In southern Taiwan, a night-shift factory lies quiet like a ruin. Machines stilled, lights flickering, time caught in a moment—unmoving, unresolved. A-Bang, a weathered middle-aged Taiwanese man, patrols, takes photos, signs in—holding on to a semblance of order, especially when migrant women, slipping through stillness, bring their small requests to him, the LOCAL.
Ren-Chien Ko
