The next day, I arrived before everyone else.
7:40 a.m.
The access system had just come online. The hallway was empty. A cleaning cart rattled somewhere down the corridor, its wheels echoing off the walls.
When I swiped in, it felt like I was sneaking.
Not because I was stealing anything—
because I didn't want to be seen.
I didn't pause.
Didn't scan the room.
I went straight to my desk like I was afraid someone would catch me existing.
Computer on.
Screen up.
I started clearing what was left from yesterday.
There was no emotion in it.
Not even that urge to prove myself.
I was doing something more specific.
I was shrinking.
Downgrading myself.
From a "problem person"
to background.
Replaceable. Ignorable. Not worth anyone's attention.
Before nine, I'd already sorted three files—
including the historical data correction Wang Shanshan had handed me.
I didn't sign my name.
I didn't message her.
I just uploaded everything to the shared drive.
Quiet.
Disposable.
9:01 a.m.
The department group chat lit up.
Ding.
No emotion.
Just a verdict.
Wang Fan posted:
"The Q3 Employee Improvement Observation Sheet had been updated.
Relevant staff, please check daily and follow up with improvements."
One link.
No names.
But I knew it was me.
I clicked.
Loading.
The page opened, and the first line was my name.
— Liu Keying —
Only mine.
No one else.
A single red cell.
Header: Performance Observation Target
Next to it, the note read:
[Low communication efficiency. Learning attitude to be further observed.]
I stared at the words.
I wasn't angry.
Just… familiar.
Like the "Priority Observation List" teachers used to write on the board.
I didn't screenshot it.
Didn't type anything.
Didn't even reply "Noted" in the group.
I minimized the page.
And kept working.
Not because I was used to being stepped on.
Because I refused to feed her a reaction.
She wanted noise.
The moment you exploded, she won.
So my choice was simple:
reduce the signal.
Ten o'clock.
I picked up a data-cleaning task no one wanted.
Repetitive. Complicated. No credit. No visibility.
Perfect for hiding.
An intern got stuck on a script.
I walked over and fixed it.
Explained it in a low-key way.
My most ordinary tone.
"Thank you, Ms. Liu," she said quietly.
I nodded.
Nothing extra.
I didn't want to leave any emotional footprint.
I started making myself smaller on purpose.
I spoke slower.
Replied shorter.
Walked closer to the walls.
At lunch, I didn't go with Wang Shanshan.
I knew exactly what it would look like if I did.
Wang Fan would turn it into "evidence."
Faction.
Target acquired.
I didn't give her the angle.
I went downstairs alone.
Bought the most basic lunch box.
Sat by the window.
Behind the glass, people moved back and forth.
No one looked at me.
Good.
While I ate, I opened the shared sheet again.
Under my name, another line of red text had appeared:
[Today's performance: attitude relatively cooperative. Stability requires continued observation.]
Like taming.
This wasn't evaluating an employee.
It was logging an animal being trained.
I stared at it for two seconds.
Closed it.
In the afternoon, I kept working.
I sent emails without cc'ing management.
If Tech asked something, I answered.
As long as I didn't steal focus.
Don't stand out.
Late afternoon, another line appeared:
[Entering observation phase this week. Key focus: stress tolerance and execution stability.]
I saw it.
I didn't react.
I acted like I didn't.
She didn't need my reply.
She wanted everyone else to see it.
When it was time to leave, I wasn't the first out.
Not the last.
I left in the middle.
Unremarkable.
While I was tidying my desk, the copier jammed.
No one touched it.
I walked over and cleared the paper.
The machine started printing again.
No one looked up.
No one said thanks.
I wasn't expecting it.
In this mode, I was only fit for work that disappeared the moment it was done.
10:00 p.m.
I got back to my rented room.
Lights on.
Cold-white.
Empty.
I dropped my bag on the chair and sat.
I didn't open my laptop.
Didn't pick up my phone.
My head was blank—
and I wasn't calm.
I showered.
Steam filled the bathroom.
The mirror fogged.
I stared at that blurred face and didn't wipe it.
For a second, I thought I should feel relieved.
I wasn't fighting.
I was keeping my head down.
I was staying out of sight.
Wasn't that how you "won"?
But I didn't feel relief.
My chest was heavy.
Not pain.
Pressure without a name.
And I thought of years ago.
Back of the classroom.
The teacher writing names on the board.
My name circled once.
"Key observation this week," she said.
The whole class looked at me.
I lowered my head.
Told myself:
If I was quiet. If I behaved. This would pass.
And what happened?
Homework was torn.
Books were thrown.
My head was shoved down onto the desk.
They didn't leave me alone because I was quiet.
They came harder—
because I didn't fight.
I stood in the bathroom with water running down my face.
Like those red lines on the sheet.
I wasn't leaving the battlefield.
I was kneeling on it.
This wasn't self-acceptance.
It was self-disarmament.
My phone buzzed.
I didn't look at it right away.
It buzzed again.
On the third buzz, I picked it up.
Wang Shanshan.
"You didn't reply to me today."
I didn't type.
Another message:
"I saw that shared sheet."
"No need to perform for her."
My fingers froze.
Another message came in:
"Right then you're not 'behaving.' You're muting yourself."
I stared at the screen.
A long time.
Typed.
Deleted.
Typed again.
In the end, I sent one line:
"I just want things to be peaceful."
A few seconds later:
"You could choose not to fight."
"But you didn't get to kneel."
The words hit like cold water down my spine.
I went still.
She didn't press.
Just one more line:
"Sleep early. Don't come in ahead of time tomorrow."
I set the phone down.
I lay on the bed.
The room went quiet again.
But I knew I was nowhere near peace.
I'd only slipped back
into that circled seat on the list.
And that "Q3 Employee Improvement Observation Sheet"
hung there like a rope tightening, slowly.
It wasn't choking me.
Not yet.
It was just there—
waiting for the day
I handed myself over
all over again.