I Work in Securities. The KPI Was Eating Me Alive.

The Branch Office at Ten

At 10:07 p.m., only three lights were still on in the branch office. The one above Chen Fang's desk was the brightest. On his screen was the monthly account-opening progress sheet. His name sat at No. 17, in red. Next to it, fund sales, in gray. The work group chat buzzed again: @everyone Colleagues who haven't broken zero today, meet in the conference room at 8:30 tomorrow morning. He turned his phone face down on the desk. The tomato-and-egg rice bowl at the corner of his desk had gone cold. The oil had congealed into a thin film. He picked up his chopsticks, then put them down. His stomach felt like it had a wet towel stuffed inside.

In his first year, he could eat two bowls of rice with the market chart open in front of him. When clients cursed him, he could still smile. Now, before a client even spoke, he tensed up. When the phone rang, his heart raced. When it didn't, he panicked more.

The pothos beside his monitor had yellow tips. He'd last watered it at the beginning of the month. The edge of his keyboard cover had curled up, and a grain of rice was stuck inside. He stared at the grain for a long time, then opened his client list.

The first page was Ms. Zhang, a retired teacher, risk tolerance C2. Last week he'd recommended a bond fund. Ms. Zhang said she'd think about it. He opened the chat box and typed: Ms. Zhang, that fund from last time. Then he deleted it. Typed again: Ms. Zhang, the market has been volatile lately. Do you have time to talk? Deleted it. In the end, he sent a smiley face. Ms. Zhang didn't reply.

At 10:20, he shut down his computer. The badge had hung around his neck for fourteen hours, leaving a mark. He walked to the elevator, remembered he hadn't clocked out, and turned back. The time clock glowed blue. Beep. He saw his name: Chen Fang, clock-out time 22:21. He shoved the badge into his bag and skipped the front elevator, taking the service one. It smelled of cardboard and mops. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. His phone buzzed. The manager had posted a screenshot in the group: a colleague had opened five accounts in one day. A row of thumbs-up below. Chen Fang put his phone on silent. The screen went dark. He saw his own face, blurred, tie crooked.

The next morning's meeting was at 8:29. The conference room smelled strongly of coffee. The manager tapped the whiteboard: "Half the month is gone. Are half the targets done?" No one spoke. The manager pointed at Chen Fang. "Your fund sales were okay last month. Why so quiet this month?" Chen Fang's throat tightened. He picked up a paper cup and took a sip. The water was cold. "I'm still talking to clients." "Talking isn't a result." He nodded. He saw his notebook: Three things today. One: follow up with five clients. Two: add three WeChat contacts. Three: book one meeting. The ink had bled a little. He closed the notebook.

At nine, he started calling. The first client was in a meeting. The second wasn't interested. The third said the fees were too high. The fourth didn't answer. The fifth picked up, listened, and asked, "Is it principal-protected?" "I can't promise principal protection." The other hung up. The busy tone was a thin needle in his eardrum. He sat at his desk, fingers on the keyboard, unmoving. The colleague next to him was eating breakfast, plastic bag rustling. He opened the drawer, found chewable antacid tablets, broke off two, and chewed. A mint taste rushed up. His stomach loosened a little. He gave the pothos half a cup of water. Water leaked from the bottom of the pot onto the client list. He wiped it with a tissue and smeared the characters for "Ms. Zhang."

At noon, his mother called. He went to the stairwell. "Did you eat?" "Yes." "What did you eat?" "Tomato and eggs." "Have you been sleeping well?" "Pretty well." The stairwell echoed. He saw a cigarette butt in the corner, crushed flat. "Don't work too hard." "I know." After hanging up, he stood for a while. His eyes felt hot. He wanted to squat down. The cleaning lady pushed the door open, mop bucket clanging. He turned on the tap and washed his hands. The water was cold. He counted to ten, from one to ten. Then he went back.

In the afternoon, he visited a client on the eighteenth floor of an office building. Foreign trade. He waited forty minutes. The client came out. "Xiao Chen, I'm tight on funds lately. Not buying." "That's fine. I brought you some materials." "No need. I've seen all your products." "Then I'll let you get back to work." "We'll talk about the account later." He nodded. The elevator went down. He watched the floor numbers drop from 18 to 1. The doors opened. Someone in the lobby was handing out flyers. He walked out through the revolving door. The sun was bright. He stood by the road, not knowing which way to go. His phone rang. The manager. "Can you break zero today?" "I'm still running around." "Running around doesn't help. I need results." "Okay." After hanging up, he opened WeChat and messaged an old client: Mr. Li, are you free anytime soon? Mr. Li replied: On a business trip. He replied: Okay. Then he put the phone in his pocket and walked along the street. He passed a pharmacy and went in to buy a box of stomach medicine. The clerk asked, "Do you want a membership card?" "No." He saw a thermometer on the counter: 37.2. He remembered he hadn't taken his temperature.

At night, he wrote a resignation letter in his phone notes. First line: Dear Leader. Second line: Due to personal reasons. Third line: Thank you for the training. He looked at it for a long time. Deleted it. Wrote again: I'm under too much pressure. Deleted it. Finally he threw the phone onto the sofa. His wife brought a glass of water. "What's wrong?" "Nothing." "You haven't been yourself lately." "You don't understand." She said nothing. The glass sat on the coffee table, steaming. He stood up and went to the balcony. Someone downstairs was walking a dog. The leash was fluorescent green. He remembered what his mentor said when he first started: "In sales, you need a thick skin." His skin wasn't thick. He only wrote down rejections in a notebook and chewed them over at home.

On the weekend, he went to the branch. No one there. He turned on the computer and pulled up the assessment table. Accounts: 12 short. Fund quota: 3.8 million short. He took a pen and calculated on paper. If it takes an average of 20 contacts to open 1 account, 12 accounts need 240 contacts. Thirty days a month, eight a day. He wrote: Eight effective contacts a day. Not eight calls. Eight effective conversations. He divided the client list into three columns. Column A, has funds and trust. Column B, has potential. Column C, not suitable for now. Column A had nine people. He wrote three sentences for each of the nine. Not templates. Words only they would receive. To Ms. Zhang: "Ms. Zhang, you mentioned your grandson is starting school. I looked again at the maturity date of that bond fund. It lines up with when you'll need the money." To Mr. Li: "Mr. Li, when you're back from your trip, if convenient, I'll put recent market volatility on one page. You can just take a look." To Mr. Wang: "Mr. Wang, you asked about fund dollar-cost averaging before. I ran some numbers. Two thousand a month, based on the past five years, the volatility range looks like this." He finished writing but didn't send them. He waited until Monday morning at nine, then sent them.

On Monday, the manager called him into the office. "Your state hasn't been good lately." "No." "Can you finish the targets?" "I broke down the process metrics." "I don't want process. I want results." "I need channel support." "Figure it out yourself." He nodded. On his way out, he saw the front desk changing plants. The old pothos had been thrown into a cardboard box, leaves still yellow. He carried his pothos from his desk and put it by the window. Sunlight hit the leaves. One new leaf, very small, curled.

That afternoon, he booked a meeting. The client was Ms. Zhang. She came with a cloth bag. He poured her water. "It's not that I won't buy. I'm afraid of losing money." "I understand. This bond fund isn't principal-protected, but it's low-volatility. If you don't think it's suitable, we won't buy." "You're honest." "Compliance requires it." She smiled a little. In the end, she didn't buy the fund, but she opened an account. "I'll put the money in demand deposits first, until I decide." "Okay." After seeing her out, he submitted the account in the system. Submitted successfully. He leaned back in his chair and didn't smile. He took out the stomach medicine but didn't take it. He watered the pothos.

At nine in the evening, he shut down the computer. This time he didn't look at the work group. He put his phone on silent and into the drawer. He changed shoes and went downstairs. There was a noodle shop below. He went in and ordered a bowl of beef noodles. The bowl came, steam hitting his face. He took a bite, then another. He remembered he hadn't eaten lunch. He finished, paid. The owner said, "Take care." He said, "Okay." He walked along the street for twenty minutes. He passed the pharmacy and didn't go in. He passed a flower shop and glanced at it. He returned to his neighborhood and saw his wife waiting downstairs. "Walk?" "Mm." They walked together. She didn't ask about work. He didn't say. On the third lap, he said, "I have to make eight calls tomorrow." "Okay." "I might still not finish." "Make the calls first." "Mm."

The next morning, 8:20. He arrived at the branch. The badge hung around his neck, leaving a mark. He turned on the computer and looked at the client list first. The first person in Column A was Ms. Zhang. He dialed. She answered. "Ms. Zhang, good morning. This is Chen Fang." "Xiao Chen, I was just about to ask you. The account is open. How do I transfer the money?" "I'll walk you through it." He explained step by step. "Okay." After hanging up, he drew a check mark in his notebook. First of today's three things done. He picked up his water glass and took a sip. The water was warm. He saw the pothos's new leaf had unfurled a little. The keyboard cover was still curled, and the grain of rice was still there. He dug the grain out and threw it in the trash. The work group buzzed again. He glanced at it and didn't open it. He put the phone face down on the desk. The screen went dark. Outside the window, an armored cash truck passed. A guard stood by the door, holding a gun. He glanced at it, then looked back at the screen. At nine, the morning meeting. The manager would call his name again. He picked up his notebook and stood. Passing the front desk, he saw the discarded pothos had been picked up and placed on the windowsill. The leaves were still yellow. He walked into the conference room. The door closed behind him.