Lin Bufan was squeezed into the subway during the morning rush hour every day. He was sandwiched between two sturdy men, with his feet even able to lift off the ground, like a sardine in a can. The company's plan was changed to three o'clock in the morning. Party A's father's needs evolved from "colorful black" to "colorful white." His eyes towards the screen were hollower than a corpse. As for the pay slip—that thing is like Schrödinger's cat. You never know how much money has been deducted this month until you open it. Electricity leaked from the old electric kettle, along the wet tabletop, and accurately found his hand holding the tea cup. There was only one thought left in Lin Bufan's last consciousness: Damn, isn't it? Making tea can give you an electric shock? 996 Didn't even kill me, but a broken kettle sent me away?
66666