Ring the Doorbell, Scan the QR

When I go home for the holidays, I find out that my dad has installed a facial recognition machine at the front door.

"You'll have to pay an entry fee of 50 thousand dollars. Will you be paying by card or payment code?"

I thought my dad was joking at first. As I laugh, I attempt to walk through the front door while pushing my luggage forward.

But my mom passes me a price list with an icy look. "That'll be 200 dollars for dragging stuff across the floor. You'll also be charged 1,000 dollars per hour for using up the air."

I'm stunned by her words. "Mom, stop messing around already!"

But when I walk into the house, I realize that the air inside has disappeared. Unable to breathe, my face soon turns bright red out of suffocation as I kneel down on the floor.

My mom huffs coldly again. "If you want to live, then pay up!"

With great difficulty, I dig out my phone and pay the fees. Once the transaction is done, I can feel air rushing through my nostrils and into my lungs. For a few moments, I pant heavily.

As I stare at my cold-looking parents, I finally feel that something is off. So, I scramble up to my feet and rush for the door.

But that's when I find out that the front door is already welded shut. There's a payment code pasted on the door as well as a message.

"Exit fee. One million dollars."

Looking at the heavy steel bars welded across the door, my mind went blank.

I spun around and shouted, "Are you insane? This is illegal confinement!"

Dad sat on the couch without even looking up. He held a cigarette between his fingers and pointed at a payment code on the coffee table. "Noise complaint fee. That's 500 bucks."

I trembled with rage and slammed my suitcase hard onto the floor. "I'm done! Open the door. I'm leaving!"

Mom walked out from the kitchen with a cleaning rag in her hand. She pointed at the floor beneath my feet. "Floor damage. 50 bucks per step."

I looked down. On the once-familiar floor tiles, every single one now had a thumb-sized payment code stuck to it.

I glanced around, and a chill ran down my spine. The television, the refrigerator, the dining table, even the wall calendar—everything was plastered with payment codes.

The couch armrest had writing scrawled across it. "Seating fee. Ten dollars per minute."

The curtains read, "Sunlight usage fee. 300 dollars per hour."

Even the bathroom door had a sign hanging on it. "Waste disposal fee. 5,000 dollars per use."

I took a step back and bumped into the shoe cabinet behind me. The sensor on the cabinet chimed. "Collision depreciation fee. 2,000 dollars."

I gasped, my throat bone-dry. The suffocating sensation from earlier left me severely dehydrated. I desperately needed water.

I carefully navigated around the payment codes on the floor and made my way to the kitchen. But Mom blocked the sink, staring me down.

"Water?" My voice came out hoarse.

She pulled out a disposable paper cup from behind her back. Inside was half a cup of murky liquid with unidentifiable sediment floating in it.

"Survival water. 2,000 dollars per cup," she said expressionlessly. "No credit. Pay first."

I stared at her in disbelief. "I'm your son! You're charging me two grand for a cup of dirty water?"

"If you won't drink it, get out." She slammed the cup down hard on the counter. "Every drop costs money. You think it just appears out of thin air?"

I clenched my jaw, my stomach churning. I didn't want to argue with them anymore. I just wanted to retreat to my room, lie down for a while, and make sense of this madness.

I turned and rushed toward the bedroom.

The door was tightly shut. Thick iron chains wrapped around the doorknob, secured with a massive copper lock.

Dad somehow was already standing by the door. He held a black card reader in his hand, blocking my path.

"Accommodation fee. 5,000 dollars per night." He shoved the reader toward me. "If you don't want to sleep in the hallway, swipe your card."

I clenched my fists. "This house is partly mine too! Why are you charging me?"

"Because you're living here right now." His tone was harsh, leaving no room for negotiation. "No money? Then sleep in the bathroom. It's cheaper than the room."

I looked at the balance on my phone. It was the savings from a year of hard work. I'd already spent quite a bit just getting through the door and buying air.

But exhaustion and lingering dizziness from the oxygen deprivation made it hard to stay on my feet. Gritting my teeth, I took out my card and swiped it viciously.

"Beep. Transaction successful."

Only then did Dad pull out a key and unlock the door.

The room was bare. The mattress on the bed was gone, replaced by a hard wooden plank. I collapsed onto it without even a blanket.

In the middle of the night, I jolted awake. That terrible suffocating sensation returned.

The air in my lungs felt like it was being sucked out, my chest ready to burst. I frantically clawed at my throat and rolled off the bed.

By the moonlight streaming through the window, I saw Dad standing at the head of the bed.