It took Su Ding'an three months and three days to do something he should have done on the day he applied for the job: read his temp contract from beginning to end.
He dug the stack of papers out of the bottom drawer of his desk. The corners had started to curl, and there was even a little soy sauce stain left over from the move. It still carried the faintest trace of its smell.
On the day he signed, he had only looked at the salary line. Thirty-two thousand. Then he signed his name, because this was the only company that had replied to the 142 résumés he had sent out.
That day, he had been sitting in a chain coffee shop near the job bank. The other party had handed him a pen, and there had been a cup of unfinished American coffee on the table.
He had probably flipped through the contract for two seconds before signing. Afterward, he wasn't even sure which page he had received. What he did remember was that the coffee had gone cold, and he couldn't bear to throw it out, so he had forced himself to finish it before leaving.
He compared that memory with the stack of papers in front of him and realized that he really hadn't looked closely at a single page back then. Except for the salary line, which had been specially highlighted, there wasn't even a folded corner anywhere else. The page edges were still perfectly flat, like a document that had never been opened.
Now he sat at the small table in his rented apartment, the entire contract spread out in front of him as he read it page by page.
The desk lamp cast a slightly yellow light. He nudged the contract closer to it so he could make out the fine print.
The first several pages contained everything he remembered: job title, working hours, probationary period. Nothing stood out. It looked much like any administrative contract he'd seen before, with a neat, proper format.
As he read, he compared it in his head with every document he'd worked on over the past four years. The job title said administrative assistant, which did match his actual duties. Everything looked perfectly normal.
When he reached page thirty-nine, his finger stopped on the paper for nearly five seconds.
Item Four was printed in a font one size smaller than the other clauses, right in the middle of the page.
“Party B agrees to provide labor in any position designated by Party A. Party A's range of positions is not limited to occupations existing in human society.”
He read the sentence three times. The first time, he thought he had misread it. The second time, he confirmed that he hadn't. After finishing the third, he simply leaned back onto his bed and stared at the ceiling for almost a minute.
He remembered the interpretation that had occurred to him on the day he signed: “not limited to occupations existing in human society.”
At the time, he had thought it meant they might make him clean toilets, move freight, or do manual labor at some weird rural construction site. No matter what, he never would have imagined covering gravity's shift, covering the sunrise's shift, or covering the operation of common sense across an entire street.
He sat up and read the sentence again. Suddenly, he felt that his imagination back then had been painfully limited—so limited that he couldn't even imagine what he was signing.
He kept turning the pages, deciding to finish the rest of the clauses one by one.
He had a pen ready on the table to mark anything he couldn't understand, but after several pages, he still hadn't made a single mark. He could more or less understand every clause after reading it. It was just that the feeling left behind each time grew more complicated.
The working-hours clause stated that temporary personnel were limited to 174 hours of proxy duty per month. Any hours beyond that were to be paid separately and required prior approval.
He silently memorized the number, then pulled out his phone's calculator and converted it to an average of about 5.8 hours a day. Compared with his hours at Hongchang Trading, the difference wasn't as large as he'd imagined.
He compared that figure with the number of hours he'd already covered that month and made a rough calculation. It was still safe; he was some distance from the limit.
He mentally added up the hours from the several shifts he remembered covering, just to make sure he hadn't miscalculated.
The overtime clause stated that any hours beyond the limit would be calculated separately and could not be replaced with compensatory time off. Compensation was calculated by multiplying the actual hours worked by a fixed rate, with no discounts or deductions of any kind.
He remembered Zheng Yang saying that it was the only clause in the entire company no one had ever complained about. After reading it, he had to admit she was right. It was, after all, the only rule that made people happy.
He read the clause twice more, confirming that the words “could not be replaced with compensatory time off” came with no fine print or exceptions. For once, he felt a little goodwill toward the contract.
The occupational-injury clause stated that any physical mutation occurring during duty would be considered a workplace injury.
When he reached the words “physical mutation,” he frowned. He paused for several seconds, trying to guess what exactly those four words referred to, but he couldn't come up with anything.
The term simply felt much vaguer than the wording in the other clauses—so vague that it didn't sound like the way this contract was normally written.
He read the clause once more in his head, but still couldn't make sense of it. In the end, he decided to set it aside for now and continued turning the pages.
The resignation clause stated that employees had to complete the handover before resigning.
If no one took over, they could not resign.
He stopped on this clause longer than any of the others. His finger pressed against the line of text, and he didn't turn the page.
An old photo of Old Zhou's time clock surfaced in his mind, along with the words he'd once said: “I'm on one-year contracts too. I've signed forty of them.”
He also remembered the question Old Zhou had asked him during the job orientation tour: How long are you planning to do this? At the time, he had thought it was a strange question.
He silently repeated the words to himself. Suddenly, he felt as if he couldn't breathe. Then he quickly smothered the feeling with a sarcastic remark.
“So Old Zhou doesn't want to leave. His resignation form has just been stuck there for forty years.”
He laughed once at his own joke. The sound came out dry. Afterward, he stared at the clause for several seconds, with the nagging feeling that brushing it off so lightly wasn't right. But he had no idea what else to do about it, so he simply continued turning the pages.
He read the remaining clauses more quickly. Most were details about administrative procedures: payroll dates, tax withholding rates, the window for submitting leave requests. They were broadly similar to the other contracts he'd seen at Hongchang Trading, and nothing else made him stop.
After reading the final clause, he closed the contract, opened it again, and flipped through it from the beginning a second time. This time, he skimmed the heading of every clause, wanting to make sure he hadn't missed anything—especially any notes printed in unusually small type.
When he finished, he discovered one thing: there was no trap in this contract.
Jurisdiction, responsibilities, working hours, overtime pay, workplace injuries, resignation—every clause was written clearly. Anything that required an application had an application process, and anything that required approval had approval standards.
Even the resignation clause he found most frightening made perfect sense on the surface. After all, leaving a position vacant with no one to take over really was a problem. If he had been writing the rules at Hongchang Trading back then, he probably would have phrased it the same way.
The truly frightening thing about this document wasn't what it said. It was the fact that it had lain there, perfectly organized, for three whole months without anyone opening it—not even him.
He turned the contract to the last page and was about to put it away when the corner of his eye caught a heading.
“Application for Regularization.”
He stopped and flattened the page. The desk lamp shone directly on the heading, and the paper reflected a faint sheen.
It said: Employees who meet the following conditions may apply to become full-time employees.
The typeface was the same as the one used for every clause before it. It looked just as formal as any other rule.
He slowly looked down, ready to find out all at once what the conditions were. He had already guessed at several possibilities: seniority, performance reviews, or some kind of internal screening he'd never heard of.
The field was blank.
There were no signs of blurred printing or ink where something had been crossed out and rewritten. It was simply a clean, empty space. There wasn't a single word.
He held the page up to the desk lamp and checked it, confirming that this wasn't an illusion caused by glare. The field really had nothing printed on it.
He stared at the blank space for a long time. He even turned the paper around and held it up to the light, checking for any printing that might have bled through from the back. There was nothing on the reverse either.
He flipped through the entire contract from the beginning again, looking for an appendix or supplementary explanation that mentioned regularization. When he reached the last page, he still hadn't found a single clue.
He picked up his phone and called Zheng Yang.
She answered after two rings. The background was a little noisy, as if she were still in the office. Her voice was as brisk as ever, with no small talk.
“Calling this late? What's up?”
There was a hint of curiosity in her tone. Not many people called her this late.
He heard keyboard clicks on the other end and guessed she was still processing some kind of form. He quickly explained the problem clearly so he wouldn't take up too much of her time. At this hour, she probably hadn't gotten off work yet.
“The regularization application on the last page of my contract—the conditions field is blank.”
He said it directly, without adding any adjectives. He was worried that exaggerating would make her think he was joking, so he enunciated “conditions field” especially clearly, in case she thought he was just complaining offhand.
There was a pause on the other end, slightly longer than her usual pauses when thinking. The keyboard stopped too. Several seconds of silence passed before her voice came back.
“That field is blank by design.”
She said it flatly, as if reciting a fact she'd long since grown used to. There was no resentment in her voice, but neither was there indifference. She was simply stating a condition she'd accepted a long time ago.
“I've been here eight years. Mine is blank too.”
Su Ding'an held the phone without saying anything. For a moment, he didn't know how to respond.
He imagined that eight years ago, Zheng Yang had probably been sitting somewhere much like this on some evening, reading the same page and seeing the same blank space.
Then eight years had passed. She had gone from a newly hired temp specialist to the senior employee she was now, capable of filling out forms for other people. And that blank space was still blank, without a single additional word.
“Then how do you become full-time?”
He slowed his speech as he asked, wanting to make sure Zheng Yang had heard him clearly.
“I don't know either. I really don't know.”
She answered so quickly that it didn't sound as if she were thinking. It was more like she had prepared this answer long ago. No one had asked her in all these years, so it had simply remained there unused until today, when he finally gave her a reason to say it.
“No one here has ever become full-time.”
She added that in the same even tone, without emphasizing a single word.
“At least, no one I know of. A lot of temps have come and gone over the years, and I've never heard of anyone becoming full-time.”
Su Ding'an lowered his head and looked at the contract in his hand. The blank space on the last page looked especially glaring under the light.
He closed the contract and casually folded down a tiny corner of the last page as a marker, so he could flip to it quickly whenever he wanted to find it again.
“Did Old Zhou ever ask about it?”
He asked it casually, but as soon as the words were out, even he felt the question was unnecessary. Old Zhou had only taken one day of leave in all his years. He probably hadn't expected anything like this for a long time.
“Old Zhou has signed forty contracts. He stopped asking about that ages ago.”
Zheng Yang's voice paused, then she added, “Only people who just joined ask. After they've been here long enough, everyone learns not to.”
Su Ding'an said nothing more. He thanked her, wished her good night, and hung up.
He put the contract back in the bottom drawer, storing it away with the memory of the day he signed it. He made sure the folded corner was facing up so it would be easy to find next time. When he closed the drawer, it gave a modest clack.
He got up and poured himself a glass of water. Only after finishing it at the sink did he remember that he hadn't eaten dinner. There probably wasn't much left in the refrigerator either, so in the end he decided to boil a cup of instant noodles and call it a meal. While he waited for the water to boil, he went over the rules he'd read today once more in his head.