Old Li has recently become obsessed with watching the 999 Cold Remedy commercials. Not because he has a cold, but because the line "There's always warmth on the road" inexplicably brings him a sense of comfort. He works overtime every day until late at night, is crammed into the subway like a sardine, and then has to face mountains of reports when he gets home. He feels like a screw, tightly screwed onto the company's machine.

Old Wang was once again sitting on an empty waiting chair in the hospital, he was used to it. Ever since the notice "Imported drugs withdrawn from public hospitals" was posted, the place had become eerily quiet. In the past, it was crowded with anxious patients and their families, the air thick with the smell of disinfectant and unease, but now, only the cold wind whistling in the corners and Old Wang's heavy breathing could be heard.

The red light in the ambulance flickered on and off, like a tired eye. Lao Li looked at his watch, the second hand stubbornly ticking forward. He wasn't racing against time to save lives, but to meet a deadline. More precisely, to meet a "time requirement."

That day, the sun was shining brightly, so much so that Li Ming, stuck in traffic, felt a little cheerful. He was driving his newly bought red car, slowly crawling along in the traffic flow. Suddenly, a piercing siren grew louder, and Li Ming looked up to see a fire truck stuck behind him, flashing its urgent red and blue lights.

Old Liu was a gardener. His days were spent trimming lawns and watering plants, a life as monotonous as concrete. His greatest pleasure was keeping several koi in a large fish tank on his balcony.

"Brother Wang, the feed mix for the cranes has been adjusted today. Could you take a look at whether this batch of corn kernels meets the 'Golden Crane' standard?"

Zhang Qiang dragged his tired body into the hotel called "Anxinju." During check-in, the receptionist's smile seemed a bit mechanical, and her white uniform made him feel like it was overly formal. He didn't think much of it, assuming the hotel had a "minimalist" style.

Old Wang was the company’s “overtime model worker.” Leaving at 9:30 PM was considered an early departure for him. He sported the characteristic programmer's receding hairline and perpetually wore dark circles under his eyes, looking like an insomniac panda. An unwritten “truth” circulated within the company: overtime is a virtue, not doing overtime is a lack of ambition.

Old Wang, once a veteran shoemaker at “Guirenniao,” is now a chicken farmer at “Golden Crane Agriculture.” The transition was so rapid that it left him a little dazed.

Old Li's mobile phone number ends in seven zeros. Not many people know about this. In the small city, he was just an ordinary worker, taking the bus, eating in the cafeteria, and watching TV at home in the evening. Until one day, a strange phone call broke his peaceful life.