Poor Dad Beats the Capitalist Dragon to a Pulp

At two in the morning on Tuesday, an email from the company flashed the word "downsizing." In the next room, my wife was bleeding. I held the mouse and dragged the 4D ultrasound images of my unborn son into the recycle bin, making room to copy a facial recognition model. A buyer on Xianyu messaged me privately: "Let me inspect it first, then I'll pay." I replied, "Inspect what?" They sent me a live video: my wife was lying on a hospital gurney in the corridor, a needle hovering above her belly. The countdown began.