The rental house is small.
It was so small that when Lu Zhou stretched out, his fingers could touch the mottled wall opposite. There is an almost fading anime poster on the wall, a classic from the last century. On the screen, the protagonist was shouting the name of his moves furiously, and the wind of fists was wrapped in light effects, beating the villain until he screamed.
Lu Zhou took a sip of instant noodles.
The soup was piping hot, with a strong sour smell, mixed with the vague musty smell in the corner of the room, making up the familiar smell of dinner. He was wearing a T-shirt that had been washed white, and on his feet was a pair of "royal blue" shoes that he found on a certain store. The shoes were of good shape, but if you look closely, you could see that the stitching was a little crooked.
This is him, Lu Zhou, twenty-two years old, the most inconspicuous speck of dust in this city with a population of tens of millions. For food delivery people, the salary fluctuates like an electrocardiogram, but it always hovers near the passing line. He has no lofty ideals. His biggest wish is not to fall into a trap tomorrow, not to be complained about, and not to have his salary deducted.
As long as I lie flat enough, the sickle can't cut me.
He has always believed in this.
The phone screen suddenly went black.
It's not that the battery is out of power, the animation is playing to its climax. The entire screen was instantly swallowed up by a pure, ink-like darkness, and even the status bar at the top disappeared. Lu Zhou frowned, thinking there was something wrong with his phone again.
The next second, a line of scarlet words appeared in the center of the darkness. It looked like it was written in blood, and it was still glowing with a faint light.
[Script: Death Incident on Subway Line 10]
"What the hell?"
