The land of architectural records and jaw-dropping skylines has a new story to tell — and it’s not about another supertall tower. It’s about the people stuck inside them. In China’s soaring skyscrapers, where elevators move slower than dreams during rush hour, a strange new job has quietly emerged to keep the city running.
Yes, you read that right — meet the workers who deliver for delivery workers.
A gig economy
Shenzhen, the glittering symbol of China’s tech-fueled boom, is home to nearly 18 million people. It’s a city of neon, innovation, and now… elevator chaos. Inside towers like the SEG Plaza, a 70-story skyscraper that pierces the skyline, something as simple as delivering lunch has turned into a logistical nightmare.
At peak hours, the wait for an elevator can stretch up to 30 minutes. For regular delivery drivers hustling to meet deadlines, that’s a disaster. Every minute counts — and every delay cuts into their already razor-thin profits.
So, an unlikely micro-economy was born. Teenagers, retirees, and anyone with strong legs and time to spare began offering a curious new service : carrying food the “last mile” — or rather, the “last floors.”
They’re called delivery-for-delivery workers, and their job is as odd as it sounds. A main delivery driver arrives at the skyscraper, hands off the meal at the lobby, scans a QR code to confirm partial delivery, and rushes off to the next order. The “sub-deliverer” then takes over, braving long elevator lines and endless corridors to get the food into the customer’s hands — for just a few cents.
The rise of China’s newest ultra-precarious job
Take Li Linxing, a 16-year-old who spends his days outside SEG Plaza waiting for the next bag of noodles or bubble tea. He earns about 100 yuan a day — roughly 13 U.S. dollars — by ferrying meals up and down the tower. For each order, his cut is barely 28 euro cents, a sum so small you might overlook it if it fell from your pocket.
Still, for Li and hundreds like him, it’s a lifeline. Some are students on vacation trying to make a bit of pocket money. Others are retirees whose pensions no longer stretch far enough in the city’s expensive neighborhoods.
This job is fast, fragile, and painfully competitive. Standing outside one of Shenzhen’s busiest towers, Li waits under the blazing sun, eyes darting for the next opportunity. “Sometimes I go up 20 floors just for one order,” he told local reporters. “It’s tiring, but at least I earn something.”
It’s a snapshot of modern urban China : high-tech on the surface, but powered underneath by millions doing the most basic, backbreaking work.
How it all works
The system is surprisingly efficient — and completely informal. When a delivery driver arrives at a skyscraper, he scans a QR code at the entrance to log the handoff. The “building runner” — that’s the nickname locals use — grabs the food and heads upstairs. Once delivered, they send a photo proof through the app, and both workers move on.
Some have even scaled this system into small businesses. One man, Shao Ziyou, became famous as the first to organize a team outside SEG Plaza. He coordinates dozens of helpers, taking a small cut from every transaction. On busy days, he claims to oversee between 600 and 700 deliveries — an astonishing number for an operation that technically doesn’t exist on paper.
But where there’s money, there’s tension. With more people joining the game, competition has turned fierce. Arguments over lost orders or mistaken floors sometimes spill into the streets. “If a delivery is late, the main driver gets penalized by the app,” one worker explained. “So we feel the pressure too.”
When innovation meets exploitation
It’s easy to admire the hustle, but harder to ignore the risks. None of these “micro-couriers” have contracts, insurance, or any legal protection. They operate in a gray zone — tolerated, but not recognized.
For some, it’s a stepping stone. For others, it’s a trap. The lack of regulation means anyone can join — and that includes children. Viral videos once showed kids as young as ten trying their luck at tower deliveries, sparking public outrage. Local authorities eventually stepped in, banning anyone under 16 from working in this way.
But let’s be honest — that didn’t fix the real issue. Whether they’re 16 or 60, these workers face the same exhaustion and uncertainty. Every climb up those concrete stairwells is a gamble: no safety net, no stability, and no guarantee of tomorrow’s income.
Still, there’s something undeniably human about this micro-economy. It reflects both the resourcefulness and the desperation of life in megacities like Shenzhen. When I visited China years ago, I remember standing at the base of a skyscraper, staring up until my neck hurt. The sheer scale was mesmerizing — but I also wondered, who keeps these vertical worlds running? Now, reading about Li and his peers, the answer feels clearer. It’s people like them — invisible, yet essential.
Their stories are a reminder that progress always has a hidden cost. For every glittering tower, there’s someone sweating in the shadows, climbing the stairs to make it work.
And what about you ? Would you take a job like that if it meant survival ? Share your thoughts, drop a comment, or pass this story along — because these invisible workers deserve to be seen, one delivery at a time.
