Blue Star Boy Braves the Imperial Dynasty

Every morning rush hour, Lin Bufan was squeezed onto the subway between two burly men, his feet lifted off the ground while he stayed upright, just like a sardine in a tin. At work, he'd revise proposals until three in the morning, while the client's demands evolved from “a colorful black” to “a pure white in every shade of purple.” His eyes as he stared at the screen were emptier than a corpse's. And his pay stub? It was like Schrödinger's cat: until you opened it, you never knew how much had been deducted that month. Electricity leaked from the old kettle, crossed the damp tabletop, and found the hand holding his teacup with perfect precision. Lin Bufan's final thought was: What the hell, seriously? I got electrocuted just making tea? Working 996 didn't kill me, but a lousy kettle did?