The ringing kept getting louder.
At first it was just something annoying in the back of his ears, like a phone vibrating on silent somewhere nearby. A thin sound you could ignore if you focused hard enough. Chen Wei tried to ignore it the way he ignored everything else—tight shoulders, dry eyes, hunger, the slow ache in his spine.
But the ringing didn't fade.
It grew until it felt like pressure, like someone had put their palms over his ears and started pushing inward.
Chen Wei stood in front of his desk for a second too long, staring at the empty space on his monitor where the email had disappeared. The report was gone. Sent. Finished. That should've meant something. It should've meant relief.
Instead, his brain felt blank. Not calm—blank. Like a room after everyone leaves. Like the noise stops, but you don't feel better. You just realize how tired you are.
Now I can rest, he told himself.
The sentence sounded practiced. Automatic. It didn't even feel like it belonged to him anymore.
He pushed his chair in without thinking, the wheels squeaking softly. The sound was too sharp in the quiet office. He flinched, then realized that was ridiculous, because nobody cared what noise he made. Nobody cared about anything except whether the work got done.
He took one step, then another, moving toward the break room.
The office carpet felt slightly uneven under his shoes. He'd noticed that before, months ago, when he still had energy for small observations. Now it just made his legs feel heavier. Like he was walking through water, not air.
Halfway there, he stopped and put a hand on the divider between desks.
His palm didn't grip properly.
His fingers felt clumsy, delayed. He squeezed anyway, trying to ground himself, trying to tell his body, Just keep moving.
The ringing swelled again. His vision blurred at the edges, then snapped back.
He forced a breath through his nose. It came out thin and shaky.
He told himself it was nothing. He'd been dizzy before. He'd stood up too fast, skipped meals, drank too much coffee. It happened all the time.
Except this time, it didn't go away.
A wave of nausea rolled through him, sudden and cold. His stomach clenched like it was trying to fold in on itself.
Chen Wei swallowed hard and continued walking.
The break room door was slightly open. It always was. Nobody bothered closing it because nobody stayed long enough for it to matter. He pushed it wider with his shoulder and stepped inside.
The smell hit him immediately—old coffee, instant noodles, and something sweet that had been spilled and never cleaned properly. The kind of smell that lingered in the air and made the place feel stale even when it was empty.
The vending machine lights hummed in the corner, a steady electric glow. The microwave sat on the counter with a dirty plate inside, food dried into a flat brown crust. Someone had left it there earlier and forgotten, or maybe they'd planned to come back and never had the time.
Chen Wei stared at the microwave, and for a moment his brain did something strange.
It tried to find meaning in it.
Like if he looked hard enough, the dirty plate would explain everything. Why he was tired. Why he kept saying "just one more hour." Why his life had turned into a loop where nothing changed except the dates on the calendar.
The ringing tightened.
He blinked and realized he'd been standing still too long.
He took one step toward the counter, intending to grab water. Just water. He needed water. He could feel how dry his mouth was, how thick his tongue felt, like it didn't belong in his own mouth.
His legs wobbled.
Not a dramatic stumble. Just a small shift, like the floor tilted half an inch.
He reached for the counter.
His fingertips touched the edge, but it felt slippery. Not because it was wet—because his hand couldn't find grip. It was like his body had suddenly forgotten how to hold onto things.
He tried again, stronger.
The counter edge scraped under his fingers.
Then his arm gave out.
His knees hit the floor.
The impact didn't even hurt right away. It was too delayed, too distant. A dull thump that seemed to happen somewhere else.
Chen Wei sat there for a moment, dazed, like his brain was trying to catch up and decide whether this was real.
The ringing filled his head completely now. It swallowed the humming vending machine, swallowed the office sounds outside, swallowed everything.
He tried to breathe in.
His chest barely moved.
He tried again, harder.
A thin breath came, and it felt wrong, like it didn't reach where it was supposed to go.
His heart thumped once—heavy.
Then again—uneven.
Then it stuttered, like it was losing patience.
Chen Wei leaned forward and put his hand on the tile. The floor was cold. That was the first thing he noticed clearly. Cold enough to sting his palm.
His fingers trembled.
He pressed them flat, trying to push himself up. But the strength didn't come.
It was an ugly kind of weakness. Not the tiredness he knew. Not the "I stayed up late" feeling. This was his muscles refusing. Like the command was sent and nothing responded.
He swallowed.
His throat felt tight and dry at the same time.
A sound came from somewhere outside the break room—footsteps, maybe. A chair squeaking. A voice.
Or maybe it was his imagination. He couldn't tell anymore.
The edges of his vision darkened.
It wasn't like falling asleep. It was like someone was turning down a dimmer switch on the world.
Chen Wei blinked hard, trying to fight it.
The darkness didn't care.
A faint panic flickered in him then—not the sharp kind, more like the last spark in a dying candle.
No. Not here.
It wasn't fear of death exactly. It was embarrassment. It was annoyance. It was this ridiculous thought that someone would find him on the break room floor and it would be a hassle. They'd have to call an ambulance. Fill out paperwork. Someone would complain about the inconvenience.
He tried to laugh at how stupid that was.
Nothing came out.
His mouth twitched, that was all.
The ringing rose again, and his vision narrowed into a tunnel. The microwave became a blur. The vending machine lights stretched into long lines. The counter edge warped slightly, like it was made of rubber.
Chen Wei's breathing turned shallow. Each breath felt like work.
He thought about his apartment.
Not in a sentimental way. Just in a factual way. The bed he never used enough. The fridge with bottled water. The pack of instant noodles. The clothes he'd washed and left on the chair because he didn't have the energy to fold them.
He thought about the last time he'd had a day off that actually felt like a day off.
He couldn't remember it.
He could remember days where he stayed home but still checked emails. Days where he promised himself he'd rest and then ended up doing chores and feeling guilty for not being productive.
He could remember being tired.
He couldn't remember resting.
Another thought slid in, quiet and bitter.
I did everything right.
He'd studied. He'd worked hard. He'd been polite. He'd been reliable. He'd said yes when people needed him, stayed late when they asked, took on more when they "trusted him."
And what did he have?
A desk. A spreadsheet. A body that was breaking down in a break room.
His heart gave another uneven thump.
Chen Wei's forehead lowered until it touched the tile.
Cold again, sharper this time. He felt it on his skin and it made him aware of how warm his face was. Sweaty. Feverish.
His eyes stared at the floor, unfocused.
A few inches from his nose, there was a tiny stain on the tile—coffee, maybe, or sauce. Dark and dried. He couldn't stop looking at it.
His brain latched onto small things when it couldn't handle big ones.
The ringing started to soften.
Not because it was going away—because everything else was.
His hearing dulled first. The humming vending machine turned into a distant vibration. Then that faded too.
His arms felt heavy, like they were sinking into the floor.
His legs were already gone, numb and distant, like they belonged to someone else.
He tried to move his fingers.
They didn't move.
Chen Wei's thoughts slowed.
Not in a peaceful way. More like wading through thick mud. Each thought rose, struggled, then sank.
Somewhere in that slow heaviness, a single clear sentence formed, simple and honest:
If I get another chance… I'm not living like this again.
It wasn't a dramatic vow. It wasn't heroic.
It was tired. It was stubborn. It was the last bit of him that still wanted something different, even if he didn't know what "different" looked like.
His eyelids drooped.
He didn't fight them.
The world dimmed further.
The break room smell faded. The cold tile faded. Even the weight in his chest faded, like the pain was being turned off one switch at a time.
For a moment, there was a strange calm—not relief, not comfort, just quiet.
Then even that quiet slipped away.
And Chen Wei was gone.
The world went black.
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