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墨書 Inktalez
"Zhang Ming, can you explain what this bug is about?" The supervisor's voice pulled me back to reality during the project meeting.
I stared at the error report displayed on the projector, momentarily at a loss for words.
"I'm sorry, I'll fix it in the next couple of days," I said quietly.
"You've been distracted too often lately." After the meeting, the supervisor called me into his office.
"This company is not a charity. If you can't ensure the quality of your work, your year-end performance might be affected."
Back at my desk, I rubbed my temples.
My phone showed three missed calls, all from my wife.
"Zhang Ming, we need to talk." After returning home that evening, my wife finally voiced the thoughts that had been weighing on her.
"You haven't received a full attendance bonus in a month. The mortgage still has 20 years left... I know you want to help your father, but we need to take care of our own lives too."
I looked at her in silence.
Indeed, during this time, we had already spent nearly thirty thousand on medical expenses.
But what could I do?
I couldn't just watch as my father's hard-earned money was swindled away.
The next day on my way to work, I noticed a van following closely behind me.
This was already the third time this week.
After arriving at the company, I deliberately circled to a blind spot of the surveillance cameras to capture the license plate number.
On my way to the hospital to visit my father at noon, I found a letter in the mailbox: "If you know what's good for you, stop your investigation. Otherwise, you'll face the consequences."
Just as I was feeling trapped, an unexpected breakthrough occurred.
Old Wang from the IT department secretly approached me: "I heard you're looking into some information? Maybe I can help."
It turned out that Old Wang had been responsible for the system maintenance of the Street Office in his previous job.
He informed me that all deleted electronic documents actually have backups.
"Give me three days," Old Wang said. "I'll see if I can recover some key files."
On the evening of the third day, Old Wang sent me an encrypted file.
It was an internal work record detailing the Demolition Compensation situation over the past three years.
Several amounts caught my attention: they were substantial, yet marked as "case closed" in the disbursement records.
At that moment, an unexpected message came through: the retired Director Lao Ma had sent word through a colleague that he wanted to meet with me.
"But be careful," the colleague warned me. "The atmosphere over at the Street Office is quite tense lately."
I looked at the evidence in my hands and considered this news, feeling an unusual mix of emotions.
On a winter morning in an old town teahouse, steam filled the air.
I chose a seat by the window and ordered a pot of Pu'er tea.
Director Lao Ma said he would arrive promptly at eight, and it was already seven fifty-five.
The sound of the door opening caught my attention as an elderly man with graying hair walked in.
He wore a deep blue jacket, and the wrinkles on his face told stories of the passage of time.
"Zhang Ming?" He sat down across from me. "I am Lao Ma."
I quickly poured him some tea. "Director Ma, thank you for agreeing to meet with me."
He waved his hand dismissively, his voice lowered. "I know what you're investigating. I understand Wu Degui all too well."
Director Lao Ma carefully pulled out a brown paper envelope from his bag. "These are some records I kept from years ago. Your father's case is just the tip of the iceberg; there is a whole network behind Wu Degui."
I opened the envelope to find a detailed list documenting suspicious Demolition Compensation cases.
Each entry was marked with specific dates, amounts, and the names of those involved.
"Why are you willing to help me?" I couldn't help but ask.
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