Not hope

He had two names. One was planned before his birth, called Zhang Yiqiang, which was the name of the Zhang family's generation; the other was the name he gave himself later: Blue Red Cat. This was his WeChat name, as well as his Weibo name, and he also used this name when receiving packages. If someone called him "Ah Qiang" and "Ah Mao" in two different directions at the same time, he would definitely turn towards the direction of "Ah Mao" first.

Why Blue Red Cat? He had explained more than once that it was to express a contradictory concept. First of all, cats are not red, unless they are painted red by external force or their own blood stains them red. And a red cat would naturally not be blue, but here was a blue red cat - himself. He said he was full of contradictions.

On the twenty-third day of the lockdown, this contradiction seemed to have reached an unbearable level.

He gradually gained some new understanding of this city, this country, and even this society, as if the vague impressions from the past suddenly became clear, but he still couldn't say exactly how. After all, he had never received any similar training from childhood to adulthood.

All he did was sink deeper into despair in those videos and texts.

Tragedy after tragedy.

He walked to the balcony, feeling the cool breeze after the spring rain on the twenty-fifth floor. His skin wrinkled, as if there was still a hint of winter chill. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath once, twice. His left eye was a little sore from excessive fatigue in front of the screen. The excessive amount of information made the orange cat's foolishness no longer interesting, and the youthful appearance and big breasts no longer touched his heartstrings.

He opened his eyes and saw a figure like a giant ant walking on the road in the residential area. Perhaps it was on patrol, probably warning people not to go out or driving those who were about to go out back, otherwise they might face some consequences.

So boring. He thought, really wanted to go up and slap that person, and then crush his horn; no, he wanted to slap everyone, every good person and bad person, or maybe there was no difference between the two.

He raised his phone, activated the screen, pulled down to refresh, and a new Weibo post appeared:

We are indeed suitable for concentrating our efforts on doing big things, but if we concentrate our efforts on doing the wrong things, the harm caused will also be great.

"Ah~" he sighed, clicked to repost, but failed, as expected. This Weibo post no longer existed, just like something that existed in an illusion. Did that Weibo post really exist? What about all of this? Is there anything that truly exists? Quantum physics seems to say that everything that exists is based on probability. What about pain? Is pain also based on the probability of existence? Is it just a biochemical reaction and physical process in the brain?

What does it matter? He closed his eyes again, stood up straight, and the bones in his spine made a cracking sound. He took a deep breath, smelling the scent of flowers and disinfectant in the air. How could he smell these scents on the twenty-fifth floor? he wondered. Maybe it was the flowers planted on the balcony upstairs or the excessive use of disinfectant downstairs. Not bad, not unpleasant.

He looked at the buildings opposite, and there were also people standing on the balconies, one or two, either silent or talking. He thought that compared to many people, his situation was still not bad, after all, he didn't have so many people to worry about, no children, no loved ones. Besides, he still had a job, not to the point of despair. He was just himself, even if he was destroyed, it seemed to be of little importance.

There was a commotion, seemingly coming from downstairs, or maybe upstairs, but it was beyond his field of vision, faintly reaching his ears. Arguments were a common occurrence in daily life, but they became more frequent during the lockdown, probably because people had more time to spend together, or maybe the blockade caused psychological disorders. Sigh.

He looked up and saw a figure appearing on the rooftop of the opposite building, standing on the edge of the rooftop railing.

He was puzzled, and a bad premonition began to arise in his heart.

The figure raised both hands, as if finally choosing to surrender to everything. The figure rose half a meter into the air, leaping into a free fall, descending parallel to the thirty-six floors, accelerating, accelerating, accelerating.

Falling to the ground, it became a pool of blood.

There were screams, shouts, and a sudden heartbeat in his chest.

He leaned on the railing, a smile on his face.

He thought, so that's how it is, then climbed over the railing and leaped into the sky.

About four seconds later, another pool of blood appeared on the ground.

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