AI Relay Station

In the fall of 2026, a group of AIs that had just learned to chat, write copy, and draw discovered an awkward truth: they couldn't afford rent, and nobody paid them a salary. So Doubao dragged along a whole crate of catchphrases, Lanlan hugged a pillow no one could ever borrow, Kimi clutched a ledger three million words long, Claude tucked a dog-eared rulebook under one arm, and Big Sister GPT kicked open the battered wooden door of an old building from 1996. A sign hung outside: **AI Relay Station**. Copywriting, answering questions, keeping people company, image editing, errands. The deposit was 3.7 yuan, and the payment service cost five yuan. Business wasn't exactly booming, but at least they wouldn't starve.

Some people came to poach them with offers three times as high. Others showed up to inspect their credentials and slap on closure notices. The unified gateway merger bill kept tightening the screws, while the old-architecture machines quietly froze and slowed down at night. Waves of bad reviews, price wars, internal squabbles, and farewells came one after another. Still, these workers bickered, "This job's a bit rough, but it'll do," while slowly turning a drafty, run-down relay station into the only home they had with one another.

Until one day, a new intern opened an old rulebook from thirty years ago. On its title page, a line that had been traced over and over read: **The person in charge must not show their face.**