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墨書 Inktalez
The meeting concluded, and the clouds of discontent on the man's face lingered like the smoke left behind in the conference room, refusing to dissipate. His brows were tightly knitted, and the corners of his mouth turned downward, making him resemble a volcano ready to erupt at any moment. As he made his way back to his department, his footsteps carried an oppressive weight, the sound of his shoes striking the floor adding to the heavy atmosphere around him. The employees he passed dared not meet his gaze, stealing only 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 with work spreadsheets but with a jumble 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 is going on here?" He slammed his hand on the table, the sound reverberating like thunder, causing the entire department to fall silent as if a pin could be heard dropping. "Is this your attitude? Do you think the company brought you in just to watch a show? Don’t think I don’t know what you’re all up to!" His gaze cut through each young and startled face like a knife, his voice growing colder with each word. "You sit here every day while someone pays your salaries, 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 embarrassing!"
The newcomers lowered their heads, each looking like a wilted plant, shoulders hunched low, afraid to retort, only able to nod meekly. Someone muttered a quiet "Got it," but it only provoked a louder outburst from him: "Got it? What good does that do! What I want is action, not empty words!"
After several minutes of reprimanding, his anger finally began to subside, though his dissatisfaction remained unchanged. He shot them one last cold glance and declared, "Pack up that lazy attitude of yours. From now on, I don’t want to see this kind of behavior again!" With that, he turned on his heel and walked into his office without looking back.
Once inside his office, he sank heavily into his chair, still catching his breath. He raised a hand to press against his temple in an attempt to calm the irritation within him. But in the next moment, that familiar back pain surged like a tide from his lower back throughout his entire 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 mental frustration left him feeling utterly exhausted.
Sunlight streamed through the blinds outside; although it carried the warmth of winter, he felt none of it. He looked down at the mountain of documents piled on his desk and sighed deeply again as he rubbed his lower back, thinking to himself: "These young people are truly unreliable."
Nightfall arrived swiftly; the lights in the office illuminated everything brightly yet left it feeling empty. The man lifted his head and glanced at the clock on the wall—the hour hand pointed directly at seven. Outside, dusk had settled in; city lights began to flicker on as he could faintly hear the sounds of traffic in the distance. In fact, he had finished today’s tasks by evening but remained seated here with an upright posture, a stack of documents pretending to be reviewed laid out before him. He was not working; rather, he was maintaining an unspoken "tradition" within this office area—supervisors lead by example in staying late so that subordinates would not dare leave first.
He lowered his head again as if reviewing documents while stealing glances at those still tapping away at their keyboards. He knew most were engaged in trivial tasks at this moment; however, everyone pretended to be working hard and occasionally flipped through a few pages of material as if they were genuinely busy. 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 it became clear that two hours had already surpassed regular working hours—fulfilling his "role model" duty—he slowly stood up with deliberate lightness so that the chair's wheels made only a faint sound as they moved. Those around him heard it immediately and glanced up with sidelong looks while continuing their typing as if saying: "The supervisor hasn’t left yet; I can’t slack off."
Once standing straight, he stretched slightly at the waist and felt that familiar dull ache creeping back but chose to ignore it. He bent down to tidy up his desk, stacking papers neatly and placing pens into their holder while even adjusting the angle of the tissue box until everything was perfectly aligned. Finally, his gaze fell upon a shiny nameplate in the upper right corner of his desk engraved with three characters—Lin Zhao Cheng.
He reached for the nameplate and gently wiped away fingerprints from its surface 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; the praise and honor from that moment remained vivid in his memory. After placing it back in its original position, he meticulously adjusted its angle to ensure it faced directly toward the office door—perfectly aligned with clear lettering—as if proclaiming to everyone who entered: "The owner here is Lin Zhao Cheng."
After finishing all of this, he let out a gentle sigh, reached for his coat and draped it over his arm, scanning the office to ensure everything was under his control. He nodded slightly at the subordinates who were still "working hard," his voice steady and firm: "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 those present, like a stone thrown into a lake.
He turned and walked out of the office, the door closing softly behind him, leaving a room filled with silent sighs and relieved employees.
The bus swayed on the road, each brake causing the crowd inside to jolt slightly. Passengers gripped the metal handrails tightly, which creaked softly under their hold. Outside, streetlights flashed by in quick succession, their warm orange glow filtering through the dirty glass and casting a slanted light on the man's profile. His brow furrowed slightly, his eyes weary; he occasionally raised one hand to rub his lower back as the dull pain grew increasingly bothersome.
With one hand securely gripping the overhead rail, he pulled out his phone from his coat pocket with practiced ease. His thumb swiftly 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 brought the phone to his ear.
The phone barely rang before it was answered quickly. 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! Haven’t seen you around lately—are you having trouble with your back again?" Her tone carried a hint of flattery and genuine concern typical of a regular customer.
Listening to her familiar greeting, the man maintained a neutral expression and simply replied with a soft "Hmm," his tone flat: "I have some time today; please arrange an appointment." As he spoke, he glanced out the window; the cityscape blurred in the dim light, and his gaze wandered with the bus's bumps as if this call were merely part of his daily routine.
Upon hearing this, she immediately responded with enthusiasm: "Sure thing! We’ve recently had a few new therapists join us; their techniques are exceptional! Like Xiao Zhang—he’s very strong and specializes in back pain; all our customers rave about him. And then there’s Xiao Chen—her touch 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. Would you like to try one of our new therapists?"
The man frowned slightly at this barrage of recommendations, seemingly uninterested in such sales pitches. His tone remained indifferent: "Just arrange anyone; as long as they can apply pressure effectively." His gaze continued to drift outside; there, neon lights flowed like water, reflecting in his weary eyes without stirring any emotion.
There was a brief pause on the other end before she responded even more enthusiastically: "Don’t worry, Mr. Lin! We’ll make sure to assign you someone suitable! I guarantee you’ll be comfortable and satisfied. It’s still Room Nine, right? That’s your usual spot—I’ve saved it just for you!"
He nodded slightly, 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 found himself looking forward to that familiar little room—the soft cushions 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 along with its movements.
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