Chen Hao stood in front of the podium, tapping his fingers lightly twice on the edge. The speaker emitted a short "beep," the sound carrying clearly to the last row.
He breathed a sigh of relief and glanced down at the speech draft on his terminal. The title was "My Three Adventures That Year I Didn't Get Caught," and several pages were filled with dense writing below. He didn't make any changes, closed the screen, and looked around.
Almost everyone had arrived. The chairs were full, with a few folding stools added in the corner. Some people were looking down at the notes in their hands, while others were whispering to the people next to them. The atmosphere was a little chaotic, but not cold.
He picked up the microphone and tested the sound.
"That incident just now served as a reminder to us," he said. "Cultural activities also need to rely on some 'human-machine collaboration'."
Someone chuckled. Susan, sitting in the front row, took off her headphones and nodded at him. Carl, in the back row, stuffed the printed document into his pocket and gave an OK sign. Nana stood in the corner, her optical module flashing, as if recording something.
“Today we won’t talk about scientific principles,” Chen Hao continued, “nor will we read out rules and regulations. We’ll just talk about something practical—what you’re thinking, what you’ve been through, and whether there’s ever a moment when you suddenly feel that you can actually stay in this place.”
Laughter broke out again. This time it felt more natural.
“I’m the first one to go on stage,” he smiled. “Logically, I should talk about something positive, but I’ve never been a very positive person. So I’ve decided to start by talking about the stupid things I’ve done.”
There was a moment of silence in the audience, followed by another burst of laughter.
"The first time I broke the rules was to steal an old-fashioned game console," he said. "I hid it under my bed in the dormitory and secretly powered it with a repairman's power supply. As a result, the voltage was unstable, and the entire district tripped twice. After three days of investigation, they finally found out it was me."
He paused.
“I thought nobody knew at the time. It wasn’t until I went through the files last week that I found out that Nana had already written it down, but just hadn’t reported it.”
Nana's voice came from the corner: "The system determined this to be a low-risk behavior, and no alarm was triggered."
The audience burst into laughter.
“Look, the robot knows better than me.” Chen Hao shook his head. “If I had been caught back then, I might still be writing a self-criticism now. But it’s precisely because I wasn’t caught that I dared to do it a second time.”
He slowed down as he said this.
"The second time was to help a colleague who was about to leave change some data. His child was sick, and he was missing an assessment record, so he wouldn't receive any subsidies. I tampered with the data and no one noticed. But he still left, and before he left, he said to me, 'Thank you for lying to the system, but the system has never lied to me.'"
The room fell silent.
"Back then, I didn't understand what those words meant. Now I do. We're afraid that the rules are too harsh and oppressive; but without them, we wouldn't even get this much compensation. So today, I'm not saying this to show off how smart I am, but to tell you—I also went from someone who didn't care to who I am now... a piece of trash who can barely be considered somewhat responsible."
He smiled again.
"Next, please welcome the first speaker to the stage."
Susan stood up, her sketchbook in her hand. She walked to the front of the stage and her hand trembled slightly as she took the microphone.
“I had prepared a draft,” she said. “I wrote it three times, deleted it twice, and finally decided not to use it.”
She took a deep breath.
“I used to hate rules. I felt they were used to restrict people, and that leaders couldn’t control themselves so they came to control us. I wanted to leave every meeting, and I felt like I was wasting my life filling out forms every time.”
She spoke a little fast, as if afraid she wouldn't be able to finish.
"Later, at a hearing, Zhang Qiang made a huge scene, claiming the procedure was unfair. I thought it would be suppressed like before. But you were all there that day. Chen Hao presided, Karl reviewed the records, and Nana checked the timeline line by line. In the end, Li Mao got the rest day he deserved."
As she spoke, her voice lowered.
"It was only that day that I realized rules could be upheld. Not because anyone was powerful, but because someone was willing to follow them."
She looked up.
"So I'm not afraid to talk about rules now. What I'm afraid of is that one day we'll go back to the days when whoever shouts the loudest is right."
Someone in the audience clapped softly. Then a second person, then a third. The applause gradually rose, not enthusiastic, but it lasted a long time.
Chen Hao listened from the side of the stage, tapping the podium twice with his fingers.
As Susan came down, he asked in a low voice, "Are you still nervous?"
"I was nervous," she nodded, "but I wasn't afraid after I finished speaking."
"Then it's worth it."
Carl walked onto the stage, stood still, and didn't speak immediately. He took out the stack of printed documents, looked at them, and then put them back.
"What I want to talk about isn't in the report," he said. "It's not a big deal. It's just that one night shift, a junior worker made a mistake while connecting wires. It almost caused an accident, but I stopped him. I was very angry at the time, thinking he was reckless."
He paused for a moment.
"I later found out that he had worked twelve consecutive night shifts. His schedule was packed like gruel. He was doing the calls so he could finish the repairs and go home as soon as possible because his child had a fever and there was no one to take him to the hospital."
No one spoke.
“This kind of thing happens a lot. Nobody records it, nobody asks about it. When a problem occurs, the person in charge is punished, as if it were all their fault.”
His voice lowered.
"But we all know that's not the case."
Chen Hao looked at him but didn't move.
“I’m not speaking up for anyone,” Carl said. “I’m just saying that there’s a reason behind every mistake. If we only focus on punishing people for their mistakes, sooner or later everyone will learn to—keep quiet.”
Nana then spoke up.
“I have no emotional memory,” she said. “But I remember that night, Carl wrote in the maintenance log: ‘Suggest optimizing the shift buffer period.’ That was rejected because ‘there are currently enough manpower.’”
She paused.
"I am now playing a recording."
A burst of static came from the speakers, followed by intermittent sound fragments.
Laughter echoed at the entrance to the studio.
Footsteps in the corridor late at night.
Some people were humming songs, singing off-key old-fashioned folk songs while tightening screws.
“These sounds,” Nana said, “are all left behind by you. They’re not in the reports, they’re not in the archives, but they really existed.”
The entire room fell silent.
A few seconds later, applause erupted from different locations, converging into a single sound.
Chen Hao walked onto the stage and took the microphone.
“We’ve gone over time,” he said. “According to the procedure, I should summarize and say something inspiring. But right now, I just want to say one thing—we’re not here to hear perfect stories, we’re here to hear real voices.”
He looked down at the audience.
"Next, please form groups nearby and talk about the sentence that touched you the most. Five minutes, feel free to talk."
The lights dimmed, and background music began to play softly. People started to get up, moving chairs together.
Chen Hao held the terminal, recording the group information, a smile on his face the whole time.
Nana stopped in the corner, her optical module flashing softly as she continuously monitored the audio environment.
Susan joined a group of three discussing, listening intently and nodding occasionally.
Carl opened his notebook and wrote the first line: **Sometimes, speaking out is more important than changing the rules.**
As Chen Hao walked past the round table, he heard someone ask him a question.
"Will you dare to talk about your dark past again next time?"
He stopped in his tracks.
"As long as I haven't been fired, I'll have new stories to tell."
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