Ken stood on the subway, his body swaying slightly with the train's motion, as he stared blankly at the reflection in the window before him.
The man gazing back was a disheveled, bespectacled figure in middle age, with a slight stoop in his shoulders. His hair, clearly unkempt, was tousled and receding significantly at the temples, betraying a worrying thinness that threatened to blossom into a full bald patch. Any stranger sharing the carriage would likely have guessed he was in his forties.
In truth, he had just celebrated his thirtieth birthday a few days prior.
Have I really deteriorated into this wretched state?
The realization suddenly illuminated the pained, reluctant expression on the face of the single woman from the new administrative hire—his own age—when the boss had half-jokingly suggested they meet. No wonder she had been so visibly unenthused.
For years, Ken had poured every ounce of his energy into his work. His days began at nine and ended with him rushing for the last subway home after ten at night. Saturdays meant routine overtime, and often Sundays were claimed as well. Even outside the office, his mind was occupied with optimizing code, squashing bugs, and refining products.
From the moment he joined the then-fledgling company after graduation, Ken had been driven by a single, burning ambition: to prove himself, to carve out a place in this city, to build a career and a life.
Seven years on, his annual salary had multiplied several times over. He had become a core technical pillar of the company, acquired substantial stock options, and even purchased an apartment—albeit on the outer ring, under seventy square meters, with a down payment partially funded by his parents and a daunting mortgage still looming.
By all superficial measures, he had barely gained a foothold. Yet it fell far short of his own internal expectations and demands. Thus, he never allowed himself to relent, pushing forward in a ceaseless grind to perfect projects, propel the company toward an IPO, and transform his options into a fortune.
But today, the boss had informed them the company was bankrupt. Liquidating all accounts wouldn't even cover their full wages for this month, let alone severance or compensation. As an internet firm, it held no tangible assets beyond their work laptops and office furniture, and it still carried significant unpaid debts.
As for the stock options in their hands, they were now, for all intents and purposes, worthless scraps of paper.
While his experience and skills would likely secure him another job—perhaps not at the same salary, but enough to get by—the seven years of single-minded devotion, the relentless pace that far exceeded the notorious "996" schedule, now felt like a cruel joke.
Ken hadn't joined his colleagues in crowding the boss, demanding back pay. He knew it was futile. As for those who tried to make off with office equipment, the building's management wouldn't allow it once bankruptcy was declared. The most anyone could take was their own work laptop.
The subway doors slid open, the station announcement echoing. For now, Ken pushed thoughts of work and the future aside. He disembarked one stop early, finding his way to a street-side food stall. He ordered a dozen beers and a few small dishes, settling in to drown his sorrows alone.
Ken never cared for alcohol; in fact, he rather despised it. He hated the sensation of his mind growing foggy, robbed of its clarity and reason. His technical profession, coupled with a natural aversion to forced socializing and a schedule too packed for casual gatherings, meant he had little cause to drink. He didn't smoke either. His stimulants of choice were coffee, tea, and the occasional Red Bull—constant companions against fatigue.
He couldn't recall the last time he drank. Perhaps in university, and certainly never more than a single can of beer. His tolerance was an unknown quantity.
By the time the third 330ml can was drained, his face was flushed, his head swam, and his stomach churned with nausea. The discomfort was overwhelming. Abandoning any notion of drowning his woes, he returned the remaining beers, settled the bill, and summoned a ride-hailing car to stagger home.
The journey from the stall to his rented room was brief, a mere five-minute drive.
Though the apartment he bought had been delivered, he never moved in. He continued renting a single room, opting to lease out his new property. The commute from the new place would more than double his daily travel time, and the rental income it generated exceeded his own rent. For a man living alone, who spent most of his waking hours at the office, a more expensive living space seemed an utter waste.
Struggling under the weight of his pounding head, Ken stumbled into his simple, cramped rented room. Beyond caring about washing up or changing clothes, he collapsed onto the bed and fell into a dead sleep.
...
When Ken awoke, the first thing he saw was sunlight streaming through the window. His instinctive reaction was, "I'm going to be late for work!"
He jerked upright, only to find himself still fully dressed, shoes and all. The sight of dried vomit on the floor beside the bed instantly brought yesterday's events crashing back—the company was finished.
Rubbing his throbbing temples, Ken sat on the edge of the bed. The hangover lingered stubbornly, a full night later. Three small beers had laid him out so completely—proof positive that liquor and he were never meant to be.
He reached for his phone, discarded on the bed, to check the time, but found it dead. Puzzled, he distinctly remembered it having over 80% charge when he left the office. He'd barely used it at the food stall. Could standby mode have drained it completely overnight? The battery must be degrading after a year of use, he thought.
Plugging the phone in to charge, he forced himself up to clean the congealed mess on the floor. He changed the bedsheets, then went to wash up and shower.
Under the water, he noticed an alarming amount of hair coming loose in the drain. His skin felt unnaturally rough, like the matte finish on a phone case. Even his teeth seemed slightly loose.
After his shower, Ken wiped the steam from the bathroom mirror. His reflection revealed bloodshot eyes set deep within dark, puffy circles. His cheeks appeared hollowed, as if he'd been through several sleepless nights of intense strain.
"One drinking binge didthis?"He resolved then and there never to seek solace in alcohol again, no matter the hardship. It offered no relief, only a body pushed closer to collapse.
Changed into fresh clothes, Ken retrieved his phone, now charged to 40%. He powered it on to find over a dozen missed calls—from former colleagues, suspected telemarketers, his mother—and dozens of unread WeChat messages.
Seeing his mother's call from just 35 minutes ago, he quickly dialed back. "Mom, what's up? You called?"
"Oh, it's nothing serious. Your dad sent you a message on WeChat and you didn't reply, which seemed odd, so he asked me to call and check on you."
"I was in a meeting just now, had my phone on silent, didn't hear it. I've been too swamped to check WeChat much lately. I'll look at it right away. Tell Dad not to worry."
His mother's voice was tinged with concern. "You have to work even on Sundays now? You must take care of yourself. Your health comes first. Earning more money is pointless if you ruin your well-being."
Sunday?
Ken froze, on the verge of saying today was Friday. He clearly remembered yesterday—the day he left the company for good—was Thursday.
He paused, exited the call, and glanced at the date on his phone's home screen.
It was indeed Sunday.
Which meant, after stumbling home drunk, he had slept for two full days.