This Immortal Office Drone Has Heartburn

I drink alone, while immortals crowd the alleys of Ganzhi Lane.

Incense is their daily bread, and the Heavenly Court has cut staff, leaving gods unemployed.

I rush to clock in, managing the gods on the pedestrian street.

The door god stands by the door, while the God of Food simmers dishes whose fragrance fills the lane.

Two jobs, one paycheck, and the incense points slowly pile up.

Afraid of leaking secrets, afraid of disaster, this overworked drone trembles for his life.

Retired immortals are hard to rehome, and I have to shoulder a mountain of trivial chores.

On the bustling commercial street, where the aroma of daily life lingers, I help the gods with their troubles.