Zhang Xiaowai's life could only be described as an unremarkable masterpiece.
Every morning, the world greeted him with the same shrug. The same cracked ceiling stared back at him, its mildew stains resembling crying clowns. At exactly seven o'clock, his alarm clock shrieked like a fire drill in purgatory. He would drag himself upright, step into worn-out slippers, and sink into the foldable chair that doubled as both his dining throne and emotional support.
Breakfast never changed: a five-yuan cup of instant noodles, salty enough to embalm a corpse. Today's soup splashed onto his gray T-shirt, blooming into a shape vaguely resembling China. He poked at the gummy mass of noodles like a condemned man savoring his final meal.
At twenty-seven, Zhang was the kind of office drone who barely registered in facial recognition systems. He worked at DragonGate International Logistics Inc.—a name that promised action movies and delivered spreadsheets. Nestled in a forgotten corner of Wulong City, the building reeked of mold, cold coffee, and capitalist despair.
His job? Spreadsheet grunt. His purpose? Unknown. His talents? Limited to wrangling VLOOKUP formulas and predicting when the vending machine would accidentally dispense two lemon teas.
Now it was 11:47 p.m.
Normal people were out drinking, doom-scrolling, or pretending to enjoy their gym routines. Zhang Xiaowai, meanwhile, was hunched at his desk like a sad gargoyle, locked in a death match with Excel.
The file glared back at him: final_FINAL_v3_actual_final.xls
He clicked save for the twelfth time, leaned back, and let out a groan that rattled through his chest like an old refrigerator. His office chair protested with a metallic screech, as though it too was done with life.
"I swear," he muttered, stuffing a limp noodle into his mouth, "I've spent more time with this spreadsheet than with any human being this year."
The air conditioner wheezed in sympathy, exhaling air tinged with mildew and regret.
He finally stood, scooping up his bag and tossing his cold noodles into the trash with a dramatic flourish. As he passed the break room, something caught his eye.
A note.
Pinned to the bulletin board, its edges curled like a dying leaf. Red ink, jagged script.
"Someone will disappear tonight."
Zhang blinked. "Wang Dazhuang. This has to be his idea of a joke."
He peeled the note off and crumpled it, shoving it into his pocket. "This'll kill in tomorrow's group chat."
Ding.
The elevator chimed like it was dying. Zhang stepped in, his reflection in the grimy chrome doors looking like someone halfway through a mental breakdown.
He pulled out his phone and began typing into his friends' group chat:
"Tonight's instant noodles were so tragic, even the fork wanted to resign."
Just as he hit send, the elevator jolted.
Clunk.
Everything froze. The lights flickered, then dimmed to a sickly buzz. For a moment, there was only the low hum of machinery and the sudden, suffocating silence.
Then—
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Above him.
Faint, deliberate. As if someone were slowly drumming fingers against the ceiling.
Zhang stared upward.
There it was again. Tap. Then the soft slide of something—cloth against metal.
"Maintenance?" he called, his voice cracking like a dry twig. "Dazhuang? If this is a prank, I will straight-up microwave your protein bars."
Nothing.
He scanned his bag and, in a burst of panic-fueled genius, pulled out an empty instant noodle cup. Holding it like a sacred relic, he adopted a shaky kung fu stance.
"I'm armed. I've survived seven years of MSG damage. Don't test me!"
Then, as suddenly as it stopped, the elevator resumed its descent. No explanation. No apology.
Ding.
The doors slid open into a dim, empty lobby.
Zhang took one step forward—and froze.
A figure emerged from the shadows.
Tall. Dressed in a black hoodie. Face hidden behind a plastic Halloween mask with a wide, cracked smile. The kind you'd find in a bargain bin for five yuan.
The figure tilted its head, curious.
Without a word, it dropped a note at Zhang's feet, then vanished into the stairwell in a fluid, eerie movement that defied logic—and possibly bone structure.
Zhang yelped and threw his noodle cup. It bounced off the hallway wall, accomplishing nothing.
He picked up the note, fingers trembling.
"Zhang Xiaowai, you're already involved."
"…How the hell do they know my name?"
He glanced at his shirt. No badge. No ID. The name hadn't been mentioned anywhere. His heart rate doubled.
Then his phone buzzed.
[Li – GM]: URGENT MEETING. NOW. My office.
"Of course," Zhang muttered. "Perfect timing. Who doesn't love a midnight corporate emergency?"
Back on the 17th floor, Zhang found the GM's office door ajar.
Inside looked like the aftermath of a small war.
Chairs overturned. Papers scattered. Coffee mug shattered on the floor. The GM's desk light buzzed weakly.
His phone was still there—screen glowing with an unsent message:
"Help. He's in—"
That was it.
Zhang took one cautious step back. Then another.
The elevator dinged again.
"Yo, Xiaowai!"
Wang Dazhuang stomped into the hall. Security guard by title, gym bro by religion, Dazhuang was built like a vending machine and dressed like one too—tight tank top, cargo shorts, and a grin too wide for this hour.
"You stuck in the elevator again, bro? Let me guess—screamed like a little bunny?"
Zhang ran up and shoved the red note at him.
"This. Is. Not. Funny. A masked creep left this. The GM's office is wrecked. He's gone."
Dazhuang blinked. Read the note.
"Wait, someone actually handed this to you? Mask and all?"
Zhang nodded.
Dazhuang's smile disappeared.
"This… this ain't me, man."
He looked around the trashed office, frowning.
"Place looks like someone got dragged out screaming."
"Exactly!" Zhang shouted. "And then this masked lunatic just drops a note with my name on it like he's RSVPing to my funeral!"
They stood in silence. Somewhere down the hallway, the printer sputtered and died.
Zhang slowly sank to the floor, his back against the wall.
The note burned like acid in his palm. Its words echoing:
"Someone will disappear tonight."
And he suddenly knew, with awful certainty—
That tonight had only just begun.