Autumn in Los Angeles, with a hint of dryness. The distant hills begin to smoke, like a kettle of boiling water.
An old man sits on his rickety wooden chair, gazing at the distant firelight, clutching a crumpled insurance policy in his hand, his last hope. His name is Carl, one of the few remaining residents at the foot of the mountain, the other neighbors having either moved away or gone bankrupt.
Old Wang has been troubled lately. To be precise, it has been for a while. Since he joined the company's "sleep optimization" program, he has had to lie on a special "sleep optimization bed" every night. This bed, more of a technological cocoon, monitors your sleep data and uses micro-current stimulation to "optimize" your sleep quality.
Old Chen had worked at the aquarium for thirty years, transforming from a naive young man into a middle-aged man with thinning hair. He was familiar with the habits of every fish, knew which sea turtle liked to daydream in the corner, and which eel loved to hide behind the artificial rocks. Recently, the aquarium had introduced a new batch of sunfish, round creatures that looked adorable but were exceptionally delicate.
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."
Old Wang's new mobile phone number ends in seven zeros. In their company, this represents absolute authority and even a touch of mystique. Old Wang isn't the boss, nor is he a senior executive; he's just an ordinary data analyst, but he is more obsessed with the perfection of numbers than anyone else.