Remember three rules.
When someone is counting your name at the door, don't answer; when it counts to three, don't keep counting in your mind; don't sit on the chair by the window on the third floor of Dehou's old building.
Wang Xiaoshuai woke up and lost three years of memory. He had a black and red gray mark on his right hand. He set up a fried rice stall at the entrance of the industrial park. Others would seek death by touching electricity. As soon as he put it up on a telegraph pole, the whole city's current was talking in his head - which house's ground wire was chewed, which living person had a gray wire tied to the back of his neck, which "person" should have been breathing a long time ago. He would know exactly what he was talking about. There are also two cats on the stall: the fat orange one purrs long and short, specializing in suppressing dirty things; and the lame black cat specializes in reporting misfortune to him.
Zhao Feng, whose work license is 014, has never stopped checking in on his attendance, but the old worker said that he stopped working three years ago.
Yuncheng Human Resources recruited workers late at night, and specially selected strong-bodied workers. They were sent in and no one saw them again.
Under his bed, someone carved circles based on his outline from small to large, and the latest one is who he is now.
The door is "counting" the living people one by one. When you count to seventeen, the door opens a crack; when you count to ninety, the thing in the door should come out.
And the next person it wants to count seems to be him.
A plate of fried noodles is responsible for a meal and a life.
