7

At the office entrance, the boss, Wenbo, stood in front with a gloomy expression, loudly questioning,"I'll say it again. This is voluntary overtime. Is there anyone who doesn't want to stay? Raise your hand and let me see."

Wenbo's sharp gaze swept across the room. Lincoln was already familiar with this so-called"voluntary" overtime—essentially,"Try refusing if you dare!" Under Wenbo's piercing eyes, the office turned into a typing competition, the sound of keyboards clattering like a symphony rehearsal.

Wenbo, in his forties, was the CEO of a large international company. His hair was slicked back with gel, and his chin adorned with a trendy"Van Dyke" beard. Always dressed in expensive suits and often wearing a smile, he seemed approachable at first glance. But as one got closer, the unspoken message became clear:"You think you're worthy?"

His next words carried the same nauseating air:"You all have conditions far better than we did back in the day. We didn't even see the sun, working day and night to drum up business, and that's how we built our reputation in the industry."

He continued,"Do you know how many people are fighting tooth and nail, pulling strings, and going through back doors just to get into this company? Even graduates from top universities might not make it. So you must cherish your positions."

His voice grew louder in the hall:"Some young people think their salary is too low, and the work is too tiring. But this is the golden period for you to improve your skills. Our managers here could be executives elsewhere, yet they treat you respectfully. In the future, if you build enough experience and skills, other companies will be competing to hire you even if you want to leave."

Wenbo patted a young employee on the shoulder."Who says you won't be a manager in five years, or even a big boss in ten?"

The young man clapped enthusiastically, his face turning red with excitement.

Finally, Wenbo concluded earnestly,"We've all been through this. Look at those who became managers—they were all long-term employees who never cared about overtime pay, never wasted time on vacations, and many didn't even get married. That's the spirit of our company."

A senior employee asked bitterly,"What about those of us who foolishly got married?"

Wenbo glanced at him."Married? Then just work overtime! No chores, no fights with your wife—what's not to like?"

The employees burst into laughter, and Wenbo felt pleased with the effect.

As Wenbo turned to leave, Lincoln quickly approached, bowing slightly and asking quietly,"Boss Wen, today is my birthday." He bowed repeatedly."I'm really sorry, sir, but could I skip overtime just this once?"

His colleagues looked at him in shock and admiration, this brave soul. But Wenbo sneered and said loudly,"A single guy, rushing to celebrate his birthday? Should I buy you a cake?"

Amid the laughter behind him, Lincoln's eyes reddened, but he lowered his head and returned to his desk.

He sat at his workstation, staring at the screen. His fingers hovered over the keyboard but didn't move. The surrounding noise blurred, like a heavy fog enveloping him. His chest felt weighed down by a boulder, his breathing grew labored, and the screen in front of him became a hazy blur.

In his mind, the morning news replayed—a worker dying at his desk from exhaustion after a month of nonstop work. No one even claimed his final paycheck. A wave of fear engulfed Lincoln. Was this fate creeping toward him as well?

"Why?" he silently asked himself over and over."For a future with no end in sight, what am I sacrificing?"

He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms. Glancing at the clock on the wall, he saw the relentless ticking of the hands—like a machine that never stopped, with him as just one insignificant cog.

Half an hour later, Wenbo strode out of the building while on a phone call:"Hey, my good boy, Dad's bringing you a gift. What? You don't like toy cars anymore? Okay, how about a remote-controlled drone?"

He made another call, speaking in a hushed tone:"Sweetheart, I'll be home soon. What overtime? I'm the boss; that's for the workers. Exploitation? If I didn't exploit them, where would I get the money for your gifts? No, no, I can't get home too late; my wife might catch on to us."

As he approached his luxury car, a brick suddenly fell from the sky, crashing into the car's roof with a dull thud. The edge of the brick embedded itself deeply into the metal—just inches away from catastrophe.

Wenbo turned pale, stumbling back and almost falling. He looked up at the building in fury and shouted,"Who did this? What are you doing? This is attempted murder!"

His trembling fingers dialed the police, but the onlookers remained indifferent, no one stepping forward. Wenbo's shouts echoed in the open space outside the building, but no answer came.

That evening, Lincoln ordered takeout and ran into his friend Mo Wen in the hallway. Mo Wen, holding the delivery in one hand and a cigarette in the other, looked unusually distracted, his face a mask of"life is meaningless."

"Lincoln, you should smoke less. And stop eating takeout all the time. Cooking your own meals is much better."

"Mo Wen, stop meddling. Don't bite the hand that feeds you!"

"Come on, we're friends. What's wrong today? You seem off."

"Nothing." Lincoln lowered his head and lit another cigarette.

With a sigh, Lincoln said,"In the boss's eyes, I'm just a dog—and a dog that better read the room. Miss a call in a meeting? Scolded. Answer the call? Also scolded for being disrespectful. Forget to press the elevator button? Scolded. Don't open the car door for him? Scolded again. At parties, he even boasts,'Young people should be dogs first, then humans.'"

Mo Wen exaggeratedly peered behind Lincoln.

"What are you looking for?" Lincoln asked.

"Seeing if you've grown a tail."

Lincoln kicked at Mo Wen in mock anger as he burst into laughter.

Unable to help himself, Lincoln smiled but sighed helplessly."Last month, I worked my butt off on a project. The boss said I'd get a promotion. And then? He promoted some guy who's a relative of his. I'm supposed to keep living like a dog, waiting for the old dogs above me to move aside. When I look up, all I see is a wall of—never mind."

Mo Wen laughed heartily."Brother, the fact you can still joke means you haven't gone crazy yet."

"I'm forced to!" Lincoln stubbed out his cigarette and crushed it underfoot as though stamping out his boss.

After a pause, Mo Wen pulled out a small cake."Happy birthday, brother."

Lincoln was stunned for a moment before taking the cake, his eyes welling up."Thanks. You're the only one who remembered."

"Take care, brother," Mo Wen called as he vanished into the stairwell. In the distance, his voice echoed,"Don't worry, I'm on my way. I'll be there in a minute!"

Lincoln stared at the cake in his hand and murmured,"What a fool." He took a deep breath, returned to his desk, and resumed typing. This time, a faint glimmer of light shone in his eyes.