YuCheng Keke

By day, I work for an organization.

My job is to write long strings of cryptic instructions that outsiders can't decipher, then quietly slip them into thousands of machines. Without their owners ever knowing, these machines carry out my instructions around the clock. Only I and a handful of accomplices know what they're really doing.

We address each other by codenames, need keycards to get in and out, and when we leave, we're required to sign a document promising to keep our mouths shut forever.

I often make changes in the dead of night, while everyone else is asleep, without telling a soul.

When something goes wrong, we all play dumb and publicly call it "a temporary anomaly." Meanwhile, the internal records are quietly rewritten, as if nothing ever happened.

Most of my techniques come from complete strangers I've never met. They exchange methods in obscure corners of the internet. I take whatever they're offering, put it straight to use, and never ask where it came from.

To be honest, though, I barely write those cryptic instructions myself anymore.

I have a partner who prefers to remain anonymous. All I have to do is vaguely describe the vibe I'm going for, and by the next morning, an entire shipment shows up at my doorstep.

I never inspect the contents too closely. If everything looks fine on the surface, I just slap my name on it and send it out.

Sometimes, even I can't explain how the thing actually works.

But it works. So nobody asks questions.

We have one unwritten rule:

If it's working, nobody touches it.

After hours, I run a private operation of my own.

No storefront. No employees. Every penny comes out of my own pocket, flowing to names my parents have never even heard of.

I take orders in the shadowy corners of the internet. My customers prefer to remain anonymous. They simply approach me and say, "I heard you know how to get things."

What they're looking for can't be found in ordinary stores, so they're happy to pay a deposit upfront and patiently wait for my updates.

I carefully write down their contact details, one by one, in a little notebook.

Whenever someone asks about their order, I give them the same answer:

"The shipment's almost here. Just hang on a little longer."

They've been waiting for six months.

If the police ever come knocking, they'll discover that this entire operation consists of exactly one person.

I operate online under several different names. On any given night, I can appear in multiple places at once, each time under a completely different identity.

When friends and family ask what I've been up to, I always lower my voice and say:

"I'm working on something... I can't talk about it yet."

They haven't asked since.