Zhou Qiming's consciousness began to drift off as the subway neared its final stop.
Calling it "asleep" wouldn't be entirely accurate.
The carriage continued moving forward, the scraping of the tracks a constant, repetitive sound against his eardrums, vibrations transmitted through the seats to his back. His head rested against the window; the glass was cool, the coolness slowly seeping in from his forehead. The coolness wasn't harsh, it was just there, a reminder that his body was still there.
The sound in his headphones was intermittent, like a radio station with a poor signal.
Someone was speaking, but it didn't seem to be directed at him.
"Your current life is a choice you made."
The sentence was emotionless, and didn't demand a response.
It wasn't a reminder, nor was it an interrogation.
It was like a pre-recorded message, played at a fixed time, its impact on whether the person actually heard it was irrelevant.
Zhou Qiming subconsciously reached for the volume.
The thought had barely formed when he stopped.
It wasn't fatigue.
He just suddenly felt it wasn't necessary.
His consciousness began to relax.
It wasn't a sudden break, but rather a gradual placement into a stable environment. The tension that had been constantly on his mind slowly dissipated, without warning or urging.
He didn't immediately realize what was happening.
He simply found that he no longer needed to pay attention to the station announcements, nor did he need to judge whether he was almost there.
First, there was light.
It was indescribable, its direction unclear.
Unlike a lamp or a screen, it was more like a brightness seeping through a layer of skin—not glaring, but constant. Zhou Qiming couldn't sense boundaries, nor could he determine whether he was lying down, sinking, or simply being supported by something.
The weight of his body became less important.
The position of his limbs began to blur, and the rhythm of his breathing no longer needed confirmation.
He tried to move a finger.
There was no clear response.
It wasn't that he couldn't move it.
It was just that the action wasn't emphasized; it seemed as if doing it or not didn't matter.
He wanted to confirm something.
Like where he was now.
This thought had barely formed when it dissipated. It wasn't an interruption; it was more like someone had closed the notebook halfway through writing.
Then another, lighter thought surfaced—who am I?
Before it could become a complete question, it was suppressed by a gentle force. Not a denial, not a rejection, but more like being taken over.
It was as if, here, this matter didn't matter.
Those details he usually used to confirm "I'm still here" lost their meaning. The rhythm of his heartbeat, the depth of his breathing, whether his muscles were tense—these things, once so concrete, slowly receded into the background.
He suddenly realized something.
There was no time here.
Not that time had stopped, but that there was no scale at all.
There was no "what's past," and no "what's next." Those judgments that usually popped into his head—time to wake up, time to get off the bus, time to do something—seemed somewhat superfluous here.
The whole state was almost too stable.
No evaluation.
No demands.
And no form of reminder.
He recalled the red pop-up notification boxes at work.
He remembered the repeated emphasis in meetings on "maintaining neutrality," "being mindful of boundaries," and "avoiding subjective judgment."
These images, barely appearing, were diluted by something, as if casually wiped away.
No residue, no rebound.
There was no performance evaluation here.
This conclusion wasn't something he came up with; it was more like the environment itself tacitly accepted this way.
No explanation needed, no proof required.
A feeling he couldn't quite describe welled up inside Zhou Qiming.
Not safety.
Not ease.
More like—
Finally, no more needing to prove anything.
Just then, a change occurred around him.
A very slight feeling of compression.
Like space slowly shrinking, or like some kind of rhythmic breathing. At first, he thought it was his imagination, but he quickly realized that the feeling was rhythmic.
Vibrations came from afar.
The sounds of brakes, announcements, and coughs from the crowd, distant and layered, knocked at him like blows on a shell.
For the first time, he felt uncomfortable. It wasn't the sound itself.
But a thought suddenly became exceptionally clear—
If he stayed here, he might never be asked to wake up again.
This thought abruptly appeared.
It wasn't like deduction, but more like a judgment directly delivered to him.
The pressure began to intensify.
The light cracked, as if being torn apart. He felt himself being pushed in a certain direction, the movement not violent, but leaving no room for negotiation.
The feeling of being lifted was still there, but it began to become unstable.
It was as if this place wasn't meant for anyone to stay in for long.
Before his consciousness was dragged back, that familiar voice rang out again:
"Your current life is a choice you made."
The subway station announcement suddenly sounded.
Zhou Qiming abruptly opened his eyes.
He was the only one left in the carriage.
All the lights were on, almost blindingly so, leaving no place to hide. A cleaning lady stood outside the door, tapped the glass twice with a rag, and pointed to the door.
The meaning was clear: He'd arrived.
As he stood up, his knees felt weak for a moment.
It wasn't sleepiness, but more like emerging from some kind of weightlessness; his feet were on the ground, but his body hadn't fully adjusted to gravity.
His backpack felt heavy.
The soles of his shoes felt firmly on the ground.
His phone vibrated.
A message from his supervisor popped up, asking him to make up an early shift, by 9:00.
It was 8:17.
He stared at the screen for a few seconds, but didn't reply.
It wasn't that he hadn't seen it, but he just didn't want the message to become a reality.
Stepping out of the subway station, the morning rush hour was beginning to subside.
The breakfast stalls were closing their umbrellas, the sweet smell of soy milk mixed with engine oil and dust wafting into his nostrils.
He suddenly realized that he hadn't needed to breathe just now.
At least, he hadn't needed to breathe so obviously.
The company was in Building B of the office building.
Building A was bright and tidy, the glass reflecting light, looking like it could be photographed in a brochure at any moment; Building B's lights were always half-on, half-off, and several floors were perpetually empty.
At nine o'clock sharp, he returned to his workstation.
A system window popped up automatically.
Task volume, accuracy rate, ranking, all clearly arranged line by line.
He put on his headphones and clicked on the first item.
The moment the image appeared, his body tensed instinctively.
A blurry screenshot, key parts obscured, and rows of malicious comments in the comment section.
He was already very familiar with these things.
Mouse moved.
Checked a box.
Submitted.
The movements were fast, almost without thought.
In a fleeting moment, he realized something.
He hadn't truly "seen" this content in a long time.
His eyes were looking, his judgment was being made, but there was something stable separating him, keeping his emotions out.
That feeling was very similar to the medium that had just enveloped him.
This thought made him a little uncomfortable.
Not because of the place itself.
But because—he started comparing it to something else.