You have stories, and I have wine.

Page 1 of 3

Monday afternoon, the weather shifted from overcast to clear.
As the workday ended, the entire Hengtong Building was abuzz with news of someone in the risk control department dying suddenly of a heart attack.
Each department's WeChat group began circulating the latest updates from the hospital, quickly forwarding the official notice of death as soon as it arrived.
The obituary was written with meticulous care, explaining that a sudden incident had occurred in the risk control department that morning. The company leadership had already gone to the hospital to offer their condolences, and the message included a gentle reminder for all employees to take care of their health, maintain regular routines, and exercise—lest another such tragedy occur.
From its style and format, it was clear the PR department had hastily copied a template from the internet.
As for the after-work elevator, it was jam-packed as usual with hurried office workers, but the usual gossip about celebrities or finance had given way to a new refrain:
“I heard someone on the seventeenth floor died!”
“I saw the video! It’s terrifying!”
“They say it was a heart attack. Gone in just a few minutes.”
“What? Just a few minutes? No way, I’m going for a health checkup this weekend.”
“I heard there’s a fancy new gym nearby with opening discounts. Want to sign up together tomorrow?”
...
People nowadays live like sardines in a can.
Packed into cramped offices, tightly bound by their own narrow information cocoons.
If tragedy doesn’t strike them personally, almost no one pays it any mind.
It isn’t until a living, breathing colleague drops dead that the warning bell of mortality rings clear for these dogged, buttoned-up office drones.
Of course, how many would actually change their ways because of it was anyone’s guess; Chen Jue certainly didn’t know.
After stepping out of the elevator, he was still dazed as he got into his SUV.
A drag of a Blue Liqun cigarette did little to dispel the heavy gloom in his chest.
Once inside the car, he called Jiang Zhe—just a terse “Feeling down, come out for a drink” was enough to summon his closest college roommate and best friend.
As for the destination, he didn’t go to Jingtang Hui this time.
With a colleague having just passed away, heading to Jingtang Hui for a massage and a lavish buffet seemed in poor taste, so instead he chose a vegetarian restaurant on Binjiang Road.
In recent years, the trend of healthy eating had slowly taken root in Hangzhou. While barbecue and seafood joints still thrived, more and more eateries serving only vegetarian and steamed dishes had begun to appear on every street.
“What’s up, Fourth? What’s with the sudden change? Turning monk on us and eating vegetarian now?” Jiang Zhe eyed the place called Suyuan Zhai with suspicion as he entered.
The décor was elegant, steeped in traditional charm. Though it advertised itself as vegetarian, it still served the usual drinks and beer.
Chen Jue found a spot outdoors overlooking the river. He said little, ordered a few appetizing vegetarian dishes, and then asked the waiter to bring two bottles of beer.
“Got any cigarettes?” Chen Jue poured Jiang Zhe a drink and filled his own glass.
“Of course—always!”
“Running construction sites, how could I not have cigarettes?” Jiang Zhe, seeing Chen Jue’s troubled face, hurriedly pulled out a pack of Furong Wang.
Chen Jue didn’t hesitate, took one, and lit up, sitting in silence as he smoked.
“So, Fourth, what happened?”

Page 2 of 3

“What’s got you down like you just broke up?”
“But wait, you don’t even have a girlfriend… Don’t tell me you’ve been sneaking around with someone behind our backs?” Jiang Zhe was genuinely curious; in all his years in Hangzhou, he’d never seen Chen Jue so withdrawn.
Hiss—exhale—
Chen Jue finished his cigarette, drained his glass, and finally recounted how Shen Shikun had died suddenly right before his eyes.
Jiang Zhe fell silent too. To think someone could die just sitting at their desk.
He raised his own glass and clinked it with Chen Jue’s, then lit a cigarette for himself and began to puff away.
“Sigh, what can you say? It’s not your fault your colleague died!”
“Life is always unpredictable. Didn’t our company just have a fatal accident at that rich guy’s construction site? A worker fell off the scaffolding…” Jiang Zhe started recounting his own workplace mishaps, trying to comfort Chen Jue.
...
So the two of them sat there, alternating between drinks and cigarettes, picking at the hot dishes brought to their table, letting the cool autumn breeze by the river help their thoughts drift. More and more stories came tumbling out.
As it turned out, this wasn’t the first time Chen Jue had witnessed death up close.
Back in middle school, his mother had died of cancer, the family having sold everything to try and save her.
In high school, both his grandparents had passed away from illness.
But he’d still been young then, caught up in adolescence, his worldview and sense of mortality unformed, unable to truly grasp the pain of loss.
It wasn’t until he saw chubby Shen Shikun die suddenly right before his eyes that those unhappy memories from the past began to resurface one by one.
“Old Jiang, what’s the point of living, anyway?”
“We’re almost thirty, slogging away, and before you know it, someone’s just… gone.” Chen Jue set down his glass, his eyes clouded with confusion.
“What are we supposed to live for?”
“For hope, of course!”
“You don’t get it because you haven’t started a family! Once you’re married, have a wife and kids, you’ll understand what life’s about.” Jiang Zhe clinked glasses again and shared his view.
Since his startup failed, Jiang Zhe had devoted himself to work to pay the mortgage and support his family.
Though he worked overtime every day, coming home to see his wife and two adorable children filled him with happiness.
A happy family and healthy children—that was Jiang Zhe’s pursuit, and the dream of many ordinary people seeking stability.
“Hope?”
Chen Jue murmured the word, confusion deepening in his eyes. “But what am I hoping for?”
...
Dinner didn’t lift Chen Jue’s mood—in fact, it left Jiang Zhe a bit glum too.
He’d just bought a new pack of Furong Wang that afternoon, but the guy who was always saying he’d quit smoked it all.
Since they’d both been drinking, they each called a designated driver to take them home.
Back at his apartment, Chen Jue took a hot shower to clear his fuzzy head.
Still feeling stifled, he grabbed a jacket and a few decks of playing cards and headed for the rooftop.

Page 3 of 3

In the distance, the office towers of the CBD twinkled with light, where countless workers like himself were still burning the midnight oil.
Below, the endless streams of traffic and the bustling shops along the street testified to the vibrant charm of Hangzhou, this newly minted first-tier city.
Taking in the scene, Chen Jue stood at the edge of the rooftop, letting the night breeze wash over him, and couldn’t help but mutter, “Human beings are both magnificent and fragile.”
We can build grand skyscrapers, invent vehicles that traverse the world in a day, reach for the moon, dive to the ocean’s depths—yet still cannot conquer something as small as a heart attack.
All we can do is watch, helpless, as bright lives are snuffed out by illness or accident.
He opened the box, pulled out a few playing cards, and began flicking them one by one toward the city skyline.
The cards, sharp and strong, spun through the brilliant night, slicing the air, flying dozens, even hundreds of meters, until a gust of wind caught them, tossing them haphazardly, sending them fluttering down to the city streets.
Watching the cards drift, Chen Jue suddenly felt a moment of clarity.
He realized people are just like playing cards—money and status determine their value, personality and temperament their suit.
The force with which you throw them determines how far and where they go, just as a person is swept along in this world by tides of time, environment, and emotion.
But it’s the unpredictable winds of fate—illness, accident, or simply old age—that ultimately decide a card’s final resting place.
And if you want a card to fly farther and steadier through the night, its surface value or suit is secondary; what matters most is the quality and weight of the card itself.
If you cast people as playing cards, then the material and weight are their body and health.
Take Shen Shikun, the chubby man who died suddenly. If he hadn’t been addicted to greasy food, had exercised regularly, kept a healthy schedule, avoided late nights and endless scrolling on the toilet, called in sick instead of dragging himself to work—
Perhaps he wouldn’t have suffered a fatal heart attack, losing his young life in a matter of minutes to a host of unhealthy habits.
———
[Ding~]
[Witnessing death firsthand has caused a psychological shock. Your amygdala, hypothalamus, and hippocampus have experienced a complex emotional fluctuation. You seem to have gained some insight, your stress has been released, and your willpower has increased.]
[Mental attribute +0.01]
———
“It went up again?”
Chen Jue glanced at the new notification on his panel, then at the myriad night owls in his field of vision, and flicked the last card into the night.
The night breeze swept away his tipsy haze, and his mind grew clearer. He began to understand what Jiang Zhe meant by “living for hope.”
“My hope and pursuit… must be to have a healthy body, a free and unbound spirit, and to find an interesting soul to share life with…” Chen Jue whispered his wish to the city night.
With those words, the weight on his heart eased.
He didn’t linger on the rooftop, but hurried downstairs, as the cleaning lady had already started complaining about the playing cards scattered everywhere.