Gao Sheng sold pain for the first time because a steel nail went through his left hand.
The nail gun jammed. He slapped the magazine. The nail fired sideways, through his palm. Blood came first. A few seconds later, pain arrived.
The site supervisor ran over, took one look, and asked, “An ambulance?” Gao Sheng hurt too much to answer. The supervisor pointed downstairs. “The Pain Bank van happens to be here today.”
“Have it extracted first?”
Gao Sheng looked up. “Does it cost money?”
“I hear they pay you.”
The mobile service van was more ordinary than he had imagined: white chairs, a sterilizing lamp, two young nurses. A notice on the wall read: PAIN EXTRACTION DOES NOT REPLACE TRAUMA TREATMENT.
One nurse attached a probe to his wrist. The screen returned:
ACUTE PENETRATING INJURY
Pain level: 7.1
Integrity: 96%
Drug contamination: 0
Appraised value: ¥4,800.
Gao Sheng stared at the last figure. “Will it still hurt after you take it out?”
“Hardly at all for seventy-two hours.”
“And the wound?”
“Still there.” The nurse looked at his palm. “We’ll stop the bleeding. Afterward, it is best to go to a hospital for debridement. Especially while you cannot feel pain, do not keep working.”
Gao Sheng pressed confirm. ¥4,800 arrived in his account. The pain vanished almost at once. The nail was still lodged in his hand. He could see blood pulse gently from his palm, but the hand felt as if it were behind a pane of glass. The nurse pulled the nail, disinfected the wound, and bandaged it.
“Rest today.”
Gao Sheng nodded. Ten minutes later, he climbed back onto the scaffolding.
On the fourth day, the pain returned. Gao Sheng rolled out of bed in the middle of the night. He did not go to hospital until the next day: debridement, antibiotics, stitches. ¥2,160.
Outside the payment window, he recalculated the two numbers. 4,800. Minus 2,160. 2,640. He calculated again. Still 2,640.
For the first time he felt that something was off. An injury used to mean: pain, no work, more money spent. Now it meant: no pain, money earned, and still a remainder after treatment.
He took out his phone and searched: How does the Pain Bank set its prices?
Only then did he learn that pain had long been a large business. Medical schools bought fractures and internal injuries to train young doctors. Pharmaceutical companies bought chronic-pain data. Car makers bought collision samples. Sports institutes bought torn ligaments.
Online, a nurse wrote that before entering a delivery room alone for the first time, she had purchased fifteen seconds of labour pain. “I wanted to know what my patients actually feel.” Someone replied: “You’ll regret it.” She answered: “Already do.”
Shopping centres even had pain-experience stores. The menu looked like a coffee list: THREE SECONDS OF PULPITIS. FIVE SECONDS OF KIDNEY STONE. PEAK CLAVICLE FRACTURE. University students queued for challenges. In a short video, a boy had barely put on the interface before he sprang from his chair; his friends screamed with laughter. The caption asked: How painful is an eight-code pain?
Some people bought with more seriousness. Couples exchanged the worst pain either had ever felt. Some bought old samples from dead relatives. Others only wanted a thrill. In members-only sensory clubs, well-dressed people sat in the dark and randomly drew pains identified only by a code. A woman drew B44. Three seconds later, her glass dropped to the floor. She caught her breath. “Another one.”
The wealthy played differently. They bought provenance: the rib a champion boxer broke in his final match; the 0.8 seconds before a racing driver hit the wall; an early neural sample left by a fire survivor decades ago. Collectors debated the year of the equipment, the noise floor, whether analgesics had been used. A forty-seven-year-old fire sample sold for ¥600,000. Its buyer later donated part of the research licence to a burn centre. The rest he kept for himself. He set the intensity to three percent, experienced it for eleven seconds, and switched it off.
Gao Sheng looked for a long time. He did not think there was anything particularly wrong with those people. He had no wish to experience anyone else’s pain. He reopened his own transaction record: 4,800; treatment 2,160; net remainder 2,640. He saved the number in his phone.
Over the following month, he sold pain several more times. A lumbar contusion: 3,200, with 1,100 for physiotherapy. A high-temperature burn: 2,700, with 580 for dressing changes. Pulpitis: long-lasting, with no contamination from painkillers, 5,100; extraction, 800.
In his notes he made four lines:
Puncture: +2,640
Back injury: +2,100
Burn: +2,120
Pulpitis: +4,300
At the bottom he wrote: The pains that last longest are not necessarily worth the most. Integrity matters more.
After thinking, he added: Do not take painkillers first.
He began to feel that he had found something nobody else had bothered to calculate. It was not cheating. Every price was public. Every rule was written plainly. Each time, the Bank even reminded him:
PAIN IS A BODY-WARNING SYSTEM.
PLEASE TREAT THE ORIGINAL INJURY FIRST.
After he had sold pain a certain number of times, the system gave him a free examination. A nurse went through his record. “You’ve been getting hurt rather often.”
“Construction work.”
The check-up found no serious abnormality. The screen glowed green: CURRENTLY ELIGIBLE TO CONTINUE USING THE SERVICE.
Gao Sheng looked at the green words and smiled.
What truly changed was how he saw risk. Before, two hundred extra yuan for work in a high-temperature cavity had not seemed worth it. Three hundred and fifty more for overtime on an exterior wall made him hesitate. Four hundred more for emergency repairs in the rain, he usually left to someone else.
Now it was different. If he was not injured, he received hazard pay. If he was injured, the pain could be sold as well. Gao Sheng never deliberately hurt himself. That would be stupid. He simply began choosing the jobs that had once seemed “not worth it.” The risks had always been there. Now they came with two quotations.
One evening, he was doing the sums again when a notification appeared at the top of his phone:
PREPAYMENT REMINDER: PAEDIATRIC COCHLEAR-IMPLANT SURGERY
Patient: Gao Yu
Amount still needed: ¥23,100.
Gao Sheng stopped. He transferred the entire ¥5,100 he had just received into the hospital account. The balance refreshed: 18,000.
He watched the number for a few seconds, locked the screen, and the next day asked his supervisor, “Does anyone have the high exterior-wall job?”
After that, the number dropped quickly: 18,000. 14,300. 9,400. 6,000.
The Pain Bank’s record grew longer. Gao Sheng’s notes grew more precise. But he seldom recalculated “profit” anymore. He watched only one number: how much was still missing.
The afternoon before the operation, rain had fallen. The scaffolding was slick. His supervisor shouted from below, “Stop for today!”
Gao Sheng was already climbing. “Just a little left.”
He stepped out. The sole of his shoe slipped. Three storeys.
When he hit the ground, he heard a dull sound from inside his own body. People ran toward him. Gao Sheng lay there, breathed a few times, and asked, “Is the Bank’s van here today?”
For the first time, the scan result turned red:
MULTISITE ACUTE TRAUMA
Possible multiple rib fractures.
Possible abdominal injury.
Risk of splenic rupture: high.
Composite rating: 9.2.
The nurse immediately began emergency treatment. “Do not get up.”
Gao Sheng asked, “How much?”
She looked at him. “Hospital first.”
“Can I sell it?”
“You can, but—”
“How much?”
“7,200.”
On his phone, the remaining gap for the operation was 6,000. Gao Sheng pressed confirm. ¥7,200 arrived. The violent pain withdrew quickly.
The nurse looked at him. “You may have internal bleeding.”
“I know.”
“No pain does not mean nothing is wrong.”
“I know.”
The ambulance doors closed.
The next day, Xiaoyu’s operation went smoothly. The doctor connected her external sound processor.
“Close your eyes.”
The device came on. For a moment, she said nothing. The air conditioner. Wheels. Plastic wrapping. A nurse’s clothes. A cough far away. Her own breathing. Everything had sound at once.
Xiaoyu smiled. “It’s so noisy.”
The door opened. Soles dragged across the floor. One step. A pause. One more step.
“Xiaoyu.”
She opened her eyes. “Dad.” Hearing her own voice properly for the first time, she paused in surprise herself.
Gao Sheng smiled. “Does it sound good?”
“Not like I imagined.”
“How?”
“Smaller.”
Gao Sheng sat beside her bed. His face was very pale, his forehead wet with sweat. Xiaoyu took his hand. “Your hand is cold.”
“The hospital air-conditioning is too strong.”
“Does it hurt?”
“No.”
“Really?”
“Not at all.”
His phone vibrated.
PAIN EXTRACTION TIME REMAINING: 2 HOURS 13 MINUTES.
Pain will gradually return at the end of this period.
Please be in a safe environment in advance.
Below it was a button: APPLY FOR EXTENSION.
Twelve-hour fee: ¥4,187. Account balance: ¥764.
Gao Sheng looked at it for a while, then closed the page.
Xiaoyu kept trying out sound. She tapped the bedrail with her fingernail. She listened to the blanket rub, to her own hair touch her ear. Then she stopped suddenly and looked up at Gao Sheng.
“Dad.”
“Mm?”
“There is a sound coming from you.”
Gao Sheng looked down at himself. “What sound?”
Xiaoyu frowned, moved closer, and put her ear to his chest. She listened for a while. His heart was beating very fast, and unevenly. Inside his lungs there was also a damp, rubbing sound. She moved a little lower. Then she heard another sound, very soft.
Drip.
A pause.
Another drip.
She did not know what it was. She only knew it was wrong.
“Dad.”
“Mm?”
“It sounds like something is dripping inside you.”
Gao Sheng froze. Xiaoyu pointed to his abdomen. “Here. Inside.”
Gao Sheng tried to stand. His body did not move. He looked down and only then saw that blood had already soaked the legs of his trousers.
Xiaoyu pressed the call bell at once. “Doctor! Doctor!”
Medical staff rushed into the room. They cut open Gao Sheng’s clothes. There was a broad bruise across his abdomen. Once the monitor was attached, the numbers kept falling.
“Blood pressure: seventy-six.”
“Prepare blood.”
“Call the emergency theatre.”
Xiaoyu still held Gao Sheng’s hand. A nurse crouched in front of her. “We need to take your dad away now.”
Gao Sheng was lifted onto a gurney. Xiaoyu would not let go. Only when the gurney began to move did the nurse gently separate their hands.
Gao Sheng opened his eyes a little. “Xiaoyu.”
“Dad.”
The door was closing. She remembered the sound she had just heard, ran over, and pressed her ear to his chest.
One beat. Very faint.
She counted softly. “One.”
Another beat. “Two.”
The gurney kept moving. The third beat took a long time to come. “Three.”
Then there was nothing.
Xiaoyu stayed pressed against him, waiting. The door was almost closed. She did not hear a fourth beat.
“Xiaoyu, come out.” A nurse lifted her away. The emergency doors shut.
The surgical lamps came on. Gao Sheng’s clothes were cut away. Blood had pooled in his abdomen. His spleen had ruptured. The medical team exchanged instruments rapidly. The monitor kept sounding its alarm.
On the other side of the city, in a medical school, an emergency resident put on a neural-experience device. The screen read:
ACUTE COMPOSITE-TRAUMA SAMPLE
Licensed use: medical education.
The instructor said, “Notice the difference between abdominal injury and rib fracture.”
The student pressed start. The moment the pain arrived, he folded forward and instinctively covered his left abdomen.
“So this is what it feels like.”
The instructor nodded. “Remember it.”
In a shopping-centre basement, several university students were doing a pain challenge. One removed the interface, drenched in sweat. The screen showed 7.4. His friends laughed. “Only 7.4? Your turn!”
In the sensory club, the woman in the evening dress held out her hand again. “Anything stronger?”
“Are you sure?” a staff member asked.
She nodded.
In a penthouse apartment, a collector reviewed a new sample that had just reached the market:
COMPOSITE ACUTE TRAUMA
Originality: A+
Drug contamination: 0
Collection date: today.
He added it to his collection and had not decided when to experience it.
At a research centre, an algorithm overlaid thousands of pain records. A researcher found an anomalous neural peak and flagged it. Perhaps years later it would become a clue to a new analgesic.
Nobody knew Gao Sheng. The Bank had not miscalculated the price. The hospital had not misdiagnosed him. The buyers had obtained legally authorised data. The researchers had received a real sample. The risk warnings had never disappeared. Xiaoyu’s surgery had been completed. Every part of the system was operating normally.
In the corridor, Xiaoyu sat alone outside the operating room. She kept touching the sound processor behind her ear. Now she could hear everything: a trolley passing, shoe soles, doors, an announcement, someone crying far away.
For the first time, she felt that the world was too noisy.
The red light above the operating room stayed lit. Then it went out. The door opened. A doctor came out. Xiaoyu stood. The doctor removed his mask.
“The bleeding has stopped.”
“But he lost a lot of blood. We still need to observe him.”
Xiaoyu did not fully understand. She asked only, “Will he wake up?”
The doctor looked at her. “We hope so.”
The next morning, in intensive care, Gao Sheng had not woken. Thick gauze wrapped his abdomen. His phone lay in a transparent belongings bag. The Pain Bank notification on its screen had expired:
PAIN EXTRACTION SERVICE ENDED.
PAIN RESTORATION COMPLETE.
Xiaoyu sat beside the bed. She did not put her ear against him. She only listened.
The monitor: beep. Beep. Beep.
It was stable, almost boringly so. She listened for a long time.
Then a very quiet sound came from the bed.
“Hss…”
Xiaoyu looked up. Gao Sheng’s brow had tightened. One finger moved. His eyes did not fully open, but he drew another breath.
It hurt.
Xiaoyu stood. “Dad?”
Gao Sheng slowly opened his eyes. He looked at her for a long time.
“Xiaoyu.” His voice was soft.
She seized his hand. “You’re awake.”
Gao Sheng tried to move. Pain surged hard through his abdomen. His whole face tightened.
“Don’t move,” Xiaoyu said at once.
Gao Sheng stopped. This time, he truly did not move.
Xiaoyu looked at him. “Dad.”
“Mm?”
“Does it hurt?”
Gao Sheng closed his eyes for a moment, then slowly nodded.
“It hurts.”
Xiaoyu said nothing. She only held his hand more tightly.
The monitor went on: beep. Beep. Beep.
Outside the window, dawn began.
Human Faults · R.E.D.