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墨書 Inktalez
Day after day, everything returned to normal.
The morning sunlight pierced through the gaps in the city's concrete jungle, casting a glow on the gray asphalt, reflecting the weary figures of passersby. The air was thick with the aroma of freshly baked breakfast mingled with exhaust fumes, creating a suffocating atmosphere unique to urban mornings.
Lin Zhao Cheng stood on the sidewalk, unconsciously staring at the bus slowly approaching. He was so familiar with it that he didn’t need to check the bus number to know which one was his. He walked toward the bus, where countless unfamiliar and numb faces crowded at the door, pushing and jostling against each other like sardines eager to be packed into a can.
He took a deep breath and squeezed himself onto the bus.
Inside, people clung desperately to the handrails and straps, their bodies swaying passively with the motion of the vehicle. The driver honked as the traffic outside was dense and unyielding, with angry shouts rising and falling. Nearby, office workers bowed their heads, scrolling through their phones or fighting off sleep with closed eyes, while a few bored middle-aged men whispered complaints about the government, prices, and their bosses.
This scene was all too familiar to him.
Lin Zhao Cheng did not join in any conversations; he simply stood there, quietly gazing out the window until the bus entered the commercial district filled with towering office buildings. Only then did he snap back to reality, following the flow of people as he disembarked from the bus and stood before an imposing building, gazing at its understated yet luxurious golden lobby.
— "This is where I work."
Taking a deep breath, he stepped inside.
Once in the elevator, the packed office workers automatically arranged themselves according to an invisible hierarchy—newcomers at the edges, seasoned employees in the center enjoying their "privilege."
Lin Zhao Cheng calmly stood in the center of the elevator, his gaze carrying a habitual arrogance as he nodded slightly at other supervisors of his level. They reciprocated with similar gestures—a silent aristocratic ritual that played out daily.
When the elevator reached his floor and the doors opened, he stepped into this battlefield that had become all too familiar.
Walking into the office area, his presence as a supervisor naturally drew everyone's attention. Along the way, subordinates bowed and nodded at him; he responded coldly with either a nod or a soft "hm," maintaining his usual authority.
A few new hires who had been gossiping about non-work-related topics immediately fell silent upon seeing Lin Zhao Cheng's figure. It was as if a bucket of cold water had splashed over them; they straightened up and pretended to focus on their keyboards. The document on their screens had just opened, yet their fingers hesitated above the keys.
Lin Zhao Cheng passed by them with a cold glance, letting out a helpless sigh within himself.
"This group of people has no ambition at all."
Time in the office flowed like a finely tuned production line—smooth, mechanical, and devoid of any ripples.
Then, it was time for war.
The conference room was, as usual, filled with tension. Everyone wanted to tear off a piece of the company's resources—budgets, manpower, projects—anything could become a target for competition.
He continued to argue with the Bald Middle-Aged Manager, clashed with the newly promoted Young Supervisor, exchanged barbs with the Foreign Parachute Supervisor, and competed with that annoying old woman. Everyone was at each other's throats, like a pack of hungry wolves fighting over food, their tones sharp and confrontational.
This was not a meeting; it was a hunt.
When the meeting finally ended, he still felt irritable, like a soldier just returning from the battlefield, covered in gunpowder and still burning with anger.
Back in the office, he glanced at those unambitious newcomers. His frustration boiled over, and he unleashed a torrent of criticism on their low efficiency and lack of initiative. The young ones turned pale, nodding repeatedly in apology. After berating them thoroughly, he couldn't be bothered to look at them again and walked straight into his office, sitting down heavily.
Then came the time for slacking off.
He pretended to be busy, switching windows back and forth on his screen. Occasionally, he would open an Excel spreadsheet or sip some coffee while glancing at the clock.
Is it seven yet? No, not yet.
As the time drew near, he deliberately lingered in his office, putting on an act of still being at work so that his subordinates wouldn't dare leave early. It wasn't until around seven or eight in the evening that he slowly tidied up his desk, ensuring that his shiny nameplate was neatly arranged.
"Lin Zhao Cheng"—this was the nameplate personally given by the boss, representing his value here.
He stared at the nameplate for a few seconds before turning off the lights and walking out.
The streets at night were still brightly lit, like a city that refused to sleep. The bus stop was filled with weary people returning from work. The cold white light of convenience stores illuminated the sidewalks, while steam rose from street food stalls at the corners, filling the city with a greasy aroma.
Lin Zhao Cheng boarded the bus for his return journey, standing in his familiar spot, gripping the familiar handrail, listening to the familiar sounds of the horn, the engine, and the soft chatter of passengers inside.
Everything had returned to normal.
He arrived home, opened the door, stepped inside, and turned on the lights. The arrangement of furniture was unchanged.
He walked into the living room and plopped down onto a chair, exhaling deeply.
It felt like completing a cycle of a day, a mechanical routine, an infinite repetition.
The massage chair was gone.
The bizarre otherworld was gone.
The slaughter, fear, and pain were gone.
Now, he had returned to this normal yet cold world, back on familiar tracks, like a screw reinserted into a gear, continuing its mechanical operation.
As if nothing had ever happened.
In the dimly lit massage parlor at night, the air was filled with a faint scent of essential oils, mingling with the warmth of cotton blankets, creating an atmosphere so relaxing that one could almost drift into a dream.
Lin Zhao Cheng lay on the massage table, feeling the technician's skilled hands gradually easing the tension in his shoulders and back. The pressure was just right, accompanied by a moderate pain that made him let out a soft sigh.
"How have you been feeling lately?" the technician casually asked, her hands never stopping as she continued to work while engaging in small talk.
"Not bad," Lin Zhao Cheng replied lazily, his voice muffled.
"Weren't you saying you wanted to buy a massage chair?" The technician chuckled lightly, her tone teasing. "Did you end up getting one?"
Lin Zhao Cheng's body stiffened for a moment, his fingers twitching slightly before he resolutely shook his head, the force of his denial akin to rejecting some kind of curse.
"No, I didn't buy it," he said, his voice deep and firm, as if the question itself was not worth discussing.
"Oh? What made you suddenly change your mind about buying it?" The technician laughed lightly while applying more pressure to his waist. "You said it would be better to buy one than come here every day. Now you've changed your mind?"
Lin Zhao Cheng inhaled deeply, feeling the pressure on his sore spots. The pain brought with it a strange sense of reassurance. He didn't respond immediately; instead, he closed his eyes and after a few seconds, he softly replied, "People are still better."
The technician paused for a moment, then couldn't help but chuckle. "Oh, why do you sound so sentimental?"
Lin Zhao Cheng remained silent, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth as he closed his eyes again, allowing himself to sink into the relaxation brought by the massage.
The pressure of the massage continued rhythmically, and the technician kept talking with a smile while Lin Zhao Cheng simply listened quietly, not feeling the need to say much.
He didn't need to say anything.
Some things were better left unspoken.
In the massage parlor, music flowed gently in the background, blending with the techniques of pushing and kneading. The fatigue of the night seemed to gradually dissolve in this warmth.
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