# Chapter 1: Humiliation

  I sat on a bench outside the building, my hands trembling, breathing rapid. The sunlight was harsh, and the sounds around me seemed isolated in another world. I couldn't breathe normally, my chest tightened as if an invisible weight pressed down upon it. I never imagined the final interview would be so devastating, completely destroying my last shred of self-confidence.

  Thinking back to the scene just moments ago, entering that excessively bright conference room, I couldn't even look directly at the interviewers' faces. They sat across the long table, expressions indifferent, notebooks and coffee cups neatly arranged on the surface. I immediately launched into my self-introduction script—which I had memorized for an entire week—at an almost uncontrolled pace. Words and sentences poured out like a flood; I could feel my face growing hot and my voice beginning to shake.

  Someone at the far side of the room kept pressing some kind of warning bell, making "ding-dong" sounds, probably reminding me about the time limit. But I was too nervous to notice, focused only on mechanically finishing my prepared content, like a wound-up robot that couldn't stop.

  Then, in an awkward silence, I knew immediately—I had failed.

  This outcome wasn't surprising to me. Losing control during interviews wasn't new; nervousness and anxiety had always been my greatest enemies. But what hurt most wasn't the failure itself, but their attitude.

  The small models and brush paintings I had spent an entire month carefully creating sat quietly on their table. Yet they wouldn't spare even a second to look at these works, not even bothering to flip through them, as if these creations that embodied my heart and soul were just wasting their precious time. That look of contempt and perfunctory nodding felt like countless small knives stabbing into my self-esteem.

  I silently gathered my work, first carefully wrapping each delicate model in bubble wrap to ensure they wouldn't suffer the slightest damage, then protecting the canvases with plastic covers. Each movement was slow and cautious, as if comforting injured children.

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  A ridiculous thought floated through my mind: "Sorry, I shouldn't have brought you here to be insulted."

  My creations were like my children, a part of me. I had created these works, pouring in time, passion, and soul, so perhaps such feelings weren't strange. They carried my dreams and values, yet now had been so easily dismissed.

  Leaving the building, I went to the outdoor parking lot and stood beside my motorcycle. I remained frozen, motionless for fifteen minutes, letting the afternoon sun beat down on me. People came and went around me, engines starting up one after another, while I stood like a statue, completely submerged in a sense of loss. Until suddenly coming to my senses, I mechanically pulled out my phone and paid the parking fee with a QR code.

  Riding my motorcycle through the crowded city streets, voices echoed in my mind: "I'm garbage," "My work is garbage," "I shouldn't have come." These words repeated like a spell in my head, their volume almost drowning me completely.

  Without realizing it, I had ridden to a temple situated on the edge of a residential area. It was a Buddhist temple that blended traditional and modern elements, with elegant gray glazed tiles adorning the roof above red brick walls. Stone lions stood solemnly on either side of the main entrance, guarding the temple's tranquility. The square in front was paved with gray bricks, with occasional worshippers coming and going, incense smoke slowly drifting in the evening breeze. Pine trees and bamboo groves surrounded the entire temple, adding a sense of serenity and dignity to this pure land.

  I parked my motorcycle, still wearing that uncomfortable interview formal attire, my face covered in makeup I wasn't used to, carrying a black bag that protected my works—how incongruous I looked at that moment.

  Entering the temple, the smoke from burning incense intertwined with the scent of wooden aromatics. I drew fortune sticks repeatedly, my movements mechanical and desperate, feeling on the verge of collapse. Worshippers came and went around me, the temple bustling with activity, yet I felt completely disconnected from this world.

  Then, taking out the fortune slip, through my already dampened mask, I quietly read the words. Strange emotions welled up, and tears flowed uncontrollably, wetting the paper in my hand. In the temple filled with swirling incense, I wept openly, yet felt a touch of long-absent peace.