Old Zhang was carrying a heavy combination lock suitcase, like he was holding a box of gold bars. In fact, it contained the company’s year-end bonus for employees – 300,000 yuan in cash. He carefully stepped into the elevator, the suitcase creaking, as if whispering its value. He was alone in the elevator. Old Zhang looked down at the old-fashioned mechanical watch on his wrist. It was already 6:30 PM, and the annual meeting was about to begin.

"Welcome to Mr. Ostrich's live stream!"

　　Old Li had been feeling that something was off lately.

　　It started with the way his colleagues looked at him, a mix of awe, envy, and a hint of barely perceptible fear. It was as if they were looking at a lucky guy who'd suddenly gotten a promotion and raise, and yet also like they were looking at a ticking time bomb. Old Li was just a regular programmer, coding diligently every day. His only hobby was having a bowl of steaming hot beef noodles at a small stall near his neighborhood entrance after work.

Old Wang's greatest pleasure after retirement was flushing the toilet every morning. His toilet wasn't an ordinary one, but a high-tech smart toilet that could automatically detect the composition of human excrement and record daily health data. Old Wang felt this thing was more reliable than his good-for-nothing son.

Today, a bright red warning flashed on the toilet's display screen: "Solid waste exceeded, please clean immediately." Old Wang frowned, wondering if he had an upset stomach from something he ate last night. He pressed the flush button, and the toilet emitted a muffled hum, but the water seemed blocked and refused to go down.

Li Ming, a programmer toiling away at a software company in Beijing, found his greatest pleasure each evening before bed in scrolling through the "international ledger" – a spontaneous "account reconciliation" activity organized by netizens from different countries that had sprung up seemingly out of nowhere. This "reconciliation" was essentially a group of people from various nations posting their daily expenses on digital payment platforms and "cross-checking" with each other.

Initially, everyone was just having fun, comparing spending levels in different countries. But gradually, it evolved into something of a ritual. Li Ming looked forward to seeing the daily statement of "John," an American netizen. John's statements were always peculiar. One day he'd buy a $3.99 bag of "air," and the next he'd spend $25 on a virtual hat in some virtual space.

Old Liu is an early warning operator at the city's Earthquake Early Warning Center, or more precisely, the "Chief Duty Officer" of the early warning team. The reason for the addition of "chief" is not because he has superior technical skills, but because he is the most senior and has the thinnest hair, making him the team's acknowledged "fixture."

Every morning at eight o'clock, Old Liu sits down in front of his outdated computer. The screen displays various fluctuating curves, like a heart monitor in a hospital. Old Liu's job is to stare at these curves, waiting for the line representing an earthquake to suddenly twitch.

Old Li was a senior employee of the "Color Analysis Department," or rather, a former senior employee. He was responsible for analyzing the color changes of phone screenshots, the company's most important business. Since the iOS18 update, phone screenshots gradually turn redder with usage time, and the depth of the red color is actually linked to an employee's "contribution value." The deeper the red, the faster the promotion, and the bigger the bonus.

When Old Li first joined the company, he thought it was a stupid rule. He tried to find the logic behind it, but was told, "Logic? Isn't this technological progress? Who can explain quantum mechanics? Just accept it." He wanted to argue, but seeing his colleagues frantically taking screenshots, he swallowed his words.

"Team Leader Li, the weekly report?"

I looked up and saw the intern, Xiao Zhang, standing timidly in front of my desk. His eyes were fixed on the ominous red patch on my screen, as if staring at a piece of bleeding meat.

Old Wang had been with the company for fifteen years, growing from a naive intern to a balding, middle-aged man. He had participated in countless projects, witnessing the company's entire journey from a small workshop to a listed corporation. His workstation, much like himself, was old but carried too many memories.

Recently, the company launched a "trade-in" event, encouraging employees to bring in their old computers, old phones, and even old office supplies. The company would provide a trade-in value based on an assessment, allowing employees to purchase new products. Old Wang thought it was just a normal promotion, but it turned out to be a grand performance art by the company.

Before retirement, Lao Li was an accountant at a factory, adept at the abacus. After retiring, he became addicted to the internet. Not for news or chatting, but for enthusiastically “reconciling accounts” in various forums. Not really for money, but for the pleasure of precise, error-free numbers. He often said, "This world is full of fluff, only numbers are real."

Recently, he became engrossed in reconciling accounts with a group of American netizens. It began with several mysterious lists of goods, with a mix of items ranging from Chinese tea to American coffee, and prices in both RMB and USD, like a large global trade mystery box. Most of these netizens were Americans. Lao Li guessed they were probably from the finance industry, very sensitive to numbers.