Daily Life in the Compound

"Ring ring ring--!!!"

The piercing, sharp, and merciless ringing of the doorbell, like a rusty saw, abruptly shattered the thin sliver of sleepiness in A Bin's mind. He was jolted from the hard bed as if electrocuted, his heart pounding wildly in his chest, his ears ringing.

Before dawn, the dormitory was shrouded in darkness, with only the ever-burning lamp by the door casting a pale light that barely outlined the bunk beds and the clutter haphazardly piled on the floor. The air was so murky it was almost solidified, a mixture of sweat, foot odor, the stale smell of leftover instant noodle soup, and some indescribable, stale stench of despair and numbness, making each breath feel like swallowing dirty water.

A Bin sat up reflexively, his movements slow due to stiffness and cold. From the bunk next to him came muffled curses and rustling noises; other "coworkers" were also struggling to get up.

No one spoke, only heavy breathing and suppressed coughs. Here, the morning bell meant you had to wake up immediately; a second's delay could result in a beating or starvation.

He groped his way to the plastic basin and towel under the bed, which were icy cold. At the far end of the dormitory was a long, narrow cement sink covered with yellow grime and cracks, with only a few rusted faucets dripping a thin stream of water.

A dozen or so men huddled there, silently and quickly splashing cold water on their faces, their movements as numb as machines on an assembly line.

The water was cold, making A Bin shiver and slightly dispelling his sleepiness. Looking at his swollen face, with dark circles under his eyes and a vacant gaze, he could hardly recognize himself as he had been three months ago.

Three months ago, he was still working on a sewing machine in a small factory in his hometown. Although it was tiring and the wages were low, he could drink a cheap beer with his coworkers after get off work, chat, and think about saving some money to go home and go on blind dates.

Then, his cousin, who hadn't even finished junior high school, came back, dressed in fashionable clothes and smoking good cigarettes. He said he was doing "online marketing" in another province, earning tens of thousands a month, and needed more people, asking if he wanted to join.

"A Bin, I'm not lying to you, there are more opportunities over there. As long as you're willing to work hard, you can make money quickly. It's much better than toiling away in this crappy factory, right?"

He was tempted and followed his cousin onto the train, then transferred to a bus, and finally, in the pitch-black night, was led through the mountains and across a river. By the time he realized something was wrong, he was already in this place with high walls and iron fences, guarded by armed men. His cell phone, ID card, and the few hundred yuan he had on him were all taken away. His cousin was nowhere to be found, or perhaps that "cousin" was a fake from the start.

Resist? He tried, only to be shocked with an electric baton and go three days without food, locked in a dark room with only swill and his own excrement for company. From then on, he learned to submit, or rather, to become numb.

After washing up, the crowd was driven to the canteen. It was a larger, equally smelly cement building with rows of greasy long tables and benches. Breakfast was the same: a bowl of thin porridge so thin you could see your reflection in it, a hard, yellowish-gray steamed bun that looked like a rock and had some unknown additive, plus a small handful of blackened, overly salty pickled mustard greens.

A Bin mechanically chewed his steamed bun, tasting nothing. Around him, some people were talking in hushed tones, complaining that they hadn't met their "performance" targets again last night and were worried about being punished today; others stared blankly, simply repeating the motion of swallowing.

He overheard two newcomers at the next table whispering to each other, their accents mixed—one sounding like a northerner, the other a southerner—both cursing and complaining that the food in this godforsaken place was worse than pig swill, and asking when they could "start working and make money."

He glanced up. The two looked quite ordinary, their faces bearing the complex expression typical of newcomers—a mixture of fear, resentment, and a lingering hope.

But for some reason, A Bin always felt that the tall, dark-skinned man among them, although he was also complaining, seemed to have a gaze that lingered on the security guard standing at the cafeteria entrance for a fraction of a second less than the others. It wasn't a fearful avoidance, but rather a... quick, evaluative scan? Then he would revert to that bewildered look of a newcomer.

A Bin lowered his head and continued eating his steamed bun. He thought he might be too nervous and overthinking things. Here, even glancing at someone could get you into trouble.

After hastily finishing their breakfast, the bowls and chopsticks were thrown into a large, stinking barrel. Everyone was herded like sheep toward the "work area"—the largest three-story building whose windows were covered with black cloth or boarded up.

Pushing open the heavy soundproof door, a cacophony of noise mixed with sweltering heat rushed out. Before me was an enormous, unpartitioned room, densely packed with hundreds of simple computer desks. At each desk sat a person, wearing headphones, eyes glued to the screen, fingers flying across the keyboard.

A huge, low-quality sound system blasted deafening, high-energy internet pop songs, attempting to drown out other sounds, but various dialects, some passionate and some pleading, could still be heard.

"Auntie Wang, I know your situation all too well! Our project is supported by the government; it's a guaranteed profit!"

"Brother Li, trust me one more time, I'll definitely get you back what you lost this time! Invest another 50,000, no, 30,000! I guarantee you'll get your principal back plus interest!"

"Baby, don't be angry, I really miss you... I bought you a new phone, give me your address and I'll send it to you, okay?"

The air was thick with the stench of cigarettes, sweat, cheap perfume, and a strange, nervous excitement. Red slogans plastered on the walls proclaimed: "If you don't work hard today, you'll be sleeping on the floor tomorrow!" "There's no money you can't swindle, only empty mouths!" "Success is just one phone call away!"

A Bin found his workstation: Group 19, Number 7. The computer was an old machine that had changed hands many times. More than a dozen social media apps such as WeChat, QQ, Momo were open on the screen, each with a different avatar and identity.

Today, his "role" is that of a "single, high-quality man who runs a foreign trade company in Shenzhen." His photos are of muscular, handsome men stolen from some internet celebrity, and his WeChat Moments are full of staged pictures of luxury cars, expensive watches, and high-end dinners.

The team leader, "Brother Qiang," walked over. He was a man in his thirties with fierce eyes, and it was said that he used to be a hoodlum in mainland China.

He tapped on A Bin's table, his voice low but his tone unfriendly:

"A Bin, you added three more yesterday, and didn't close a single deal? Damn it, did you waste your time memorizing the sales script? If you don't make a sale today, you can forget about dinner tonight! Also, I read the chat logs of your 'wives,' they're too lukewarm! You need to be more proactive! Be more flirtatious! Make her feel like she can sleep with you right away, but she's just a little short of money! Do you understand?"

A Bin nodded meekly, "I understand, I understand, Brother Qiang, I will definitely try my best today."

"Work hard my ass! I want money! I want results!" Brother Qiang cursed, then went to inspect the next person.

A Bin put on his headphones, took a deep breath, and tried to immerse himself in the fictional role of the "foreign trade company boss." He opened a chat window with a woman he had chatted with for over half an hour the previous night; her profile indicated she was "single, 28, accountant." Last night, she complained about being tired at work and having a demanding boss. Following the script, he expressed understanding and offered comfort, even sending a few "hug" emojis.

He typed. "Good morning, baby. I dreamt about you last night. I dreamt I took you to the beach, and you were wearing a white dress. You looked so beautiful." He sent the message.

After waiting for half a minute, the other person replied, "Really? I've never been to the beach. [shy]"

A Bin felt a wave of nausea, but he quickly typed, "Once my project payment is settled, I'll take you there. Do you want to go to Sanya or Xiamen?" This was an attempt to entice him, implying that he was rich and powerful.

After chatting for a few more minutes, the other party seemed to be in a good mood. Following the advanced steps in his script, A Bin began to steer the conversation towards the topic of "investment": "Sigh, but recently there's been a bit of a cash flow problem with the project. The partner withdrew their investment at the last minute, and it's driving me crazy. Honey, what should I do?"

This is the crucial step in his "pig-slaughtering" scheme today. If the other party shows concern or even willingness to help, he's halfway there. The rest involves fabricating various reasons to guide the other party to start with small "help" payments, gradually increasing their investment until they're completely drained.

However, this time the other person hesitated. "Huh? Is it serious? I... I don't really know much about these things."

Just as A Bin was about to continue guiding the conversation according to the script, suddenly, a sharp sound of a rubber baton striking a metal pillar rang out in the huge work area, accompanied by a furious roar, "All of you, shut the hell up! What are you looking at! Get to work!"

It was "Brother Bo," the internal security guard, on patrol. He carried a black rubber baton, his face was full of menacing features, and his eyes swept over the rows of workstations like knives. Several people who might have been slacking off or whispering earlier immediately shrank back in fear and frantically typed on their keyboards.

Brother Bo seemed to be in a bad mood, muttering and cursing as he walked. When he reached A Bin's row, he suddenly stopped and stared at a young man who had just been brought in and was standing helplessly in the aisle. The young man looked to be under twenty years old, thin and small, with a childish face. He was one of the "piglets" who had just been assigned there that day.

"You! Standing here admiring the scenery?!" Brother Bo smacked the young man's shin with a stick, making a dull thud.

"Ah!" the young man screamed in pain and squatted down.

"Squat down? Did I tell you to squat down?!" Brother Bo kicked him in the shoulder again, knocking him to the ground. "Useless! Can't even find a spot? Are you a pig?"

The young man was in so much pain that tears streamed down his face. He hugged his shoulders, too afraid to utter a sound. Everyone around him kept their heads down, their fingers furiously typing on their keyboards, pretending not to see anything, but their eyes were all glancing in their direction. Fear permeated the air.

Brother Bo seemed unsatisfied after a few blows, so he pointed the rubber baton at the young man's head and said menacingly, "If you dawdle any longer, you're not eating today! Go find your seat!"

The young man scrambled to his feet and was pulled away by an old man who was "pushing" him.

Brother Bo spat and continued his patrol. As he passed A Bin, A Bin lowered his head even further, his fingers stiffly pressing the keyboard, afraid of attracting attention. He could smell the strong smell of smoke and sweat on Brother Bo.

Brother Bo walked away. Only the clatter of keyboards, the conversations through headsets, and background music remained in the work area, but the atmosphere became even more oppressive.

A Bin refocused his attention on the screen. The "accountant" messaged him again, asking about the project's progress. He barely managed to concentrate, continuing his scripted lies. But the scene from earlier wouldn't leave his mind. Could that young man who had been beaten, like him, have thought he could get rich just by coming here?

He forced himself to stop thinking and focus on his "prey." He typed, sent messages, and waited for replies. He pretended to care, fabricated stories, and lured people into investing. This was his daily life, like a pre-programmed machine, sinking deeper and deeper into a quagmire of lies and fraud.

He would occasionally look up, peering through the dense array of computer screens at the new faces that day. They were assigned to various groups, clumsily learning the scripts, their faces bearing the same fear and struggle he had felt before. A Bin's gaze then fell on the tall newcomer he had noticed in the cafeteria that morning. That person had been assigned to another group against the wall, and was now also wearing headphones, looking at the screen, his profile expressionless. But A Bin noticed that when Brother Bo had hit someone, that person's body seemed to tense almost imperceptibly for a moment, and his fingers on the keyboard paused for a second. Although he immediately resumed his actions, that fleeting reaction didn't resemble the typical newcomer's complete freeze of fear or desperate attempt to conceal their terror.

That strange feeling welled up in A Bin's heart again, but he immediately suppressed it. Don't meddle, don't be curious. Here, curiosity and compassion are luxuries; they'll only bring trouble.

He lowered his head and continued typing another carefully crafted lie into the screen.

The sunlight outside the window seemed forever unable to penetrate the thick black cloth and nailed wooden planks. Time here became viscous and slow, with only the huge "Today's Total Performance" display screen on the wall, constantly flashing red numbers, reminding everyone of their sole value.