Tomcat

Li Jianguo's name was forged in molten steel. Amidst the tide of Reform and Opening Up, driven by a raw determination that "dared to command the sun and moon to change skies," he single-handedly built a vast steel empire from a barren mudflat. His "Jianguo Group" was not just a pillar of the local economy, but also a symbol of the convergence of individual struggle and epochal opportunity in that turbulent era. Wealth flowed like molten iron from a blast furnace, accumulating into dazzling figures and erecting an invisible fortress around the Li family.

Doctor Xiao first realized something was wrong on an ordinary Tuesday afternoon. He had just finished a not-too-complicated surgery and was taking off his sweat-stained mask when the head nurse handed him an unsigned grey envelope. The envelope's texture was unusually stiff, its edges sharp enough to seemingly cut a finger. "Someone left it at the front desk, said it was for you, must be opened personally." The head nurse's voice carried an unusual note of caution.

Doctor Liu felt a bit wronged, like he’d swallowed a cold, hard bun that lodged in his chest, neither going down nor coming up.

K was awakened by an absolute silence. Not the tranquility proper to the deep night, which contains subtle signs of life, but a complete stillness, a dead quiet as if the universe itself had stopped breathing. He fumbled for the switch by his bed; his finger pressed down, only to be met with a hollow, unresponsive "click." The light didn't turn on. Outside the window, the city, where neon and streetlights once flowed eternally, was now submerged in an unfathomable darkness. Only a few distant stars looked down coldly upon this suddenly silenced land.

The people of this city believe in an unquestionable truth: nine o'clock at night is the boundary dividing states of being. To cross it, entering slumber, is akin to activating an invisible machine, infusing life with order, efficiency, and an indescribable 'correctness'. On street propaganda posters, citizens with serene sleeping faces are bathed in soft moonlight, set against a background of gears and wheat sheaves symbolizing abundance and health. The caption is concise and powerful: "Early Bedtime: The Cheat Code to Perfection."

Lao Ding, Ding Jianguo, felt time slipping through his fingers—not in the metaphorical "time flies" sense, but physically disappearing. This feeling began with the third "adjusted leave" announcement of the year. That A4 sheet, printed like an official red-letter document, was like a cold surgical notice, announcing that his upcoming weekend needed to be cut, moved, and stitched together in exchange for a distant and fragmented "mini-holiday."

Manhattan wasn't awake yet, but a side street off Fifth Avenue already was, and running a fever. Three in the morning. The cold air was like a damp cloth, wiping over the bare trees and the hurried night-returners. Yet, here gathered a long dragon—a dragon composed of down jackets, coffee cups, yawns, and whispers—snaking for a full two blocks. They were all waiting, waiting for an electronics store, not yet open, with a decor so minimalist it bordered on cold. The target? A camera from China, called "Phoenix Eye."

Old Liu Tou recently felt a constant tightness in his chest, like a lump of poorly chewed wotou stuck there. That old locust tree at the entrance to the hutong, its leaves had yellowed and greened, greened and yellowed again; it had witnessed Old Liu Tou age from "Little Liu" to "Old Liu," and it had witnessed his son, Minghui, grow from a little tyke into a young man who had made something of himself, gotten into that... oh right, "Intelligent Monkey Academy," a company so bright it dazzled the eyes.

Old Ma, Ma Qingshan – Qingshan on paper, but everyone in the hutong called him Old Ma. Old Ma wasn't old, just past forty, but his back was a bit stooped, the creases at the corners of his eyes like they'd been repeatedly carved by the blunt knife of life: deep, but not sharp. He worked as an accountant in a modest-sized work unit, dealing with numbers every day, adding and subtracting, like abacus beads – regular, but wearing.

Old Wang reckoned this was the most reliable thing he’d done in his entire life. That bit of pension money he'd saved for nearly half his life – he hadn't listened to his wife's nagging about buying some darned "wealth management product," nor had he followed the young folks next door dabbling in some "Eye-Pee-Oh." No, he, Old Wang, had exchanged it for golden nuggets! Real, solid, gleaming yellow nuggets. Heavy in his hand when he clutched them, and tucked under his pillow, they made him sleep more soundly than ever.