By TERAO TETSUYA
Translated by KEVIN WANG
The piece appears below in both English and the original Chinese.
Translator’s Note
“Some Kind of Corporate Retreat” is collected in Terao Tetsuya’s Spent Bullets (HarperVia, 2025), a book of nine linked short stories about Taiwanese prodigies turned disillusioned Big Tech engineers. In official American narratives, immigrant experiences often become flattened into palatable arcs of resilience. But this story insists on being wounded, unresolved, and playfully deviant in its exploration of hollow relationships and a simmering desire for destruction.
My favorite part of translating this story was finding the right English for its unexpectedly lyrical passages. While working through the final pages, I listened to Clint Mansell’s score for the “San Junipero” episode of Black Mirror on a loop, and eventually, only the track “Waves Crashing on Distant Shores of Time.” It felt like wind sweeping through silver grass. Maybe the aching optimism in that song matches what I’ve come to feel about this story: that even here, there’s a chance for redemption.
—Kevin Wang
Some Kind of Corporate Retreat
I bought a gun. A 9mm handgun, easy to use for beginners. I told Hsin-Ning it was for self-defense.
She nodded and said she believed me.
Over the weekend, I hired an instructor at a shooting range on the outskirts of San Jose. I practiced shooting the target from twenty-one feet away, a common distance during self-defense exercises. The instructor told me to pick the type of paper target I wanted. “You’ll learn faster if the target gives you a real motive. A lot of folks ask us to print out a custom target, like a scaled-up photo of an ex-wife or ex-husband.” I didn’t respond, so he threw in a few dry chuckles.
We pinned up a life-size photo of me and Hsin-Ning.
I realized I had a natural talent for shooting. After a few rounds of practice, I could accurately hit my own cheeks, eye sockets, nose bridge, and the groove between my nose and lip. Then, I struck the space between her eyebrows, temples, cheekbones, and chin. Each time the target slid forward on the rail, I would admire my precisely placed bullet holes. Those rips across our faces seemed so fitting, so right. Seeing them there felt like finally scratching a hard-to-reach spot on my back—even with OCD, I would’ve found it satisfying.
“Are you just going to give up like that?” was her favorite thing to say to me.
Neither of us had formally proposed, but we discussed marriage so frequently and in such exhaustive detail that the transaction seemed inevitable, as though we might wake up one morning and head straight to the courthouse to register our papers if the weather aligned with our moods and horoscope readings.
But now, I honestly didn’t know what would come first: getting married to her, or accidentally firing this newly purchased 9mm handgun.
***
Hsin-Ning and I got to know each other at an internal company event. A few years ago, our boss was diagnosed with cancer. The company invited him to livestream a motivational lecture in the middle of chemotherapy. The topic was “Ignite Your Inner Fire: Realizing a Splendid Life” or some such pile of meaningless words. On the screen, he looked like a candle about to flicker out in the wind, a visual starkly misaligned with his rousing, high-pitched voice. At times, he got so excited that it rattled the tubes stemming out from his arm.
In the large conference room, Hsin-Ning happened to be the one sitting next to me. “It’s terrifying,” she said. “He’s all alone.”
During break time, we ran into each other again by the snack station. Set against our boss’s speech, the sight of tubes, machines, and his crumbling body created such a jarring dissonance that many of us had sunk into a collective whirlpool of melancholy. Hsin-Ning was no exception. She started to tell me about how when she was getting her master’s at Cornell, she thought she was going to die every time she caught a cold. While a blizzard raged out the window at twenty degrees below, she was lying in bed with a high fever, her limbs soft and weak and aching, with not even the strength to crawl to the bathroom. She would pray to all the gods and Buddhas in the sky, repenting for all the wrongs she had done. And the worst wrong of all was not quickly finding a mate in America.
“The Bay Area is like outer space. I’d latch onto any earth-bound organism that vaguely looked human.” Those were her words from our first conversation. She was giving me such a strong signal, I thought she would have said yes if I’d proposed with a wafer from the snack bar.
I remembered reading in a magazine about “cabin fever,” a phenomenon common in high-altitude areas during harsh winters. When forced to stay in the same small indoor space for an extended period, people will develop abnormally intense feelings toward each other, such as disdain, jealousy, hatred, or irrational love. America was geographically vast, but in our first-generation immigrant psyche, it might as well be as narrow as a cabin in a snowstorm.
That night, I invited her to my place. We ate a meal, watched TV, leaned on each other’s shoulders, and soon slid our arms around each other’s backs. It all went as I had expected. We embraced with enough force to break bones and kissed as if to rip off each other’s membranes. Yet, after we’d taken off all our clothes, she found that I could not get an erection, and I found her as dry as diatomaceous earth.
“You’re not gay, are you?” After a few seconds, she added, “Sorry. Forget I asked.”
To reciprocate, I wanted to tell her it was fine and that I didn’t mind her being a dyke. But instead, I said: “I’ve been with plenty of women.”
She shrugged without saying anything.
“Why do you want me?” I asked.
“Because I’m tired. Is that not a good enough reason?”
We sank into silence. Her mouth opened, then shut again, clearly with more to say.
After another half-minute of waiting like a crocodile, she finally spoke. She began to talk about the people in her circle: who were mentally ill, who had left America, who had both left America and developed a mental illness. Of those who stayed, she mentioned Grace. Unable to find any welcome because of her looks and transgender identity, Grace could only find an accepting Taiwanese community in Los Angeles. Every weekend, she would drive eight hours from Northern California to LA and back. One night, the dark drive on I-5 finally broke her. She sent a message to Hsin-Ning: “Please keep me company, if only for tonight.” Then, there came the knocking. It turned out she was already at Hsin-Ning’s doorstep. Hsin-Ning rushed to shut off all the lights and pretended not to be home.
That night, Grace was rumored to have disturbed every person in their group.
Later, Grace’s whereabouts became a mystery. Some said she became the sugar mommy of some girlfriend in Taiwan, paying her tens of thousands a month, only to be dumped within half a year. Some said she moved to New York to pursue a person she met online and discovered that she was the person’s second mistress. Some said she returned to Taiwan, shaved her head, and joined a monastery, because she was interested in one of the abbots.
Hsin-Ning had similar stories about Sunny, Cindy, Jenny . . . She told these stories with a completely inappropriate cheerfulness, as though she bitterly hated all of them. Such detailed, repetitive focus on their misfortunes, along with justifications for her own behavior, made her more horrifying than the desolate women in her stories.
To put it another way, she was as horrible a person as I was.
“My hetero friends even said, ‘Hey, you can legally marry now, right?’” she said. “Legal fucking marriage, my ass.”
I touched her hand lightly. Her skin was burning hot, like the sun that hung over California each day, dazzling and pointless. Such intense monotony illuminated the lonely, vapid, and restless people scurrying around below.
That night, she temporarily convinced me that maybe we did need to find a partner, no matter who they were, to survive this endless blizzard called immigrant life.
But I don’t think so anymore.
***
After we began dating, the topic we talked about most was marriage, the when and where of it. On weekends and national holidays, we ceremoniously drove along the arterial roads of the West Coast to see different attractions: Santa Cruz, Monterey, Yosemite, and once as far as Lake Tahoe. We couldn’t muster up any real interest in these places. We were only pretending, adding obligatory entries to a travelogue like all the other couples.
During one weekend road trip, I woke up in the passenger seat, slowly opened my eyes, and turned my head to look at her, then at the all-too-familiar scene of the highway rest areas. I suddenly understood the powerlessness of determination in the face of emotion.
“Shall we go back to Taiwan?” I said.
“When?”
“Now.”
We drove to the airport, found the EVA Air counter, and bought two tickets for a late-night direct flight from San Francisco to Taipei. The flight took just over twelve hours. What I didn’t know was that at the baggage carousel, we would run into my university classmate Yen-Chun, who was also returning to Taiwan to get married to the man next to him. He held his fiancé’s hand while offering me the wedding invitation with the other. All I could do was hang on tight to Hsin-Ning’s shoulder.
“You know, good venues are hard to book,” I said with a laugh. “We’re planning for the end of next year.”
Yen-Chun said how envious he was of our extra year of freedom. I’d propped up my smile for so long that my lips were about to crack open and start bleeding. He kept looking Hsin-Ning up and down. I’d long prepared my remarks about our relationship for those who knew my past, “sexuality being a fluid continuum” and all that. But seeing his face full of pity and benevolent forbearance, I simply wanted to thrust my fingers into his eyes.
That weekend, we flew to Taiwan and back, spending a total of twenty-six hours on planes. By the time we returned to San Francisco, it was Monday morning. We decided to drive directly to the office but ended up in a severe traffic jam on 101. My phone was on the dash mount with the navigation on, but Yen-Chun’s messages kept popping up. He didn’t know I was in such rough shape—he and his fiancé were really worried—if I needed to talk, I could reach out to them anytime.
After that, Hsin-Ning and I understood to never bring up leaving for Taiwan again.
We still kept discussing marriage. She said we could have a “drive-through” wedding in Las Vegas. We wouldn’t even need to get out of the car: it was as convenient as ordering a burger.
“Don’t you think they should offer this service at work?” she said. On our corporate campus, there were regularly scheduled visits from a barber van, financial advisors, and even a mobile library. “All that’s missing now is a wedding on wheels.”
“You really want to sign those papers?” I asked.
“Don’t you?”
We were strolling through the corporate campus on an ordinary weekend, waiting for our laundry to finish. After tiring of sightseeing, our weekend recreation became trips to the on-site laundry room.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about our boss lately,” I said.
I meant the terminally ill boss who had brought us together, the life he had to live to become an L8—a director-level position at our company. In high school, he’d won the informatics olympiad representing Poland. He joined the company as an L3 right after getting his bachelor’s degree and was promoted five times within just fourteen years. The CEO even gave him an award. He bought a house in Cupertino that came with a front yard, back yard, and swimming pool. He lived alone with a dog with hired dog sitters to care for it.
Now he was in hospice, working remotely every day. With no strength in his fingers to type, he’d switched to using voice input.
“We make our lives so hard, but for what?” I said.
She turned to look at me and said, “You’re indulging in a moment of delusion. It’ll pass. I was just as delusional as you once upon a time.”
As if that wasn’t enough, she began to tell me how, ever since we started dating, she had to take sleeping pills every night to fall asleep. A side effect was sleepwalking. On a night without stars or moonlight, she woke up to find herself in the swimming pool. She was wearing her washed-out T-shirt and her feet still had slippers on. The pool was shallow, only reaching an adult’s waist. She climbed out in a daze and lay on a lounge chair, waiting for her body to dry. She had a splitting headache, and her skin was all covered in salt from the evaporating pool water. The saltwater pool claimed to use real sea salt to imitate the smell of a beach vacation, a major selling point of the condo complex.
The night shift security officer mistook her for a homeless person and almost reported her to the police.
“But I haven’t given up on us,” she said in a prophetic tone. “So it’s time for you to grow up.”
***
I was surprised when my application for concealed carry was granted. This meant I could carry my firearm anywhere if wasn’t exposed. I could put it in the trunk, a backpack, a handbag—even in my pocket, if it was big enough.
There was a thrill in carrying a loaded gun on my person. It seemed to compensate for a lack of control, the way committing arson made up for a lack of attention. I began to understand those white men in Arizona who carried a gun on their waists even to the convenience store. I too became someone who could never part with their gun, whether outside or at home.
“I want to shoot up Yen-Chun’s wedding,” I said to Hsin-Ning. “Or maybe a Pride parade? A cocktail party full of venture capitalists would also do. Anywhere, as long as there’s lots of people. They can trample each other while running away.”
We were in the living room playing Fifty Questions, a card game to speed up our attempts at trying to know each other. The game operated on the assumption that intimacy could be deepened through mutual understanding, so if people answered the “deeply personal” prompts honestly, it would automatically strengthen their relationship. Hsin-Ning sat beside me, both of us facing straight ahead. This seating arrangement was recommended by the game instructions.
The card I had drawn read: What’s one thing you want to do but find hard to bring up? I had struggled a bit before answering, and my comment about shooting up an event wasn’t entirely truthful.
“Thank you for your honesty,” Hsin-Ning replied. “I believe such openness would greatly aid our communication.”
She was following the script from the instructions, which made her sound like a hastily trained customer service rep.
I looked at her. “Do you think you understand me better now?”
She was shuffling the cards, staring at them as she did so. I said, “If you’re tired, we can stop.” She kept shuffling. Overhand, faro, riffle: she used all the techniques she knew. Then she went to read the manual as though it might reveal some profound truth.
“You’re not even trying.” She lifted her head. “I’m putting in so much effort, working so hard at this. And all you do is give up.”
For once, she wasn’t her usual excited self. She mumbled so softly that I could barely hear her. I’d also felt this way before, hating a person or a situation so much that it left me completely numb. I watched her take a deep breath as the light of dusk crept up the ends of her hair.
“We should try one last time,” she said. “Just one more go at it.”
She was referring to doing one more couples retreat. This retreat center was famous for its realistic design, guidance, and innovative productions. Our company also partnered with them in trainings for project managers. Colleagues who’d attended the team-building program loved to describe the fake labor strike from camp staff that forced them to work together under a time crunch to avoid going without food.
I agreed to join the couples retreat, even though I didn’t think it would help. After all, it would be the last time.
On the first day of the retreat, a designated driver picked us up. We headed north, past the Golden Gate Bridge, then west of Sausalito. Somewhere beyond those narrow mountains lay the Pacific, just out of sight. The driver handled the winding roads fine at first but then started slowing down, pulling over onto the shoulder. He said the car had broken down. He would wait here for help—which, conveniently, could take hours, so we should just walk from here to the retreat center. It wasn’t far anyway.
He handed us a map, compass, and two bottles of mineral water before giving us a knowing wink.
We followed the directions on the map, which took us off the road and across a field of silver grass. The hill looming ahead blocked our view of whatever lay beyond. Hsin-Ning studied the map intently. Then, she veered off to the side, saying she needed to go to the bathroom. She squatted down in the silver grass, rustling around for a bit before we got going again. By then, the car that had brought us here was already gone.
“See,” she said. “They seemed to think we were going the right way.”
With no cell service, we could only rely on the map. We began to climb, cutting through the silver grass. It reached up to waist level and brushed against our clothes like dull blades. The wind, hot and abrasive, scraped against our faces as if to draw blood. We followed the calibrations of the compass, lumbering toward the destination marked on the map. After a while, the slope grew steeper, forcing us onto all fours. Dirt lodged under our nails, and bugs swarmed our faces, dodging in and out of our breaths. Somewhere along the way, I forgot why we’d come.
“Just a bit more.” She said those familiar words, either to me or to herself.
The silver grass under the midday sun exuded a pungent smell that reminded me of heated herbs. This thick, overpowering aroma seemed to penetrate my bone marrow with every inhale. My head grew heavier, and my feet struggled to keep their hold on the ground. When I tumbled forward again, I told her that I couldn’t go on.
“Just a bit more,” she said. “See, I’m still going.”
“I can’t move anymore.”
She turned to look at me. Her face was also covered in sweat, dirt, and bits of grass. Her bangs were sticking to her forehead. She tried to brush them aside with the back of her hand and couldn’t move a single hair. I panted, trying to catch my breath. The stench of the silver grass was making it worse. We sat down on the slope, using our bags as backrests to avoid scratching our faces or necks. I focused on breathing, one breath after another, trying to push down waves of nausea. Hsin-Ning squatted down beside me, facing the same direction I was, just as we had been during the Fifty Questions game.
“What’s one thing you want to do but find hard to bring up?” I asked.
“What?”
“The question from before. It’s your turn.”
Hsin-Ning glanced at me. “Get a frontal lobotomy.”
“What?”
“Get a frontal lobotomy for the both of us. Ugh, never mind. Your way would be easier. You’d just blow your brains out with a bullet.”
“My way?”
“Oh, don’t pretend. You think I don’t know what you had in mind when you bought that gun?”
“Then why do you insist on these bonding activities?”
She sighed. “I guess I was stupid for hoping that this was all salvageable.”
Blasts of wind swept through the field, so wild that they threatened to lift us into the sky. The silver grass rubbed against one another like ten million commercial paper shredders operating at full capacity, enveloping us in a roar that sounded like it could erase the world.
“Take your gun out,” she said. “It’s in your backpack, isn’t it?”
I looked at her without moving.
“Shoot me first, then shoot yourself.” She motioned toward her head and mine. “Just the way you’ve pictured it in your dreams. Go on.”
She turned her back to me and faced the hills, shouting into the uninhabited expanse. “I give up. I surrender. You win. Fuck your Silicon Valley! Fuck your founding fathers and your beautiful country!”
She was facing the wind, and her words had warped into a tinny blur by the time they reached me. Stretching on before us was the great American landscape: barren hills, barren plains, barren valleys, and a scarred asphalt road running through it. The ashen grassland looked even more lifeless under the glaring sun. If the wind were just a bit stronger, it would have swept all this detritus away.
I couldn’t stand the smell of the silver grass anymore and keeled over to puke. I hadn’t eaten much for breakfast and could only throw up water and stomach acid. Even yellow bile came out toward the end. It took a while before my breaths settled. Despite my retching, Hsin-Ning was still standing with her back to me in the same stance. I couldn’t tell if she was still waiting for a bullet to pass through her skull.
“Let’s go,” I said.
She turned around, looking at me in disdain.
“I can’t die with the taste of puke in my mouth.”
We continued to crawl on our hands and feet toward our destination in silence. The sunlight roasted our backs, heads, and arms. The climb was even more exhausting than before and the silver grass still stank, but I didn’t fall again, nor did I vomit. Sweat had completely soaked our underwear, leaving a ring of sweat stains on our pants. Then, we saw the retreat center.
When we finally made it inside, there were stacks of handbooks and cans of wine in the lobby. I pictured the antics of the host, wearing the face of a visionary while asking us to reflect on the adversity we’d just overcome: “Share your feelings honestly and without judgment.” I’d rather the world just blow up.
I grabbed the free wine, looked at Hsin-Ning, and then made straight for the door. Hsin-Ning followed me quietly out of the venue, ignoring the staff shouting after us. Once we left though, no one followed us.
I tore open the wine and guzzled it, finishing mine and then hers, until the taste of vomit in my mouth and throat was replaced by a sickly sweetness. We walked along the shoulder of the road and called the car delivery service that came with our credit cards.
“Let’s go for a ride before dying,” I said. She nodded in agreement. Sitting on the guardrail around a bend in the road, we suddenly had all the time in the world, now that everything ceased to matter.
The car delivery service quickly dispatched a rental car that we could return the next day. Streaking along the Pacific coast, I raced every car that was in our way. I would honk at them from behind, then get directly in front of them and pump the brakes. Sometimes, I would roll down the window and throw out fistfuls of coins that clacked against their windows and doors. Then, I flipped them off and told them to go home and fuck themselves.
On a particularly straight stretch, I set the cruise control and slid my seat all the way back, steering with my feet on the wheel. Hsin-Ning was busy touching up her makeup in the rearview mirror, making sure she looked good before she died.
The road was long. Too long. Even after a few hours, we barely got anywhere.
As the sky darkened, we finally crashed. Rather, it was just a minor collision—we were merging from a ramp onto another highway and hit a car on our left side. I didn’t see anything in the mirrors when I switched into the lane. The other car had blended into the darkness like a shadow. Their headlights weren’t on. At the point of impact, the airbags sprang out. Hsin-Ning and I both got some scrapes, nothing serious.
We got out of the car and met the other driver, a small-eyed white man. He sized me up and noticed that I reeked of alcohol. “You’re in big trouble, buddy.”
He suggested settling this privately. “It’ll be bad for you if the cops come. The penalties for a DUI are pretty stiff, you know.” He opened the calculator on his phone and waved an outrageously large number at us, flashing a smile that made every inch of my body crawl. “Let’s all just act in good faith.”
I laughed out loud and walked straight to the trunk to find my backpack. Inside was the gun that stayed with me day and night. The time had finally come for it to make its appearance. I reached for the holster at the bottom of the bag as though guided by navigation. I would first shoot his ankles—not the kneecaps, so I could still order him to get on his knees and beg. Then, his elbows and his eyes. I would stuff objects into his anus and pluck out his fingernails one by one. A whole movie played out in my mind: the recoil of the gun, his cries as I drenched him in gasoline, the stench from burning human fat, the barely perceptible thud of shell casings falling onto the grass.
Ah. My life, which to this day had felt like some kind of corporate retreat, was at last coming to an end.
Yet, just as I felt the grip of the gun, Hsin-Ning grabbed me. She hadn’t made a sound as she snuck up from behind. Her body pressed up tight against mine as she held onto my wrist, which was still in the backpack. I felt the heat of her breath on my ear, her fingers digging into my flesh. Her hand was as scalding hot as the California sun at high noon, just like the day we first met.
She said, “Sorry, I changed my mind.”
The night wind had tossed her hair into a mess. She looked like a ghost that had just crawled back out from the underworld—having tried a taste of death, she was no longer the same person.
She turned toward the small-eyed man and screamed: “I was the one driving, idiot. Call the cops then. Go ahead. Your lights don’t even work. God knows if you’re driving a stolen car. Motherfucker.”
I watched this unfold with my hand still around the grip. The gun was getting soaked in my sweat, as though all the heat in my body was rushing through my hand into the metal.
Hsin-Ning was the one who ended up calling the cops. She was perfectly composed as she told them that she couldn’t see the other party because his lights were off. The man yelled that we were liars and insisted that I, not Hsin-Ning, was the one driving. The officer, looking exhausted, just told him to stop wasting time and show his third-party liability insurance.
Our experiences from that day did change some things for us.
A week after the incident, we decided that we’d rather seize the day than wait for the right time. We didn’t have work on their national holiday and drove all the way to Las Vegas to register our marriage at the drive-through. During the vows, after saying “I love you” in English, I added in Chinese, “I don’t love you.” She replied, “Me neither.” Hand in hand, with a last-minute notary who charged twenty-five an hour as our witness, we completed the administrative procedure.
Later on, whenever I was invited to speak as a distinguished National Taiwan University alumnus, I would tell students in the audience that in Silicon Valley, you must first die in order to live.
After becoming lawfully wedded, Hsin-Ning and I both got promoted. Our company’s stock soared as if there was no tomorrow, terrifying even the most loyal employees. We bought a single-family home in Palo Alto and filled the backyard pool with salt, just like the pool at Hsin-Ning’s last place. I started to suffer from insomnia and could only fall asleep on her sleeping pills, which also came with the side effect of sleepwalking. Sometimes, I would wake up in the backyard, or on the staircase, draped over the steps like a rug. A few times, I woke up to find myself holding the gun. I dreamed of endless fields of silver grass and that dark highway with its green signs. The small-eyed man appeared like a wraith to mock me, as if missing the opportunity to fire on him had made me a total loser.
Finally, during one dream, I was determined to destroy him. As I drew back the trigger, nearly past the point of no return, I felt stopped by a tremendous force. I woke up with a start to find Hsin-Ning holding my hand. The two of us were standing in the backyard pool, where the water barely reached waist level. The gun in my hand was pointing at my toes.
“You owe me twice,” she said.
I climbed out, turned around, and fired every bullet into the pool. The blasts of those bullets, their spin, and the trails they made while piercing through the water reminded me of the holes I’d left in the paper targets at the shooting range—so captivating, yet so misplaced. We left the bullets and their casings in the pool, where the slow process of corrosion had begun. Given enough time, they would become unrecognizable, until Hsin-Ning scooped up one of the casings: “A memento.” She encased it in a glass box and set it on the dresser. The salt from the pool crystallized on the surface of the metal, forming an eternal miniature forest.
It will never dissolve, or ever tarnish.
沉浸式什麼什麼成長體驗營
我買了一把槍，九釐米的手槍，適合初學者。我和芯寧說，這是為了自衛。
她點點頭，說，很好。
週末我去了聖荷西郊外的靶場，請了教練。我練習的是六點四米實彈射擊，接近戰最實用的距離。教練要我挑選靶紙，他說，靶紙選得好，有動機、有目標，才學得快。「許多人都會客製化靶紙，像是放上前妻或前夫的照片之類。」他說完發現我沒有笑，自己乾笑了幾聲。
我選了客製化靶紙，放上我和芯寧的合照。
我發現自己似乎很有射擊的天賦，在練習幾回後，就能夠很準確地命中自己的雙頰、眼窩、鼻梁、人中。然後是她的眉心、太陽穴、顴骨、下巴。每當靶紙從射擊線往前滑來，都可以看到那些精準而俐落的彈孔—那些彈孔出現在我們兩個臉上是如此地合適而美麗，像一根手指頭終於搔到了背後的癢處那般，妥切，服貼，就連強迫症患者都能因此感到幸福。
「你這樣就要放棄了嗎？」這是她最喜歡對我說的話。
雖然並沒有經歷過正式的求婚，但我和芯寧花了太多時間討論關於結婚的各種細節，詳盡到一種不說自明的階段。彷彿哪一天早上醒來，憑著當天的天氣、心情、星座運勢而前往市政府辦理登記也不突兀的地步。
但我現在誠摯地不知道，究竟是我們會先結婚，還是我會先失手擊發這把新買的九釐米手槍。
◇
我和芯寧變得熟稔是在一場公司內部活動。我們老闆前幾年得了癌症，應公司邀請，在化療時直播了一場激勵講座，講題是「燃燒生命，實踐輝煌人生」一類空洞無意義的字眼堆疊。他有著攝人心魄的高昂聲線，和投影幕上風中殘燭般的體態毫不相稱。講到激動處，他身上的管子都在震動。
「好恐怖。」偌大的會議室裡，芯寧正巧坐在我隔壁。「他身邊一個人也沒有。」
中場休息時，我們在供應點心的攤子前又巧遇。或許是因為剛剛直播裡那些管子、高頻音器械、人體殘敗破碎的模樣和演說內容對比太大，許多同事陷入了集體性的傷春悲秋漩渦之中。芯寧也不例外。她開始對我說她在康乃爾讀碩士的時候，每一次感冒，都以為自己會死。當她發高燒躺在床上，四肢痠軟無力，窗外是零下二十度的暴風雪，而她連爬去廁所的力氣都沒有時，總會漫天神佛地祈禱，懺悔自己做過的所有錯事。而她所做過最錯的事，就是竟然沒有速速在美國找到一個伴侶。
「灣區就像是外太空。」她說。「只要有一個地球來的，長得像人的生物，我都會撲上去。」
那是我們多年來第一次交談。但那時刻，我感覺她釋放出一種訊號，就算我立刻拿點心攤上的一根蛋捲向她求婚，她都會答應。
我想起雜誌上看過的一種叫作「小屋熱症」的現象，好發於高緯度地區嚴寒的冬天，當人們被迫長時間處於相同的狹小室內空間中，會對彼此產生異常強烈的情感，諸如鄙視、嫉妒、憎恨—或是不合理的愛意。美國儘管地理上廣袤，但對我們這些第一代移民來說，心理意義上或許的確狹窄如暴風雪中的一幢小木屋。
那天晚上，我邀她來我家。吃飯，看影集，搭肩，摟背，一切都按照我預想地進行。我們像要把骨頭全部擠碎般地擁抱，把口腔黏膜全部咬爛般地接吻。然而在脫光衣服之後，她發現我無法勃起，我發現她乾燥如硅藻土。
「你不是 gay 吧？」
過了幾秒，她又說，「抱歉，當我沒問。」
基於禮尚往來，我原本想說沒關係，我也不在意妳是不是拉子，但我還是說：「我上過很多女生。」
她聳聳肩，不置可否。
「妳為什麼找上我？」我說。
「因為我累了。不行嗎？」她說。
沉默淹沒了我們。她的嘴巴開了又闔，像要補充些什麼，最後仍是沉默。
又過了半分鐘，她終於開口。她開始提起她那些圈內朋友，誰離開美國，誰得了精神疾病，誰離開美國並且得了精神疾病。留下來的人之中，她則是提到了小恩。因容貌和跨性別身分而不受待見的小恩，唯一找得到的臺灣人圈內團體遠在洛杉磯。每週末小恩從北加開到洛城，單趟就要八小時。五號州際公路的荒蕪旅程終於折煞她的那晚，她傳訊息給芯寧。「求求妳陪陪我，一個晚上就好。」然後就傳來敲門聲，原來她已在芯寧家門口。芯寧趕緊把燈都關了假裝不在家。
據傳，那天晚上小恩去鬧了群組裡的所有人。
後來的小恩行蹤成謎。有人說她包養了在臺灣的女友，一個月付對方十幾萬，但不到半年就被甩。有人說她為追求網友搬到紐約，換了一個避險基金的工作，結果發現自己是小四。有人說，她回臺灣了，剃髮住進一間尼姑庵，估計是看上哪個師父吧。
類似的故事還有小晴、辛姊、臻真⋯⋯。芯寧描述這些故事時帶著毫不合宜的歡快，彷彿和那些人有什麼深仇大恨。那樣漫長的，反覆的暗示，為自己的行為背書，使得她聽起來比故事裡的主角還要恐怖幾分。
或者說，就跟我一樣恐怖。
「我的異性戀朋友還說，欸你們現在不是可以結婚了嗎。」她說。「結他個狗屁婚啦幹。」
我輕輕觸碰了她的手，她手的溫度奇高無比，像加州日日高掛在天上的，盛大而毫無意義的太陽。那樣單調而強烈的陽光，無止盡地照亮著底下寂寥、乏味、忙碌且汲汲營營的人們。那天晚上她暫時說服了我：或許我們就是需要找一個不管是誰的人，才能橫渡名為移民生活的這場漫天遍野的太陽雪。
但我現在不再這麼想了。
◇
我們交往之後最常講到的話題就是結婚。什麼時候要結婚，在哪裡結婚等等。週末或是國定假日，我們行禮如儀地沿著西岸血脈般的公路前往各名勝景點：優勝美地、塔后湖、蒙特瑞灣、聖塔克魯茲，最遠曾到拉斯維加斯。我們無法對這些景點產生興趣，只是在假裝，做一些所有情侶都在做的事。
某一次長途的公路旅行，當我在副駕駛座緩緩轉醒，慢慢睜開眼，轉頭看見她，和前方一切再熟悉也不過的高速公路休息站風景時，突然就理解了人類的決心在情緒面前是多麼無力的存在。
「我們回臺灣好不好？」我說。
「什麼時候？」
「現在。」
現在開車去機場，到長榮櫃檯買兩張今天深夜出發的舊金山臺北直飛機票，十幾小時後，我們就會出現在臺北。但那時我不知道的是，我會在行李轉盤巧遇回臺舉行婚禮的大學同學彥均。當他一邊挽著未婚夫的手，一邊遞喜帖給我時，我只能緊緊地摟著芯寧的肩膀。
「我們是打算明年年底，你知道的，好場地很難訂。」我笑著說。
彥均又說了一些真羨慕你們，還有一年的自由時光之類的話。我的笑容撐得太久，嘴唇簡直要咬出血來。他繼續上下打量著芯寧。我雖早已準備好說詞，什麼情慾是流動的自我認同是連續光譜之類。但看到他那副寬大為懷、悲天憫人的神情，我只想直接戳瞎他眼睛。
那個週末，我們就這樣飛回臺灣又折返，總共在飛機上待了二十六小時。回到舊金山機場時已是週一早晨，我們打算直接開到公司，卻在一○一號國道南下路段碰上嚴重塞車。我將手機固定在駕駛座右前方的平臺，開著導航軟體，彥均的訊息卻不停跳出，說沒想到我過得這麼不好，他跟他老公都好關心我，又說，如果有什麼心事可以找他們講之類的。
那次之後，我和芯寧很有默契地沒再提過回臺灣。
我們仍持續討論著結婚的話題。她說，拉斯維加斯市政府有提供「得來速」結婚登記，免下車，就像購買速食一樣便利。
「你不覺得我們公司也應該要有這樣的服務？」
公司的園區裡，有定期前來的理髮車，銀行臨櫃業務代表，甚至可以直接辦理市立圖書館借還書。「就只差得來速結婚登記了。」她說。
「妳想去登記？」我說。
「你不想？」
那是一個平凡無奇的假日，我們走在公司園區的步道，正在等待辦公室的洗衣烘衣服務完成。自從決定不去名勝景點之後，我們週末的休閒就是來公司洗衣服。
—這陣子，我常常想到我們老闆。
我指的是那個促成我們認識的癌末老闆。他的職位是 Director，階級是L8，高中代表波蘭拿過資奧的牌，大學畢業後就進入公司，從L3 工程師開始幹起。意思是，他在十四年內連升了五次，還得過執行長特別表揚獎。他買了一棟附前後院游泳池的房子在庫帕蒂諾，一個人住。他養了一隻狗。他太忙了所以聘請專人照顧那隻狗。
他現在在安寧病房，天天遠端連線上班，手指頭沒力氣打字了，改用聲控輸入。
「我們活得那麼辛苦，到底是為了什麼。」我說。
她突然轉頭看向我，說：「你只是一時鬼迷心竅罷了。」
「我是過來人。」她說。「這種想法，只是一時鬼迷心竅罷了。」
彷彿還嫌不夠似的，她開始對我說，自從和我在一起後，她每天都要吃安眠藥才能入睡。那藥有夢遊的副作用，某一天深夜，她發現自己醒在游泳池裡。那是一個月亮和星星都無光的夜晚，她身上穿著洗到鬆脫的T恤，在池子裡的腳還踏著拖鞋。池水並不深，只到成人的腰部。恍惚之間，她掙扎地爬上池畔的日光浴躺椅，等待身體風乾。她頭痛欲裂，身上全都是池水蒸發後的鹽。這個游泳池號稱添加了海鹽來模擬度假風味，是本社區的一大賣點。
早班管理員以為她是闖入社區的街友，差點要把她扭送警局。
「即使如此，我也沒有放棄和你在一起。」她以一種預言的語氣說。「你也該長大了。」
◇
除了在一些鳥不生蛋的偏遠地區以外，加州對於公開持械（Open carry）基本上是禁止的。對於隱匿持械（Concealed carry）的規則就複雜許多。首先需要申請許可證，而許可證的發放與否充滿未知數—主管機關保有最終裁量權。意思是，就算滿足所有明文條件，它仍可以拒絕核准，不需任何理由。我查了網路上的說法，一般認為，各郡管理鬆緊差異甚大，舊金山市嚴格，中央峽谷（Central valley）地區寬鬆，而南灣則是處於光譜中間的尷尬地帶。
因此，我獲取隱匿持械許可這件事，可以說是出乎意料。這意味著我可以在不曝露槍枝的狀況下，盡情地攜帶它。我可以放在後車廂、後背包、手提袋—甚至是口袋裡，只要我的口袋夠大的話。
隨身攜帶上膛的槍枝是有快感的。這似乎是缺乏控制感的補償機制，如同縱火犯是缺乏關注那般。我逐漸理解亞利桑那州那些去便利商店也要在腰際繫把槍的白人的感受。我也成為一個槍不離身的人，不論是在家裡或外面。
「我想拿槍掃射唐彥均的婚禮。」我對芯寧說。「或是同志大遊行？討論新創公司融資狀況的雞尾酒會也可以，總之人要有點多，逃跑的時候會互相踩到的那種。」
我們正在玩「人生五十問」親密關係促進卡牌。它的理論是，理解帶來親密感，所以只要兩人誠實地回答教材裡的「深度隱私」提問，就可以系統性地增進彼此的感情。芯寧坐在我旁邊，面對著同一個方向，這個座位安排也是教材要求的。
我抽到的卡牌是：舉出一件你想做，但難以啟齒的事情。
說出口之前我也是有點掙扎的，儘管這個答案並非完全誠實。芯寧只是說，謝謝我的坦白，她相信這樣的坦白對我們的溝通將有莫大的幫助。我知道她正在照著遊戲說明書上的指引說話，這使得她像是一個訓練過於倉促的客服應答員。
「這樣妳有更了解我了嗎？」我說。
她正在洗牌，一邊洗一邊瞪著自己的手指。我說，假如累了就別玩了。她沒有說話，只是啪啦啪啦地一直洗牌。交疊法，側切法，燕尾法都用過一輪。然後不停地查閱說明書，彷彿再繼續看下去就可以領悟什麼曠世真理。
「你根本沒有在努力啊。」她抬頭。
「我明明這麼努力，這麼辛苦。」她說。「你只是不停地想要放棄。」
我說，嗯。
她一反平時的激動，只是喃喃地說話，聲音小到我根本聽不到。這種經驗我也有過，對現況恨到一種地步，就會變成徹底的麻木無感。我默默地看她深呼吸，直到窗外夕照斜斜地爬上她髮梢。
「我們再試最後一次。」她說。「最後一次就好。」
她口中所謂的最後一次，指的是另一個沉浸式體驗課程，以擬真的設計和引導，別出心裁的製作聞名。我們公司的企業內訓也跟這間廠商合作。參加過的同事繪聲繪影地描述，在領導力成長體驗營三天兩夜的活動之中，甚至包含營隊工作人員集體罷工的橋段。原本互相不認識學員們必須在短時間內通力合作，才不至於斷炊。
我依約參與了活動，雖然我不覺得有什麼幫助。但畢竟，是最後一次了。
活動當天，有專人接我們前往會場。會場在舊金山往北過金門大橋之後，開向莎莎莉朵以西的山區。狹窄的山脈再往外就是太平洋。司機在蜿蜒無盡的山路上開了一陣，突然開始減速，越開越慢，最後靠邊停了下來。他說，車子拋錨了。他要在這裡等救援，可能得等上幾個小時，所以他建議我們直接從這裡走到會場，反正已經不遠了。
他遞給我們地圖、指北針和兩瓶礦泉水，饒富興味地對我們眨了眨眼。
來了。
我們按照地圖的指示，避開車道，穿過眼前的一片芒草草原。這一段路是先上坡再下坡，所以暫時還看不到目的地的建築物。芯寧認真研究著地圖。而後，朝一條人跡罕至的路徑快步走了起來。她說要上廁所，接著在芒草叢裡蹲下，窸窸窣窣弄了一陣，我們才又上路。但此時我注意到，剛剛停在路邊那臺載我們前來的，宣稱拋錨的車，已經失去蹤影。
「看吧。」她說。「這代表我們目前的行動在正確的途徑上。」
我們開始登山，正正切過整片芒草原。這裡手機收不到訊號，只能依靠地圖。芒草到人的腰部，擦過衣服的時候，發出碎紙機般的聲響。悶熱而乾燥的風吹在臉上，像砂紙刮擦，彷彿很快要流出血來。我們根據指北針的校準，朝著地圖上標示的目的地蹣跚而去。又走了一陣子，上坡的坡度更陡了，我們只能四肢著地，手腳並用地爬行。泥土滲進指縫，蟲子在呼吸間飛過眼瞼。瞬間有種不知為何而來之感。
「再堅持一下下。」她不知是要說給我聽還是給自己聽。
接近正午，芒草在陽光的照射下，散發出草本植物加熱後特有的腥味，濃烈而侵入性地，在我們每一次呼吸直入脾髓。我頭開始變得昏沉，腳下的步伐越來越吃不住土。在一次前傾滑倒之後，我說，我爬不動了。
「再堅持一下下就好。你看我都還能爬。」她說。
「我爬不動了。」
她轉頭看著我。她自己臉上也滿是汗珠、泥土和碎草。瀏海黏在前額上，她用手背撥了撥，卻什麼也沒撥到。喘氣之中，我只覺得芒草的味道越發噁心。我們坐在一望無際的斜坡上，用背包當靠墊，以免草叢刮擦臉部或脖子。我專注在自己的呼吸，一口氣接一口氣地，把噁心想吐的感覺從體內驅除。芯寧蹲坐下來，和我面對同一個方向，就像親密關係五十問教材指示的那樣。
「舉出一件妳想做，但難以啟齒的事情。」我說。
她說，什麼。我說，就是之前那個題目啊，我回答過了，該妳。
芯寧看了我一眼。「做前顳葉切除術。」
「什麼？」
「對你和我自己做前顳葉切除術。不過，哎，算了。」她說。「還是像你那樣，一槍打爛比較輕鬆。」
「像我那樣？」
「喔別裝了。」她說。「你以為我不知道你買那把槍心裡在想什麼喔？」
「那妳為何還堅持參加這活動？」
「那是之前的我，哎，我那時覺得這一切還有救。」她說。
一陣風吹來，芒草簌簌晃動，互相摩擦。風越吹越大，簡直是要把人給颳上天那般張狂。芒草摩擦的聲響宛如一千萬臺碎紙機轟轟運轉，包圍著我們。彷彿這個世界上再也沒有其無法抹消的事物。
「把你那把槍拿出來吧。」她說。「你一定有帶吧？」
我靜靜地看著她。沒有動。
「先給我來一發，然後給你自己一發。」她指了指自己的太陽穴，又往我的頭部比劃了一下。「就像你一直以來想要的那樣。來吧。」
她轉身背對我，面向山坡的另一側，對著無人的前方大吼。
「我放棄。」
「我投降。」
「我認輸。」
「我操你爸的矽谷。」
「我幹你祖公的美國。」
她迎著風，以致於聲音都被扭曲成霧濛濛的形狀。舉目所及皆是亞美利堅最典型的風景—一望無際的荒山，荒地，荒谷，無人無車的公路，和公路上斑駁的分隔線漆。灰褐色的草原在太陽的照耀下更顯死寂，彷彿風再大一點，眼前的一切就要粉碎殆盡。
我終於受不了芒草的氣味，低頭吐了起來。
我早餐沒吃什麼，所以嘔出的都只有水和胃酸，漫長的嘔吐過程的最後，連黃色的膽汁也吐了出來。休息了很久一陣子，我的呼吸才平息下來。然而，芯寧仍是保持著同樣的站姿。我不知道她是否仍在等待子彈穿過她的腦勺。
「走吧。」我說。
她緩緩地轉頭，鄙夷地看著我。
「我不想帶著滿嘴嘔吐味死去。」我說。
我們沉默地往目的地前去，繼續手腳並用地攀爬。陽光如火，燒烤著我們的背脊，後腦，手臂。無聲的爬行比先前更加地累人，芒草還是一樣臭，但我沒有再跌倒，也沒有再嘔吐。當汗水徹底浸濕內褲，連外褲都印上了一圈汗痕後，我們終於看到了終點的活動場地。
場館的前方有手冊和一人一瓶的小型罐裝甜酒。我們拿了就離開，沒有想要進去的意思。我一想到裡面的主持人等一下可能要玩的把戲—一臉睿智地用低沉的嗓音要大家回想這一段蒙難經歷，「忠實而不帶判斷地說出自己的感受」之類—就覺得這個世界趕快被炸毀算了。
芯寧跟著我默默地離開會場，不顧工作人員在身後大呼小叫。我扯開甜酒，咕嚕咕嚕地大口灌了起來，喝完自己的又喝完她的，直到嘴裡、喉嚨裡的嘔吐味全都被異樣的甜香沖洗掉，才停止。我們沿著公路的路肩行走，一邊叫了信用卡的道路救援。我說，在死之前，我還想開車兜兜風，反正我們不急。她點頭表示同意。在路邊一處凹彎的防撞欄旁邊等待的時候，我們真切覺得時間很多，反正一切都無所謂了。
信用卡的道路救援服務很快為我們送來一臺租車，可以明天再還。我在濱海的高速公路上一路狂飆，和所有遇到的所有車競速。我擅長在他們車後狂按喇叭，等到超到他們正前方後，再故意踩幾下煞車。有時我會拉下車窗，對他們比中指，再撒一把硬幣，聽那些金屬撞擊他們板金和擋風玻璃的鏗鏘聲響，再叫他們 Go home and fuck themselves。
有一段特別筆直的路，我開啟定速模式，接著後仰，雙腳搭在方向盤上，靠著腳底來控制方向。芯寧則是忙於對著後照鏡補妝，她可能在意死前的容貌吧。
公路很長，太長了。幾個小時是不可能開到哪裡去的。
當天色暗下來時，我們終於出了車禍。雖說是車禍，也只是小擦撞—當我們從一條匝道併入另一條高速公路時，撞到了左側的車。對方的車似乎是頭燈壞了，整臺如融入夜色的黑影，當我打轉向燈，往左方滑去時，後照鏡裡只有一片墨色漆黑，什麼也沒看見。撞上後，汽車安全氣囊彈射出來，我和芯寧都受了一點擦傷，但無大礙。我們下車時，正好遇到對方駕駛，一個小眼睛的白人男性，正打量著渾身酒氣的我。
他說，老兄，你有大麻煩了。
他說，他可以答應私下和解。「反正警察來，對你沒好處嘛。酒駕的刑罰可不低呀。」
他露出那種令人打從心底作嘔的笑，打開手機的計算機，按了一個大得離譜的數字，在我們面前晃了晃。「就看你們的誠意了。」
我笑了出來。
我筆直走向後車廂，裡面有我的背包，背包裡面有那把我日日夜夜攜帶著的槍。現在終於是它出場的時刻了。我的手像是全自動導航的機械一般伸向底部那個壓克力盒子。我會先將他的雙腳腳踝肌腱射斷—我不射膝蓋，這樣才能命令他正正地跪著—然後是雙手手肘，以及眼睛。我會塞許多東西到他的肛門裡，再把他的手指甲一片一片拔下來。擊發子彈的後座力；汽油淋上他身體時，他求饒的叫聲；人類脂肪燃燒的臭味；彈殼落在草地上若有似無的輕音—我的腦中像是有一整部電影在播放。
啊。我至今宛如沉浸式什麼什麼成長體驗營般的人生就要結束了。
然而，就在我摸到槍套皮革的觸感時，芯寧按住了我的手。她一點聲響也沒發出，神不知鬼不覺地來到我身後。她的身體緊緊貼了上來，手臂繞過我的右側，壓住我還在後車廂背包裡的手腕。她呼吸的熱氣冒在我的耳朵旁，手指頭則是一根一根地掐入我的肉裡。她的手就如同初識時的那天一般，炙熱，滾燙，像加州日日高懸的太陽。
她說，「對不起，我改變主意了。」
夜裡的風將她的髮吹得散亂，彷彿剛從冥河裡爬出來的女鬼。她的眼神就像是死過一次了那般，不再是同一個人。
千萬分之一毫秒之間，她轉身，背對著我，朝著那小眼睛男子大叫了起來。
「開車的是我，你這白痴。」她吼著。
「叫警察啊。你叫啊。」她繼續吼。
「天知道你這臺車是不是贓車。頭燈也不亮。」她還在吼。
「Mother fucker。」彷彿還嫌不夠似的，她豎起一根中指。
我的手就這樣按在槍把上，眼睜睜地看著這一切發生。我的手汗浸濕了皮革套，像要把身體的溫度都遺留在上面似的。
警察來了。是芯寧用手機叫來的。她泰然自若地跟警察說，天色太黑了，對方頭燈沒開，她看不見。白人男子大聲對警察說我們是騙子，開車的是我不是芯寧。但警察只是一臉疲憊地叫他趕快把第三方責任險的保險證明拿出來，不要再拖時間。
這整天的經歷的確改變了一些事情。不管是對於我，或對於她。
在那發生後一週，我們擇日不如撞日，趁著國慶連假開車到拉斯維加斯，去得來速婚姻登記辦理了手續。誓詞中，我在英文的 I love you 後，用中文說了「我不愛你」，她說「我也是」。我們手牽手，在臨時找來的公證人（時薪二十五美元）的見證之下，完成了一系列行政事務。
往後受邀出席傑出校友演講時，我總會和臺下那些學弟妹說，在矽谷，人們得要先死了，才能活下來。
成為了法律上的夫妻後，我和芯寧都升職了。公司股票開始像沒有明天般地飆漲，漲到連最忠心耿耿的員工都覺得恐怖的地步。我們買了一間帕洛奧圖的獨棟。我開始經常性地失眠，靠著芯寧的安眠藥才能勉強入睡，那藥夢遊的副作用也開始發生在我身上。有時候我會在後院醒來，有時則是在樓梯間，像一條地毯般一格一格地填滿階梯的直角。還有幾次，我醒來的時候，發現自己手上正握著那把槍。夢裡永遠是那個漆黑的高速公路匝道，綠底白字的看板，和一望無際的芒草叢。小眼睛男子在我眼前活靈活現地嘲弄我。彷彿當時錯過開槍機會的我是個百分之百的魯蛇。
終於有一次，我下定決心，要在夢裡對他扣下板機。當我牽引手指關節，板機幾乎就要超過發射的臨界點時，卻被一股巨大的力量壓制住。我從睡夢中驚醒，發現是芯寧拉住我的手。我倆正站在水深不及腰的後院游泳池內，我手中的槍正指著自己的腳趾。
「你欠我兩次。」她說。
我爬上了岸。轉身，對著池水一發接著一發地，把彈匣的子彈都射完。那些子彈的爆響，旋轉，高速穿入水體的力道，都像極了教練場那些靶紙的彈痕，那麼美，卻那麼地不合時宜。我想像這些彈頭在池水之中緩慢氧化，生鏽，終有一天，會連形狀都無法辨認。芯寧撿起其中一枚彈殼，說她要留作紀念。那枚彈殼擺放在她梳妝臺上，用一個玻璃盒裝起。我們的池子也加海鹽，那些鹽花在彈殼上結成一片一片的冰晶，像細小而永恆的森林。它們永遠不會融化，也不會變髒。
Short story excerpted from Spent Bullets. Reprinted with the permission of the publisher HarperVia, an imprint of HarperCollins. Copyright © 2025 by Terao Tetsuya. English Translation Copyright © 2025 by Linking Publishing.
Terao Tetsuya (寺尾哲也) is the pen name of Tsao Sheng-Hao. Born in 1988, he graduated from National Taiwan University with a degree in Computer Science Information Engineering. He worked for eight years as an engineer at Google before quitting to write full-time. In 2023, his story collection Spent Bulletswon the Taiwan Literature Awards’ Golden Book Award and the New Bud Award. His second book is an essay collection titled Striving is an Addiction, and an English translation is underway. He lives in Taiwan.
Kevin Wang (王可) is a writer and educator born in Kaifeng and raised in Gill, Massachusetts. He is the translator of Terao Tetsuya’s Spent Bullets (HarperVia, 2025) and has published in Gulf Coast, Circumference, The Margins, and Asymptote. He was a Fulbright Taiwan grantee and Taiwan Literature Base 2025 Writer in Residence. He holds a BA from Skidmore College and an MFA from Columbia University, where he taught undergraduate writing.
