine, ordered by the guests in room 308 of the hotel.
Old Wang's finger hovered stiffly above the phone screen. Thirty seconds. There were thirty seconds left until the company's New Year red envelope grab time. He glanced around, his colleagues were all holding their breath, their eyes almost glued to their screens. This kind of scene happens every year. It's said to be a New Year's benefit, but it's more like a survival competition.
Li Qiang, a deliveryman struggling on the edge of the city, has recently become the "Mr. Mi" of his community. Not because his rice bin is full, but because he always says "mi" instead of "yuan" when he speaks. At first, people laughed at his accent, but later they discovered that the unit displayed on his phone when making payments had also become "mi." Unable to explain it, he simply went along with it, jokingly calling himself a "rice farmer in the digital age."
At precisely eight o'clock, the alarm clock rang on time. Old Wang sprang out of bed with a lunge, his movements as swift as a sprinter in a 100-meter dash. He didn't even bother to wash up; he grabbed his phone and rushed to his computer desk. This was the top priority for the evening—the JD Spring Festival Shopping Festival, with large-screen TVs up for grabs at 9.9 yuan.