It all started with a beep. Not a dramatic, earth-shattering beep, but a soft, nagging chirp—like the kind of sound that would emanate from an indecisive pigeon debating whether it should steal your sandwich or not. Wang Lei, an underemployed writer in his mid-thirties, stared at the petite carbon monoxide detector on his wall like it had just insulted his ancestors.
“有益的carbon monoxide detector, you’re supposed to be helping me, not annoying me,” he muttered, tossing an angry glare its way. The word “有益的,” meaning “helpful,” was plastered across the device in cheerful red characters, a detail that only added to its irony in his life. Annoyance wasn’t exactly “helpful.”
Lei reached for the instruction manual—an absurdly long scroll of paper with font so tiny it required a microscope and a strong dose of self-loathing to read. He sighed. The thing had been a gift from Xiao Qiu, his ex-girlfriend. She’d always been obsessed with health and safety as a concept. To her, the carbon monoxide detector was symbolic: vital, reliable, something Lei apparently wasn’t.
In another part of the building, Mrs. Hu, a widow with a penchant for yelling at stray cats and bad politicians on TV, kicked open her apartment door. “谁啊?!” she barked loudly at no one. She wasn’t angry—this was just her default mode of existing. Clad in purple-striped pajamas and wielding a spatula as her weapon of choice, she strode past her ancient rice cooker, grumbling. From her wall, an identical carbon monoxide detector stared back at her, flashing one annoyingly red LED light. She didn’t trust it. She still thought real safety came from drinking hot water and applying tiger balm liberally to anything that ailed you.
Downstairs, Chen Mo, a courier whose life revolved around delivering bubble tea faster than anyone could consume it, sat cross-legged by the building’s entrance. A cigarette dangled precariously from his lips as he argued passionately over the phone.
“No, no, I said one less sugar! You want me to deliver diabetes to these people? 真的是，喝这种很危险, maybe they need a 有益的carbon monoxide detector for their tongues! Idiots!” He hung up. The cigarette hadn’t even been lit. It never was; Chen Mo carried it purely as a prop to look cooler in arguments. He tossed it to the ground just as Wang Lei stumbled outside, clutching his defective-sounding detector like it was a crying baby.
“You hear this thing?” Lei asked, holding it up.
Chen squinted at it. “Nah. Mine died a month ago. 寿命到了, I guess. Maybe that’s why I’m still alive!”
Lei blinked. He wasn’t sure whether that sentence even made sense. Mrs. Hu came barreling downstairs at that exact moment, holding her detector like it had committed a heinous crime. “你们这些搞电子的人疯了吗?! This infernal beep! How am I supposed to hear * Warring States Histories* when this stupid thing screams at me?”
“Maybe,” Chen said, deadpan, “the carbon monoxide hates boring TV.”
Lei, Mrs. Hu, and Chen suddenly shared an epiphany: all their carbon monoxide detectors had started malfunctioning around the same time. It was as though the entire building was under siege by deranged robots too incompetent to choose one threat to warn about. They decided something had to be done.
“Let’s throw them in the river,” Mrs. Hu announced, smug and triumphant.
“Or fix them,” Lei suggested, reluctantly taking the role of “reasonable character who gets punished in group dynamics.”
“Fix what? It’s gas, you can’t even see it! Might as well ask air for an interview,” Chen deadpanned.
The worst decision was trusting Chen.
They soon found themselves on the rooftop, arguing over whose detector insulted who first when the detectors inexplicably stopped chirping. A calm, almost eerie silence filled the air.
And then … not chirps. Words.
In a robotic yet oddly sympathetic tone, Lei’s detector declared, “Danger: Chen Mo’s curry leftovers in fridge increasing health risks. Dispose before inhaling any further gastrointestinal regret.”
Chen’s face twisted into confusion. Meanwhile, Mrs. Hu’s detector went next: “Warning: Warring States dramas lower IQ by 4 points per episode. Suggest alternative entertainment like chess or karaoke.”
By now, Lei was laughing so hard he nearly dropped his detector. The absurdity was unparalleled. Somehow, the “有益的” detectors had mutated into existential critics. His went off again: “Wang Lei: procrastination levels at 99%. Suggest productive writing or immediate relocation to your mother’s attic.”
Call it black humor or urban poetry, but as the three burst into hysterics under the neon city skyline, their shared irritation boiled away into the night air. By the end, all three were sweaty, tired, and, dare they admit it, a little better off.
“See?” Lei wheezed. “Helpful carbon monoxide detectors … maybe.”
And for once, the city seemed to agree.