Gou Sheng never dreamed in his life that he'd die because of something a client said.
More precisely, because of a voice message the client sent at 1:47 a.m. Wearing headphones in his rented room, Gou Sheng heard every word clearly. "Hey, Xiao Gou, I've looked through everything, and I still think your first version was the best. Let's go with that one. Get it to me tomorrow morning."
Thirty-eight versions. He'd revised it thirty-eight times. He'd gone from "grand, sweeping Chinese-inspired style" to "understated luxury with depth," pulling thirty all-nighters in between and downing four cases of Red Bull. He'd changed a comma to a dunhao, then changed it back to a comma, only to hear the client say, "The first version was better after all."
Gou Sheng's vision went black as he fell backward, with only one thought left in his mind:
This client really is the very embodiment of Schrodinger's cat.
