"Welcome to the 'Teacher Title Evaluation Simulator'. In order to improve the efficiency of the evaluation and reduce human interference, we have launched this completely fair and objective system. Please enter your personal information."

On the screen, the cursor flickered, and Lao Wang typed on the keyboard with a slightly trembling hand. He is a veteran language teacher with twenty years of experience, and his eloquent speeches on the podium have long been replaced by clumsy keystrokes on the keyboard. He is at the critical juncture of title evaluation again this year. Although he is aware of the tricks of the trade, he still holds a sliver of hope and wants to see what score this "completely fair and objective" system will give him.

Old Wang was forcibly dragged into the "APT speed course."

He had worked at this Shanghai hot pot restaurant for nearly five years, evolving from a clueless newbie who only knew how to swish lamb into a "veteran" waiter. Life was pretty good; he just greeted guests and eavesdropped on gossip. But ever since the restaurant started this "international transformation," everything changed.

The train jolted violently, and the screeching sound of the brakes cut through the heavy air. A mechanical, calm female voice came over the loudspeaker: "Passengers, train D3014 has made an emergency stop due to hitting an unidentified object. Please be patient while our staff addresses the situation."

Wang Ming sighed and put down his newspaper. This was the third time this month the train had stopped due to an "unidentified object." The first time, it hit a plastic bag; the second, a torn raincoat; and now, it was an "unidentified object." He rubbed his temples, the view outside the window was a monotonous grey, matching his mood.

The gas station's bell rings on time, not a real bell, but a system notification sound. Every day at six in the morning, it announces the start of a new day in a mechanical yet slightly excited tone. "Go for it, working stiff!" The cartoon character on the screen waves its fist, its smile frozen, as if mocking.

Li Ming skillfully puts on his work hat, which is printed with "Today's Oil Price: 7.88 yuan/liter". This number changes every day, stimulating his nerves like a stock price. When it goes up, he sighs; when it falls, he feels disappointed, as if he has become a slave to oil prices.

Before retiring, Old Wang rented a safety deposit box at a bank and put all of his family's heirloom gold and silver into it. He always felt uneasy keeping these items at home, believing it was more secure in the bank. He carefully read the safekeeping contract three times; the bank's seal was a vivid red, and his name was neatly written as the depositor.

Zhang Qiang stood in front of the full-length mirror, a slight smile playing on his lips as he gazed at his tall figure. He had paid an unimaginable price for this moment.

A few months ago, he was just an ordinary office worker, standing at 1.68 meters tall, feeling like a sardine in the crowded subway and a replaceable cog in the company machine. He was tired of looking up to others and longed to be the center of attention. So, he sought out the "Highly Customized" company.

Old Li died, quietly and without a sound. Just like the decades he lived, equally silent. When the community members cleaned his room, they found three bank cards and a property certificate, with a total value of nearly five million yuan. But this inheritance became a hot potato, unclaimed.

Old Li was never married, had no children, his parents had passed away early, and he had lost contact with distant relatives. It was as if he had appeared out of thin air in this city, and disappeared just as suddenly, leaving behind a pile of ownerless wealth.

At three in the afternoon, sunlight poured onto the windowsill of the legacy management office like melted honey. Old Lin, a seasoned administrator with twenty years of experience, was staring blankly at the cold numbers on his computer screen: 4.3 million yuan, and an apartment in the city center, unclaimed. This wasn't the largest estate he had handled, but it was the most absurd.

Old Lin adjusted his reading glasses and sighed. In this day and age, someone could actually be "so rich no one wants it," a merciless mockery of the social principle of "men die for wealth." He opened the thick case file, which recorded the life of the deceased Mr. Zhang, a life that was sketchy and brief, much like his quiet existence. No spouse, no children, not even distant relatives could be found.

Old Wang's greatest joy after retirement was organizing his "legacy list." This wasn't a traditional will, but a detailed list of every small item in his life: a tea set used for thirty years, each cup with a different chip, like the irreparable regrets in his life; a pile of expired newspapers, recording the boring news of each day, like his monotonous life day after day; and a box of matchboxes he collected in his youth, the patterns on which always reminded him of those blurred past events.

He lived in a small bachelor apartment, the walls a mottled yellow, the window looking out at towering skyscrapers. Old Wang always sat by the window, sipping his strong tea, staring at his list in a daze. The list had been updated dozens of times, the writing becoming denser and denser, like his life, increasingly complicated yet increasingly empty.

Old Wang died, on the winter solstice night, as silently as the withered green ivy on his bedside, frozen and lifeless. No one knows the exact cause of his death, just as no one knows if he ever loved anyone in his life. All he left behind were the cold numbers in his bank account: four million three hundred thousand yuan, and a thirty-square-meter old apartment in the city center.

As usual, Old Wang's "estate" was put on public notice. The notice board was covered with dense small print, like a giant spiderweb, trying to capture anyone related to Old Wang. However, a month passed, then two, then half a year, and apart from a few routine inquiries, no one came forward to claim this “windfall.”