“Young people who haven’t entered society always think making money is easy. Everyone is proud and ambitious, asking for several thousand or even tens of thousands right off the bat. But the question is—are you worth that much? At your current stage, what you should be thinking about isn’t salary, but what you can learn from the job!”
“Doesn’t it cost us money to train you? We reimburse your work meals, let you use company equipment—isn’t that giving you valuable experience? Do you know how many people would kill for this chance? How can you be so short-sighted and only care about making money?”
A sudden gust of wind swept through the room, leaving Chu Duxiu—who had been sitting properly at the table—completely stunned. Sitting across from her were a man and a woman: the man was General Manager Wang of the company, and the woman was the HR representative. Both were her interviewers that day.
Heaven knows, all Chu Duxiu did was gently ask about the probation period salary—and it sent the burly General Manager Wang into a rage. His face turned red with anger, and with a loud whoosh, he leapt up from his chair, threw down her résumé, planted his hands on his hips, and started yelling. The few strands of hair left on his head stood on end from fury, making him look like a tusked wild boar provoked into attack.
Even the HR was caught off guard by how quickly the middle-aged man exploded. Looking embarrassed, she tried to stop him in a low voice: “Mr. Wang…”
But her efforts were in vain—the furious General Manager continued his tirade.
“What is a company? A place to create value! But you’re still a student—you don’t know how to do anything, so how are you going to create value for the company? If you can’t generate value, even if the company did offer you a high salary, would you have the nerve to accept it!?”
Faced with the barrage of criticism, Chu Duxiu was momentarily left dazed and confused. She couldn’t understand why General Manager Wang—who had seemed perfectly normal in the first two rounds of interviews—suddenly flew into a rage the moment money was mentioned, as if any casual remark could hit a nerve and set him off like a Sichuan opera mask change.
Maybe it was because the situation had become too absurd, she gradually calmed down. Taking a deep breath, she said plainly,
“It’s fine, no need to worry. I can take a high salary. I’ve got thick skin—I won’t feel bad about taking the money.”
“…”
As soon as she said that, the previously charged atmosphere came to an abrupt halt.
General Manager Wang, having thrown a punch at what felt like a pile of cotton, was actually rendered speechless by her directness.
There was no doubt: the interview had failed.
A moment later, the HR escorted Chu Duxiu out of the meeting room. She sneaked a glance back at the boss inside, then offered an apologetic explanation:
“Duxiu, this really was just bad timing. Mr. Wang had a rough morning arguing with someone who just resigned—over low pay, no less—so he was already in a mood. Don’t take it personally.”
This was Chu Duxiu’s third-round interview. The first two had gone extremely smoothly. Unfortunately, today just wasn’t her day. With staff frequently resigning recently, GM Wang had just had a fight that morning with someone leaving over salary issues—and Duxiu walked straight into the line of fire that afternoon. She was simply unlucky.
The HR glanced around, making sure no one else was nearby, then gently comforted her:
“Don’t be upset. He’s always had that kind of temper—never thinks before he speaks. I’m sure there’s a much better job out there waiting for you.”
She sounded genuinely regretful. Although she thought Chu Duxiu was a good fit for the role, with General Manager Wang being so petty and stingy, there was no way he’d approve. They’d likely have to start looking for the next interview candidate.
Chu Duxiu held her résumé tightly, her fingertips leaving faint marks on the once-smooth paper. She was utterly speechless at GM Wang’s rude, unreasonable, and downright absurd behavior. It was hard to believe a company boss could be so lacking in professionalism or vision. But faced with the HR’s cautious kindness, she couldn’t vent her frustration elsewhere. In the end, she only managed to squeeze out one line:
“…Thanks.”
They parted ways at the company entrance. Chu Duxiu had barely taken a few steps when the light around her seemed to dim. The quiet office building was nearly deserted, and the nearby areas rented by other businesses were all unlit, making the surroundings feel all the more bleak and desolate.
To reach the elevator, she had to walk through a corridor. The office doors along the way were all tightly shut. Through the glass walls, she could vaguely make out the interiors: piles of discarded A4 paper, tangled black cables, tilted cubicle desks and chairs—everything looked as if it had been swept over by the crashing waves of corporate collapse.
The place resembled a ghostly graveyard, littered with the remains of failed companies. One could only imagine how many employees had poured their sweat and effort into this now-rotten ruin. Even more tragically, she was graduating this year—a senior from a renowned university after four years of study. She had cast her net wide during fall recruitment, only to find that not a single grave was willing to bury the remains of her youth.
Before coming to the interview, Chu Duxiu had made up her mind to do her best. After all, it wasn’t easy for fresh graduates to find a job, especially with the current dismal economic climate.
But in the end, she was still too young and hot-headed—she just couldn’t hold back and ended up talking back.
She knew that if she had swallowed her pride, things might have blown over. Asking about probation period salary wasn’t some unforgivable crime. She could’ve waited for General Manager Wang to finish venting his random morning rage, then quietly followed up with HR in private. There might have been room to turn things around. There was no real need to provoke a middle-aged man in the midst of a midlife crisis.
But she simply couldn’t stomach it.
Why should she be someone’s punching bag just because he’s a superior? If he’s that emotionally unstable, shouldn’t he be at home taking traditional Chinese medicine to regulate his nerves?
Forcing down her resentment, Chu Duxiu pulled out her phone—which had been on silent—intending to rant to Chu Shuangyou, only to find a message already waiting from her:
[Mom just called me.]
The message hit like a death notice, making her suck in a sharp breath on the spot.
The next second—as if summoned by name—her phone screen suddenly went black, the WeChat page vanished, and all that remained was a panic-inducing incoming call.
[Dearest Mother]
Chu Duxiu’s heart skipped a beat. Bracing herself, she answered the call:
“Hi, Mom.”
“I just got off the phone with your sister. The two of us talked it over—you need to hurry up and come back home and start preparing for the exams! Civil service, public institution, teacher certification—whatever you can take, take it all. Your sister said she’ll check what positions you’re eligible for. I heard a lot of them now have subject restrictions…”
Even though the phone wasn’t on speaker, Chu Lan’s voice pierced through like thunder, each word a booming lightning strike that made her brain buzz.
Chu Duxiu replied awkwardly:
“…Mom, why did you call my sister? I am job-hunting.”
“Job-hunting? What job-hunting? You just found one and now you’re unemployed again—it’s like a game to you! I gave in once when you picked your university major, but this time I don’t care if the sky falls—no more nonsense! Get back here and take the exams, get a stable job, and stop acting like a child!”
And with that, her mother decisively hung up—without giving her the slightest chance to protest.
The way she said it, you’d think getting a government job back home was a walk in the park—completely unaware that recent hiring lists included even graduates from Tsinghua and Peking University.
Ding! The elevator arrived with a chime. As the metal doors slowly opened, a full-length mirror came into view, reflecting the utterly defeated expression on her face.
Chu Duxiu stepped into the elevator and glanced at herself in the mirror. She had delicate, gentle features and slightly messy hair that hinted at her flustered state. Even though she wore formal attire for the interview, she still carried a school-style backpack—her entire appearance radiated the youthful awkwardness of a student. Even her face still carried a naive, “I’m easy to push around” look.
Why couldn’t she ever shake off this student vibe?
If only she had a fierce expression, a muscular build, and could take down a grown man with a single punch—no way would GM Wang have dared yell at her so casually.
Or if she were like Chu Shuangyou—sharp, composed, naturally commanding respect, exuding elite confidence with every word and gesture.
That way, her job search wouldn’t have had to disturb her mother.
But she wasn’t either of those. She was just… this timid version of herself.
Chu Duxiu pulled faces at the full-length mirror, trying to wipe the confusion off her face and pose as someone cool and rational. But no matter how she tried, it came off wrong—awkward and foolish all the same.
She was twenty-one this year. She didn’t know what others were like when they graduated—were they just as lost as she was, or was it just her being incompetent that made everything so difficult?
All she knew was that at this age, she wasn’t yet free or independent, but had already gotten a taste of how unforgiving life could be.
She folded her wrinkled résumé in half and tossed it into the empty trash bin like a paper airplane.
When Chu Duxiu walked into Typhoon Transit, she had already put her messy emotions back in order. As usual, she picked the window seat, slung her backpack onto the adjacent counter, shrugged off her dark blazer, and sank deep into the soft sofa—finally able to breathe under the bar’s mellow music.
This was her favorite hangout spot, a bar run by a young couple not far from campus, called Typhoon Transit. It was tucked away in an inconspicuous alley, marked only by a neon sign. If you walked too fast, you’d miss the entrance entirely. Inside, the space was small—there were only two tables by the window.
Small though it was, the bar had everything in perfect order. Every inch was well utilized—from the bar counter to the tiny stage, nothing was left out. The long shelf behind the bar was packed with an array of beautiful liquor bottles, glistening under the warm, tipsy hue of the lights. The female owner often mixed drinks there, surrounded by various bottles and shakers, elegantly pouring crystal-clear liquor into glasses.
Chu Duxiu never drank alcohol, but she often watched the bartending. She liked how Typhoon Transit felt tight and cozy—it gave her a sense of being wrapped up and protected.
There weren’t many customers today, and most seats were empty. The stage stood bare, with nothing but a tall microphone in place.
The female owner had been busy behind the counter, but when she spotted Chu Duxiu, she greeted her warmly. She wore her hair short, had a silver stud in her left ear, and exuded a cool, confident vibe. Holding a menu, she walked over to the table.
“The usual? Honey-glazed chicken rice?”
Chu Duxiu was a regular but never ordered any alcohol. Instead, she had a soft spot for the honey-glazed chicken rice—tender, juicy chicken, a refreshing salad, and fluffy white rice drenched in thick, sesame-sprinkled sauce. For just thirty-two yuan, it brought joy far beyond that of any canteen meal and served as her emotional pick-me-up whenever she was feeling low.
Having just faced a failed interview, she decided to treat herself and nodded.
“Yes.”
The owner circled her order with a pen on the menu.
“Haven’t seen you in a while.”
“I’ve been job-hunting.”
The owner raised an eyebrow in surprise.
“Graduating soon?”
“Senior year, this semester,” Chu Duxiu replied, then glanced at the small stage and the lone standing mic. She asked curiously, “Is there something happening tonight?”
“Yes—open mic,” the owner scratched her head, as if unsure how to explain it, then added, “More people are coming tonight than usual.”
It was at Typhoon Transit that Chu Duxiu first learned what an open mic was. At the time, there were no stand-up comedy shows on TV. Her first encounter with this curious event was during a casual meal at the bar, when a man from northeast China hopped on stage and started cracking jokes. One spotlight, one mic, and he rambled on about everything under the sun, leaving the audience in fits of laughter.
Back then, she didn’t even know what stand-up comedy was, let alone solo acts. She just thought the guy was hilarious and brave—taking the stage all by himself. Only later did she find out he was the male owner of the bar. Typhoon Transit wasn’t just a bar—it was also a stand-up comedy club, regularly hosting performance events.
A couple of years ago, all the performers were just friends of the bar owners, and even then, they couldn’t fill the seats. No tickets were sold—it was completely free.
Last year, a stand-up comedy variety show aired online and stirred up a bit of buzz, which trickled down to influence local open mics. Since then, Typhoon Transit started charging twenty yuan for open mic entry, with each ticket coming with a free craft beer. The setup became a bit more formal.
The price was cheap, and the bar could only seat thirty people at most—each open mic barely broke even. Chu Duxiu learned during a chat with the bar owner that the reason for charging tickets was to encourage people to actually show up. When the tickets were free, too many people bailed last-minute, and an empty room could seriously mess with the performers’ mindset.
The bar’s food came out quickly. Alongside her steaming honey-glazed chicken rice was a glass of craft beer with a pale foam on top. Tiny bubbles rose steadily through the rich amber liquid.
Chu Duxiu blinked.
“I didn’t order this.”
“It’s on the house,” the owner said. “You’ve been coming here for a while—happy senior year.”
Chu Duxiu was stunned, then quickly said:
“Thank you.”
The owner waved it off without another word and turned to leave.
Chu Duxiu blew away the foam and took a small sip of the cold beer. A soft, slightly sweet aroma bloomed across her palate, the smooth liquid sliding gently down her throat. It was her first real taste of alcohol—and it surprised her. Unlike the cheap beers she’d tried before, this one had a refreshing, distinctive flavor.
Holding the glass, she was flooded with mixed emotions—unsure whether to regret discovering it only now, or to feel bittersweet at the thought of the bar owner’s quiet farewell. They had barely spoken over the years, didn’t even know each other’s names, yet somehow, she still felt a touch of sorrow.
After graduation, she likely wouldn’t come to this bar again—nor stay in this city. The bar owner and the honey-glazed chicken rice would become symbols of her university days, gradually fading into the distance amidst the monotony of daily work. Perhaps one day they’d suddenly bubble up like foam on a summer day—only to vanish with a soft pop the next second.
Chu Duxiu didn’t want to get too sentimental, so she took another big swig of beer, hoping to drown her emotions in alcohol.
Before long, more and more customers arrived, and the bar—rarely full—was completely packed.
The lights dimmed. A spotlight lit up the stage. After a burst of upbeat music, a burly man jumped onto the platform—it was the male owner of the bar. Microphone in hand, he glanced around the room and began with a naturally humorous northeastern accent:
“Hey everyone, I’m Nie Feng, and I’ll be your host tonight. Looks like we’ve got a good crowd! Seems our nobody-cares open mic finally caught a little heat thanks to that show, huh…”
Scattered laughter rose from the audience, and all eyes turned toward the stage.
Chu Duxiu had never seen the stand-up comedy show Nie Feng mentioned, but her university roommate often watched it while eating. Once, the roommate had even come to the bar just to see an open mic. But after that first visit, she never came again—saying, “It’s just not as fun as the show.”
“Before we start, let me say a few quick words,” Nie Feng began. “Some of you might be new to live open mics—there really aren’t many rules. If something’s funny, laugh out loud. If it’s not, give a round of applause anyway—help encourage our young performers. No recording, no filming, and we’ll take a group photo together at the end of the show.”
“Wishing you all a fun night—now let’s welcome our first act, Scallion!”
A guy in a checkered shirt took the stage. He accepted the microphone and bowed in greeting:
“Hi everyone, I’m Scallion!”
After a wave of applause, the stand-up officially began.
“No need to be nervous tonight, just relax. Let’s have a little chat, yeah? You, over here—did you come alone? What do you do for a living?”
“Ah… he says he doesn’t want to tell me…”
The spotlight beamed down on Scallion while Nie Feng quietly slipped off the stage. In the dim lighting, he moved on tiptoe so as not to disturb the audience, but when he lifted his gaze and caught sight of a man in black, surprise flickered across his face.
At the bar, a young man leaned casually against the counter. He wore a black dress shirt that accentuated his tall, upright frame. On his left wrist, a silver watch glinted faintly in the dark. Aside from that, he wore no accessories—his entire appearance was sleek and minimalist.
Nie Feng recognized the man and quickly hurried over.
“How did you find time to come here?”
The man in black stared at the stage, expressionless.
“I came straight from the airport. I thought I’d make it in time.”
Nie Feng chuckled wryly.
“I always thought those guys just talked nonsense, but you actually show up to every event? Aren’t you tired?”
Nie Feng had always thought Xie Shenci was an unusual character. Just looking at his face, you’d never guess he had anything to do with humor. Yet this man was deeply passionate about stand-up comedy and had been working hard in recent years to promote the industry. He was gradually gaining influence in the country.
Xie Shenci said:
“There are fewer than ten clubs nationwide, and the total number of stand-up comedians is under one hundred. Just a few shows like this—how could it be tiring?”
On stage, Scallion, wearing black-rimmed glasses, nervously gripped the microphone. Sweat beaded on his forehead. His first two jokes hadn’t landed, and tension quickly tightened his whole body.
“I told my girlfriend, if I can’t be Iron Man, maybe I can pretend to be his friend—call myself Iron Blind…”
After a brief silence, scattered applause trickled in, but the atmosphere continued to sag.
Chu Duxiu listened half-heartedly as she quickly finished her meal and slowly sipped the remaining beer. She had watched many open mic shows before—dry spells or forgotten lines were common. Not every performance was funny; it was a bit like opening a mystery box. For example, Scallion was clearly off his game tonight.
She had seen him perform before at Typhoon Transit as well, back when he was full of energy. This time, though, he seemed completely thrown off.
Even though the seats were all taken, the atmosphere in the audience was dull and guarded. This made Scallion’s voice grow even drier, and he kept stumbling over lines throughout the rest of his set.
Nie Feng said,
“The crowd’s a bit cold today. It’s hard to get started when the opener’s off.”
Xie Shenci added,
“His style’s good, but his mindset needs work. The audience didn’t catch the earlier jokes, and that threw off his whole rhythm.”
Halfway through the performance, Scallion sensed the stagnant mood and decided to turn things around. He pulled out his trump card: trying to engage the audience.
He raised his hand and waved, calling for volunteers to come onstage.
But the room was cold. No one responded. Only awkward silence filled the space.
“Is there anyone willing to come up? No hands raised?” Scallion faced the awkward silence and couldn’t leave the stage either. He said dryly,
“Let me see…”
Chu Duxiu had been sitting by the window, sipping her drink, until their eyes accidentally met. Suddenly, an inexplicable sense of foreboding washed over her. Scallion’s gaze slowly swept across the room, then unknowingly settled on her—as if locking onto a target with a tracking device.
She instantly felt her scalp tingle and instinctively looked down to avoid his stare.
No way. He can’t be about to call on her just because no one else volunteered, right?
Please, please not me. Please, please not me. Please, please not me.
Chu Duxiu silently prayed with all her might—only to have exactly what she feared happen.
“Then how about the girl sitting by the window?”
“…”
