The Secret of the Receipt

I didn't want to spend what remained of my life on expense reports. But right now, there was nothing else I could do. I let out a long breath, picked up the top report, and began entering it into the system.

Manager Sun floated contentedly back to her office to do nothing. A few colleagues cast me quick glances of sympathy and lowered their heads again. The afternoon office was as quiet as if nothing had happened — no one knew what I had lived through over the past several hours.

I kept typing without pause, doing repetitive work. The sky outside shifted from light to dark, and the wall clock quickly reached the end of the workday. Manager Sun managed to "push through" two more hours of loafing before clocking off. The others, once the elevator doors closed on her, rounded out their "voluntary overtime" in a matter of minutes and were gone. The enormous floor went silent as a crypt all at once — only the hum of the air conditioning and the sound of my keys. Half the reports were still left. I opened my phone and sent Ruoli a message: "Working late, will be back late." Then switched it off immediately. I was afraid she'd call back. A single ring and I'd be dragged into the next cycle. Time was running out. I couldn't afford any risk. I couldn't answer the phone; I couldn't leave. At least the five buns I'd packed from lunch would keep me going.

This was probably the most productive day of my entire working life. My fingers barely stopped. The reports disappeared like items on an assembly line. I worked until two in the morning. Finally I entered the last report. I collapsed back against my chair — I felt as though my soul had been wrung dry.

Now — could I go home?

I braced both hands on the desk to stand. My legs had gone numb. Just as I took a first step, my foot bumped into something. I looked down: on the floor, lying quietly, was an envelope. A stray report that had fallen off the pile?

White envelope. Red tape sealing the flap. On the surface, written in black marker:

"Medical record. Strictly prohibited from outside disclosure. Anyone who does will face consequences. — Xu Mo."

Xu Mo? I'd heard that name before. I searched my memory quickly. Then a sentence flashed up: "Hello, I'm Xu Mo. I'm the psychologist here."

This envelope was from Dr. Xu. From the Dr. Xu who had died in front of my eyes a few hours ago. I tore it open immediately. Inside was a single sheet of A4 paper. The last expense report of the day.

Printed at the top was that familiar logo: sinuous lines curving into the shape of a heart. But the name alongside the logo wasn't the psychology clinic — it read "KANGPING HOSPITAL."

I read on:

Attending physician: Xu Mo

Admission number: 20220222

Patient name: Wu Wei

My fingers had already started shaking. I kept reading:

Diagnosis: Acute gastric dilation, gastric wall necrosis

Recommendation: Discontinue all maintenance treatment, palliative home care.

Estimated survival: 3–18 days

Fee breakdown:

Emergency treatment: 8,400.00

Ward charges: 7,100.00

Ventilator use: 11,628.00

Total: 27,428.00 yuan

Discharge date: March 22, 2022

Today was February 25, 2022. Was this expense report from the future? That wasn't the strangest part — a print date could be falsified. What shattered me was what appeared at the bottom of the form:

Responsible signatory: Tuniu.

I was absolutely certain this was my own handwriting. But no matter how hard I tried, I had no memory of signing this paper.

What was happening here? An expense report from the future. Kangping Psychology Clinic transformed into Kangping Hospital. Dr. Xu turned from a psychologist into a hospital emergency physician. The patient she was treating was Wu Wei. And the signature authorising this enormous sum of medical fees — was mine.

I felt as though something had dragged me into a bottomless cavern. The deeper it pulled, the more terrifying it became. The more I knew, the more confused I grew. I didn't want to know anything more. I only wanted to go home — go back to Ruoli and Xiaobao.

Click! The minute hand on the wall clock lurched, pointing to 2:10. With that sound, the ceiling light above the clock went out. Then the light beside it. The lights above my head extinguished one by one, spreading like a contagion. Within moments the office was in complete blackness. Only my desk monitor emitted a dim glow. The time in the lower-left corner of the screen read: 24:00:00, 23:59:59…

The last time the clock struck 2:10, the 48-hour countdown had begun. After a series of random loops, the clock and the countdown had converged again. Coincidence — or something designed?

"Creeak." Manager Sun's office door swung open. The room beyond was dark, with no shadow visible inside, yet from within came a woman's weeping. That grief-stricken, bitter sound was especially terrifying in the dead silence of midnight. My one instinct was to run — to flee this bizarre office. But just as I moved to turn around, a low sobbing broke out from somewhere in the seats behind me. Then from another seat, another cry. The weeping spread like a disease. Soon I could hear continuous crying at my back — men and women of different ages crying together, the volume building from initial hitching sobs to full-throated wailing.

Surrounded by that anguished sound, I lost the nerve to stand up. I couldn't even bring myself to turn and check whether there was anyone behind me or where the crying was coming from.

But what had to come, came. A cold draft swept from behind. Two dry, withered hands reached out and seized my shoulders. I recognised those hands — I had watched them kill Dr. Xu with my own eyes. The skeleton-in-skin was back. I tried to pull away but my whole body froze instantly. The only thing I could move were my fingernails, which dug deeper and deeper into the worn foam of the chair's armrest. He gripped my shoulders, twisted my chair forcibly around, and made me face those wailing sounds.

When I turned, the sight broke something inside me. Every seat in the office was occupied by strangers, all of them sitting rigidly upright. The light from my monitor fell across them, and each face shimmered with a faint green glow. They were emitting sounds of deep, heartbroken grief — but the expression on every face was a wide, open-mouthed smile.

"Their loved ones have gone. On the surface they're weeping in sorrow, but inside they're very glad."

The ancient voice filled the room. The skeleton-in-skin sat down facing me. "When you go, it should be like this too."

He reached over, pulled a wooden case from beside him, opened the lid, and turned it toward me. "Choose for yourself."

An ordinary case. Ordinary objects inside. But with those words, I felt a cold that went straight to the marrow of my bones.

Inside the case were four things: a coil of hemp rope, an iron hammer, a bottle of pesticide, and a scalpel.

I understood that each object corresponded to a way of dying.