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墨書 Inktalez
The meeting concluded, and the man's face was clouded with a lingering darkness, much like the smoke that hung in the conference room. His brows were tightly knit, and the corners of his mouth turned down slightly, giving him the appearance of a volcano ready to erupt. As he made his way back to his department, his footsteps echoed with an oppressive weight, each strike of his shoes against the floor adding to the heavy atmosphere around him. The employees he passed dared not meet his gaze; instead, they stole furtive glances before quickly lowering their heads to feign busyness.
Upon entering his department, he immediately noticed a few new hires huddled together. They appeared to be sitting at their computers, but in reality, they were whispering among themselves, the screens flashing not work spreadsheets but a mishmash of entertainment news. His anger ignited instantly, like a barrel of oil that had been piled high and was now set ablaze by the fury from the meeting.
"What the hell is going on?!" He slammed his hand on the table, the sound booming like thunder, causing the entire department to fall silent as if a pin could be heard dropping. "Is this your attitude? Did the company bring you here just to watch a show? Don’t think I don’t know what you’re all doing!" His gaze sliced through each young and flustered face, his voice growing colder with each word. "You sit here every day while someone pays you a salary, and this is how you repay the company? Do you have any idea that I nearly exploded in that meeting today fighting for resources for you? And what are you doing? Just wasting time here—it's truly shameful!"
The newcomers kept their heads down, resembling wilted plants, shoulders hunched low as they dared not retort, only nodding meekly. One murmured a quiet "Got it," which only elicited an even louder roar from him: "Got it? What good does that do! I want action, not empty words!"
After several minutes of scolding, his anger began to subside slightly, but his dissatisfaction remained unabated. He shot them one last cold glance and declared, "Put away your careless attitudes! From now on, I don’t want to see this kind of behavior again!" With that, he turned on his heel and strode into his office without looking back.
Once inside, he sank heavily into his chair, still breathing somewhat rapidly. He raised a hand to press against his temple in an attempt to calm his irritation. But in the next moment, that familiar pain in his lower back surged like a tide from his spine down through his lumbar region, causing him to involuntarily furrow his brow. Leaning back against the chair's support, he let out a soft sigh; the physical pain intertwined with his mental frustration left him feeling utterly exhausted.
Sunlight streamed through the blinds outside, warm with winter's touch, yet he felt none of it. He glanced down at the mountain of documents piled on his desk and sighed deeply again while rubbing his lower back. Inwardly he mused, "These young people are truly unreliable."
Nightfall arrived swiftly; the lights in the office illuminated everything brightly yet made it feel empty. He lifted his head and glanced at the clock on the wall—the hour hand pointed directly at seven o'clock. Outside, dusk had already settled in; city neon lights began to flicker on as he could faintly hear the distant hum of traffic. In truth, he had finished all official business by evening but remained seated there with an upright posture and a stack of documents before him that he pretended to review. He wasn’t working; rather, he was upholding an unspoken "tradition" within this office space—supervisors lead by example in working late so that subordinates dare not leave first.
He lowered his head again as if genuinely inspecting the documents while stealing glances at those still tapping away at their keyboards. He knew most were engaged in trivial tasks at that moment; yet everyone acted diligently, occasionally pretending to flip through pages of material. This "voluntary" overtime ritual might be torturous for them but served as a necessary symbol for someone in his position. He chuckled inwardly: these people really put on quite a show.
As time passed and two hours beyond quitting time had elapsed—sufficient for him to fulfill his "exemplary" duty—he slowly stood up with deliberate lightness so that the chair’s wheels made only a slight sound as they glided across the floor. Upon hearing it, those around him immediately looked up with furtive glances while continuing their typing as if saying: "The supervisor hasn’t left yet; I can’t slack off."
Standing straightened out his back slightly; he felt that familiar dull ache creeping back but chose to ignore it. He began tidying up his desk methodically—stacking papers neatly and placing pens into their holder while even adjusting the angle of the tissue box until it was perfectly aligned. Finally, his gaze fell upon a gleaming nameplate in the upper right corner of the desk inscribed with three characters—Lin Zhao Cheng.
He reached for the nameplate and gently wiped away fingerprints as if its metallic sheen represented both pride and status. A slight smile crept onto his lips as he recalled how this nameplate had been personally handed to him by his boss; that moment of praise and honor remained vivid in his memory. After placing it back in its position, he meticulously adjusted its angle to ensure it faced directly toward the office door—perfectly aligned with clear lettering—as if announcing to anyone who entered: "The owner here is Lin Zhao Cheng."
After finishing all of this, he let out a soft sigh, reached for his coat, and draped it over his arm. His gaze swept across the office, ensuring everything was under his control. He gave a slight nod to those subordinates who were still "working hard," his voice steady and unyielding: "Thank you for your hard work. Keep it up; I’ll take my leave first." The words were casual, yet they stirred ripples in the hearts of everyone present, like a stone thrown into a lake.
He turned and walked out of the office, the door closing gently behind him, leaving a room full of silent sighs and relieved employees.
The bus swayed along the road, each brake causing the passengers to shift slightly. The metal handrails were tightly gripped by commuters, producing faint creaking sounds. Outside, streetlights flickered by in rapid succession, their soft orange glow spilling through the grimy glass and casting a slanted light on the man's profile. His brow furrowed slightly, his eyes weary; he occasionally raised one hand to massage his lower back as the bus jolted, as if the dull pain was growing increasingly irksome.
With one hand firmly gripping the overhead rail, he pulled out his phone from the pocket of his coat with practiced ease. His thumb quickly glided across the screen, scrolling through the contact list until it landed on the name of a massage parlor. Without hesitation, he pressed the call button and held the phone to his ear.
The phone barely rang before it was swiftly answered. A familiar female voice came through, warm and eager, as if she had been waiting for his call: "Oh, Mr. Lin! It’s really you! Long time no see! Why haven’t you been around lately? Is your back bothering you again?" Her tone carried a hint of flattery and genuine concern that only a regular customer would receive.
Listening to this familiar opening line, the man’s expression remained neutral as he replied with a soft "mm," his tone flat: "I have some time today; please arrange something for me." As he spoke, he glanced outside; the street scenery blurred in the dim light, and his gaze wandered with the bus's bumps, as if this call was merely part of his daily routine.
Upon hearing this, she immediately responded with enthusiasm: "Of course! We’ve recently hired several new therapists who are fantastic! Like Xiao Zhang—he has great strength and specializes in back pain; all our clients say he’s effective. And there’s Xiao Chen—her technique is gentle and delicate; people often fall asleep during her sessions. We also have an experienced therapist who can handle any issue; I guarantee you’ll be satisfied. Mr. Lin, would you like to try one of our new therapists?"
The man listened to her enthusiastic recommendations with a slight frown, seemingly uninterested in such sales pitches. His tone remained indifferent: "Just arrange anyone; as long as they know how to apply pressure." His gaze continued to scan outside the window where neon lights flowed like water, reflecting in his somewhat fatigued eyes without causing any disturbance.
There was a brief pause on the other end before she responded with even more enthusiasm: "Don’t worry, Mr. Lin! We’ll definitely arrange someone suitable for you! I promise you’ll feel comfortable; the results will be excellent. It’s still Room Nine, right? That’s your usual spot; I’ve kept it reserved just for you!"
He nodded slightly even though she couldn’t see him and simply replied, "Yes, that’ll do." He then hung up directly and stuffed his phone back into his pocket. His hand gently brushed against his lower back; with each jolt of the bus, he felt that dull ache spreading further, reminding him that his body was beyond its limits.
Leaning against the swaying bus seat, he stared blankly at the city lights outside. The cold night wind seemed to seep through the glass, yet he couldn’t help but look forward to that familiar little room—the soft mattress on the massage table and the therapist's strong hands that could bring him several hours of relaxation. The noise inside the bus gradually faded away as he closed his eyes, allowing his weary thoughts to drift away with the movement of the vehicle.
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