"Run!" he growled, shoving his palm hard against the frail shoulders of the little girl.
The girl tumbled to the ground, her gaze fixed on the oncoming headlights, like prey caught in the predator's sight. Chris took a deep breath and pushed off with all his might, moving almost instinctively toward her. His movements were clumsy and desperate, as though he had mustered every last ounce of strength. Just as he reached out to shove the girl aside, time seemed to stretch and warp.
In that fleeting moment, a montage of fragmented memories flashed through his mind—his mother preparing breakfast at dawn, his father always reminding him over the phone, "Take care of yourself." Piles of design drafts stacked taller than he was, his boss's solemn advice to be "more grateful," and the sleepless nights early in his career, wrestling with a brilliant advertising concept that had once filled him with pride.
"If I had another chance, would I live differently?"
The thought flickered briefly before he could answer it. His hand landed firmly on the girl's shoulder, and a tremendous force flung her toward the roadside. Simultaneously, he felt himself consumed by the rush of an oncoming wind. The headlights blazed so brightly that he could hardly keep his eyes open. The ear-splitting sound of brakes shattered the night, followed by a heavy thud as his body was tossed into the air like a rag doll.
The earth greeted him with a brutal embrace, leaving his chest heaving in suffocating pain. Only the roar of the wind filled his ears now. Warm liquid trickled down his temple, dripping onto the cold dirt below. He tried to lift his hand but found that not even a single finger obeyed him. Distant shouting and hurried footsteps rang out, but those sounds seemed to drift farther and farther away.
"Chris, you need to be grateful."
His boss's voice suddenly surfaced in his mind, mingling with hushed whispers and mocking laughter from colleagues:
"Not efficient enough, huh? Ha-ha-ha."
And then there was Noah, standing confidently on stage, presenting his meticulously crafted designs to clients with that smug grin of triumph.
Chris closed his eyes, a wave of helpless bitterness rising in his chest. His consciousness teetered in a sea of darkness. Then, from somewhere deep within, a low, muffled voice spoke:
"Are you unwilling? Do you long for change?"
He froze, startled, as a faint glimmer of light pierced the darkness. It was barely a whisper at first, like a breeze carrying a forgotten melody—both unfamiliar and familiar, like a murmur and a summons. The light grew brighter until it enveloped him completely, its warmth tinged with an uncanny chill.
"If so… then let it begin."
Just before losing all consciousness, he felt as though he were falling into an endless void. The world seemed to flip itself inside out, and even the pain became a distant memory. The impact, the cold dirt, the chaotic voices—all disappeared into nothingness. His last awareness was of that strange voice whispering and the rustling sounds around him, as though something was growing, changing, and rearranging itself.
When he opened his eyes again, he saw a foreign sky. It was a blue so vivid it felt surreal, streaks of golden sunlight breaking through floating clouds to bathe his face. He froze, momentarily forgetting to breathe. Everything around him was both real and unreal.
Where am I?
Chris was an ordinary graphic designer at an advertising agency, tucked away in the corner of his cubicle like a shadow long forgotten. His "off hours" existed only in name; true work began after 8 p.m., when the office lights stayed on for his sake alone.
Socializing wasn't his forte, and after years at the company, his relationships with coworkers were as thin and fleeting as morning mist, dissolving in sunlight. When colleagues gathered in groups to leave together, someone would always toss a cutting remark over their shoulder:
"Hey, Chris, burning the midnight oil again? Such dedication!"
Their voices were light, but the superiority behind them was unmistakable.
Chris would look up with a faint smile, murmur a low "yeah," and return his gaze to the screen. His fingers flew over the keyboard, sketching out the materials urgently needed for the next morning's meeting. He had long grown used to the awkwardness and the mockery, accustomed to facing the glowing screen alone deep into the night—a solitary warrior burning himself out in the midst of casual disdain.
"Chris really works hard, doesn't he? But maybe his inefficiency is why he's always here so late, ha-ha."
The laughter echoed faintly as coworkers gossiped on their way out.
"Inefficient, huh?"
Chris chuckled bitterly. His mouse glided back and forth, but the design drafts on his screen grew blurrier the longer he stared. How many late nights had it been? He had lost count. The workload was a mountain, and there was no outlet for his frustration. He had once tried to suggest hiring more staff to share the burden, but his boss always interrupted him mid-sentence with a solemn expression:
"Chris, you know how tough the economy is right now. The fact that the company is holding everyone together is already a blessing. Sure, there's more work, but isn't it all within your job scope? Besides, this is a great opportunity for growth. Young people should show more gratitude and embrace these challenges."
Chris lowered his gaze, hiding the storm of resentment brewing inside. Outwardly, he gave a perfunctory "Yes, boss," but there wasn't a shred of gratitude left in his heart. He had heard the same rhetoric so many times before. Looking at the pile of revisions and unfinished designs on his desk, the chaotic lines seemed to mock his helplessness.
Switching on his computer, a new message popped up on the screen:
"Chris, make sure the project revisions are done tonight—I need them first thing tomorrow morning."
Teamwork? That was just a pretty word printed in the company handbook. Other designers always received smaller, piecemeal tasks, while Chris was like a lone craftsman under constant siege, carrying project after core project with barely enough time to breathe.
He exhaled deeply, trembling fingers clicking open the file. Those endless revisions were a chain around his neck. He remembered the passion he had felt when he first started this job—the pride of infusing every design with his soul. But now, he was merely a weary machine, endlessly patching together his boss's promised "economic benefits." The cold light of the office lamp illuminated his desk, casting a pallor over his face.
"Why me?" Chris muttered to himself, already knowing the answer. Because he never complained, because he delivered fast and flawless work, the boss piled more and more tasks on him while others breezed by doing the bare minimum.
It wasn't fair. He had thought about quitting, but reality crushed that notion every time. His parents relied on his paycheck to cover their mortgage, and he needed to save for his future. Could he even find something better if he left?
Walking home after yet another night of overtime, he looked up at the bleak sky and couldn't help but wonder:
"Is this worth it? Am I just working to avoid being fired? What will I do when I'm older and can't keep up anymore? Will this grind ever end?"
He had no answers, only the silent stretch of an endless routine gnawing away at his spirit.
"Why am I doing this? Is this even living?"
Chris once entered the advertising industry brimming with enthusiasm, dreaming of creating works that could move people deeply. However, the endless tasks and late nights began to draw an ever-widening gulf between him and his ideals. Staring at the draft design on his screen, the cursor blinked amidst a clutter of elements. He could almost hear the clients' voices echoing in his mind:
"Make it brighter, livelier. I need it to feel 'premium.'"
"Remove those details—users won't notice them anyway."
"You're the professional designer. How have you not grasped our vision yet?"
The next day, Chris returned to his desk, rubbing his throbbing temples as he leaned back in his chair. He felt a lump in his throat, a dull ache that wouldn't ease. At least last night's hard work hadn't been in vain—the draft was submitted before the deadline. Still, he couldn't figure out when exactly design had become a shackle. He'd spent countless nights perfecting every detail of his original vision, only to compromise bit by bit under the demands of clients and managers, until even he could no longer recognize what the final product had become.
Once, he took pride in being a designer. He believed design could transform lives, imbuing the mundane with extraordinary meaning. But now, he felt like a mechanized executor, churning out work tailored to "the market," to people who couldn't even articulate their needs clearly.
"Am I creating, or am I being consumed?" he muttered under his breath.
Chris gazed out the window. The gray sky looked like it was veiled in a thick filter, oppressive and stifling. His mind wandered until a faintly mocking voice snapped him back:
"Still daydreaming? Let's go, time for the meeting."
He turned and saw it was his colleague, Joe, the same one who had made a snide comment after work yesterday. Joe's faint smirk carried a hint of condescension.
"Today's meeting is about analyzing the product campaign designs for the client. You're the lead designer, aren't you? Guess this is your moment to shine." Joe deliberately emphasized "lead designer" before striding toward the meeting room. Chris frowned, sensing something amiss.
In the meeting room, the projector lit up as clients and department heads took their seats. Joe confidently stood up to present the design proposal. Chris skimmed through his notes but froze when he looked up.
On the screen was his design. The details he'd spent countless nights refining, the unique color schemes, the creative ideas he'd painstakingly communicated with the client—Joe was presenting them as if they were his own.
"For this section, I conducted an in-depth analysis of user psychology and integrated the brand story into the visual design to maximize emotional resonance," Joe said, his tone brimming with pride.
Chris clenched the pen in his hand, his knuckles whitening from the pressure. He glanced at the department heads and clients. No one seemed to notice anything amiss. A few clients even nodded in approval.
"This is my design…" Anger flared within him, but the words caught in his throat. Should he expose Joe on the spot? The thought of escalating the situation and risking even greater embarrassment made him hesitate.
When the meeting ended, the clients expressed their satisfaction and promised to finalize the proposal soon. Chris watched Joe descend from the stage, pat him on the shoulder, and sneer, "Nice job, Chris. Great designs deserve great presentations, don't you think?" The mockery in his tone was undeniable.
Under the table, Chris's hand trembled slightly. He was caught in the tug-of-war between reason and impulse. Sure, he could confront Joe right here, back it up with his original sketches and revision records. But there was something Joe held over him—a thorn lodged deep in his heart, stopping him from fighting back every time.
It was a mistake Chris made in his second year on the job. Exhausted from late nights on a project, he had carelessly submitted an unproofed design to the client, causing an embarrassing mishap during the final proposal meeting. The company ended up paying a hefty compensation. Though the incident was hushed up by the department head, Joe was the only one who knew the truth—and the one who had helped cover for him. Since then, Joe had wielded this knowledge like a dagger, subtly reminding Chris of his indebtedness whenever it suited him.
"Chris, you've got to know how to show gratitude. After all, not everyone is as magnanimous as I am," Joe had once said casually, but the words cut like a dull blade, slowly whittling away at Chris's dignity.
Now, all Chris could do was grit his teeth and endure. After the meeting, Joe strolled over to his desk, gave him a light pat on the shoulder, and smirked. "That went pretty smoothly, didn't it? All thanks to your designs. And, of course, my presentation skills."
Chris glanced up at him, his eyes filled with a mix of emotions, but he said nothing. Joe seemed to relish the awkward silence, humming a tune as he returned to his desk, exuding an air of smug control.
"What a joke," Chris muttered to himself, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. On the screen, he saw images of Joe basking in the glory of his work as if every ounce of sweat and effort had been nothing more than another's plaything.
The sharp trill of his phone shattered the silence. A message from his boss popped up: "Chris, I need the revisions for that project done today. Send them over when you're done."
He stared blankly at the screen, the weight of an inexplicable heaviness crushing his chest once more. Gripping his phone tightly, his mind was flooded with flashes of the past—his passion for this career, his hopes for the future—all of it now reduced to nothing but fatigue and disillusionment.
"What am I even doing?" Chris murmured, the words hanging heavy in the air as his heart sank deeper into despair.