Digital Lunch
In the cubicles, the sound of keyboard clicks resembled the low hum of insects, interspersed with the subtle clicks of mice. At exactly noon, the digital clock on the screen turned red, signaling the start of “digital lunch” time.
In the cubicles, the sound of keyboard clicks resembled the low hum of insects, interspersed with the subtle clicks of mice. At exactly noon, the digital clock on the screen turned red, signaling the start of “digital lunch” time.
Old Chen had been in the "Transparent Gift" project team for three months. His daily work was to stare at the screen, monitoring the "transparent gifts" sent by WeChat users - a type of virtual gift, where the recipient could see the gift but not touch it or convert it into real money.
Project supervisor Old Wang, a balding middle-aged man in his forties, would send out a "Today's Transparent Gift Sending Guide" in the group chat every morning, teaching everyone how to cleverly use transparent gifts to please clients and superiors. Old Chen felt this guide was like a carefully written palace intrigue manual, except the battlefield had moved from the harem to the office.
Old Li looked at the dark, sooty thing in front of him and felt that life was indeed full of black humor. This thing, said to be a seed that had "studied abroad" on a space station, was treated like a treasure by the research institute and even escorted to their village by a special envoy. The task given from above was also very clear: he was to take good care of this "cosmic visitor" and strive to make it bloom and bear fruit on its native soil.
PeachHeiHei, an ordinary office worker, lives a life as precise as a machine, going to and from work, eating, sleeping, and scrolling through his phone. Recently, he noticed frequent out-of-place login notifications on his account. Initially, he thought his password had been leaked, changed his password, and bound his phone number for verification, but the issue persisted.
“Hello, this is Earth Support Center, how can I help you?” A formulaic female voice came from the other end of the line, with an artificial sweetness.
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.
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."
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.