"Miller."
John Miller, a worker buried in hard work on the assembly line of an electronics factory in Berlin, suddenly heard someone call his name.
He lifted his head, revealing a face with sunken eyes, like a riverbed in a drought season filled with dry, cracked wrinkles, and his messy gray-white hair and beard had not been groomed for a long time.
A thirty-year-old with a face nearly fifty.
Miller looked in the direction of the voice, which was from the office; the production supervisor was waving at him, signaling him to come over.
Miller walked into the office, seeing a man wearing tinted safety goggles sitting at the desk; even the supervisor could only stand at the door, the cold air inside made him shiver.
The supervisor pointed to the chair in front of him, and Miller walked over nervously to try to sit down, but before he could touch the chair, he heard the man coldly say
"You're fired."
