Chapter Two | After Waking Up
Zhou Qiming was awakened by a knock on the car window.
Not by a sudden realization.
When the sound came in, he first felt it was a bit inappropriate, as if someone had appeared at an inopportune time.
A rag tapped against the glass, dull, twice.
Then came a hand, pointing towards the car door.
He blinked, his vision blurring for a moment before realizing the other person was looking at him.
It wasn't a question, nor a reminder, but a direct message: it was over.
He was alone in the car.
The lights were all on, almost blindingly bright. That brightness wasn't for comfort, but for visibility. The dust on the floor, the worn edges of the seats, the face reflected in the glass—nothing was overlooked.
When he stood up, his knees buckled.
It wasn't sleepiness.
It wasn't low blood sugar.
It was more like stepping out of a place where weight was unnecessary; his feet were already on the ground, but his body was still confirming: gravity had always been there. He picked up his bag and got off the train.
The platform was empty. The announcement repeated the final stop information, the speech steady and without any unnecessary pauses. That kind of voice made it impossible to pretend he didn't hear it.
His phone vibrated in his pocket.
He took it out and glanced at it.
[Supervisor]: You'll make up for the morning shift today. The person who worked the night shift last night has called in sick.
[Supervisor]: Be there before 9 o'clock.
The time displayed was 8:17.
He stared at those two lines of text for a few seconds, not replying immediately.
It wasn't that he didn't understand, nor was he hesitating about whether to reply.
He just subconsciously delayed.
It was as if he was giving himself a non-existent buffer.
He was very familiar with this kind of delay.
Not replying didn't mean rejection; replying late didn't mean being late.
It seemed more like he hadn't noticed, rather than making a choice.
When he walked out of the subway station, the morning rush hour had begun to subside.
There were still many people, but it was no longer the kind of density that pushed people forward. The breakfast stall was closing its umbrellas, the sweet smell of soy milk mingling with engine oil and dust, wafting into his nostrils.
The air was a bit murky.
Every breath was distinct.
He suddenly remembered his earlier state.
There was no smell there.
Not pleasant, not unpleasant, but there was simply no need to breathe.
This thought slowed his pace.
Not out of nostalgia, but more like a sudden realization of a contrast.
The company was in Building B of an office building.
Building A was right next door, seemingly taller, with brighter glass, and its entrance floor was washed daily. Building B's entrance was on the side, the elevator was slow, and the floor signs were crooked.
The elevator wasn't crowded.
Everyone was looking down at their phones, standing quietly, a just-right, comfortable distance between them. No one spoke, no one truly relaxed, like a row of devices waiting for a system update.
At nine o'clock sharp, he returned to his workstation.
A system window automatically popped up.
Today's task load: 480
Accuracy requirement: 99.2%
Current ranking: Lower-middle
He didn't need to look at these numbers closely anymore.
A quick glance was enough to tell him what today would likely be like.
He put on his headphones and opened the first task.
The moment the screen appeared, his body tensed instinctively.
A blurry screenshot, key parts obscured, and rows of malicious comments in the comment section.
He had processed this content too many times, so many that he barely remembered how he felt the first time he saw it.
Mouse moved.
Checked.
Submitted.
The movements were fast, almost without thinking.
In a moment, he suddenly realized something.
He hadn't truly "seen" these things in a long time.
His eyes were seeing, his judgment was being made, but there seemed to be a layer between them. That layer wasn't thick, but it was very stable, separating his emotions from the imagery.
He paused.
That feeling was somewhat similar to the state he had in his dream just now.
The similarity made him uneasy.
Not fear, but an inexplicable sense of dislocation.
At 12:30 PM, he ordered takeout.
While waiting for his food, he stared at the countdown timer in the upper right corner of the system. With each task completed, a small segment of time was eroded.
It didn't feel like time was passing.
It felt more like being sliced away, one frame at a time.
He suddenly remembered his dream.
There was no time there.
No slicing.
And no "How much do you have left?"
The thought had barely formed when a slight discomfort welled up in his chest.
Not pain, but more like a gentle tug, a reminder not to lose focus.
At 3 PM, the system popped up a notification—processing efficiency had decreased.
He took off his headphones and went to the restroom.
The person in the mirror looked older than he actually was.
Not old, but in a state of repeated use. His eyes weren't unfocused, but they lacked focus either, as if he were constantly waiting for the next instruction.
He washed his hands, but didn't dry them immediately.
Water dripped from his fingertips into the sink, the sound clear.
A somewhat absurd thought suddenly popped into his head.
If he closed his eyes now, would he be back there?
This thought made his heart tighten.
Not because of the place itself.
But because—
he had actually started thinking about it intentionally.
When he got off work, it was already dark.
He stood at the entrance of the office building, looking at the lights on in Block A. The windows there were neat and orderly, as if they were on higher up. The lights in Block B were always half-lit and half-dark, and several floors were always empty.
He suddenly realized something.
There are no classes in dreams.
But in reality, they are everywhere.
On the subway home, he deliberately didn't wear headphones.
The noise suddenly flooded in, real, rough, and impossible to ignore. He forced himself to feel the firmness of the seat, the coldness of the handrails, and the slight imbalance he felt as the carriage swayed.
But the moment the train entered the tunnel again and the lights flickered—
his body instinctively relaxed.
As if waiting for something.
He couldn't quite explain it himself.