2147, District 7. The first thing everyone does when they wake up in the morning is check their fortune: what is the score today, what is suitable and what should be avoided, what time to go out and what time to go home. Destinies are calculated and never go wrong.
Chen Zimo, 27 years old, is a third-level employee of the District Archives Bureau. His fortune is always 62 points. It's low enough that no one cares about it, and it's not high enough that it needs to be taken care of. For six years, he lived his life as a transparent person: arriving at work at 8:03, squatting under a tree and eating steamed buns, making no friends, and not saying a word.
He has a secret that no one can know: he can see threads. Those lines grow on people, on car roofs, and in the wind at intersections. Time and probability are written on the lines.
He had been pretending not to see it. Because he has seen that if people who can see want to survive, they must first learn to pretend not to see.
Until that day, a line grew from his own chest and hung straight into the ground of the archives.
Following this line of investigation, he dug out a physical examination form from April three years ago, five erased names, a closed old mental health center building, and a line in an old newspaper: "For subjects of special research projects, a 'drop-out' file will be established, with one file per person and long-term tracking."
And he himself is number 79 on that list.
Either pretend you don't see anything, or pull out the entire thread.
He chose the second option. The price is that there will no longer be the person "Chen Zimo".
