Following up from yesterday:

After being interrogated by his factory managers for losing an iPhone prototype, Sun Danyong jumped from the twelfth floor of his dormitory at 3:33 A.M., on July 16th. He left behind a poignant electronic trail that provides one of the most revealing views that I can remember into life in the factories of southern China: who works where, why, and in what conditions. Much of this remains unconfirmed, but the dramatic story contained in text messages, instant messages, and bulletin-board posts would never have been recorded ten years ago.

Sun was an archetypal member of the factory world of Shenzhen. The Chinese press has a tendency to mythologize figures who have attracted public support, but his basic bio seems clear: He was twenty-five years old and noticeably quiet. He grew up in an isolated mountain village called Long Tan, in the southwestern province of Yunnan. The family was poor enough that Sun would erase the old pencil notes from his school notebooks and reuse them multiple times. He was smart and went on to graduate, last year, from Harbin Institute of Technology, one of China’s best schools, with a bachelor degree in business administration. When he graduated and started working in Foxconn last year, he told his parents, “From now on you don’t have to work so hard, you should enjoy a little,” according to a profile in Southern Daily.

In his final hours, Sun told several people about the missing phone and the security department’s interrogations. Chinese newspapers have published what they describe as cell-phone text messages that Sun’s girlfriend says she received in the final hours before his death. The last message is said to have arrived at 1:48 A.M., less than two hours before he died: “My dear, I’m sorry, go back home tomorrow, something has happened to me, please don’t tell my family, don’t contact me, this is the first time that I have ever begged you, please agree to that! I am so sorry!”

Another record has emerged of what is described as a final online chat with old college friends, on the Chinese Web site QQ. In a troubled, rambling exchange that has been confirmed as authentic by one participant, Sun insists he never stole and hypothesizes that someone had swiped the prototype without his noticing, or had pulled it out of the box after he had sent it. Describing the role of a security chief—who has denied using force—Sun wrote, “Even at a police station, the law says force must never be used, much less in a corporate office. I was just a suspect, my dear head of security, so what reason and right do you have to confine me and use force?”

His final line of the conversation: “Right now I am paying the interest on my student loan. I hope this will not affect the chances of younger people applying for loans. I am sorry for this. Bye, Gao Ge [a college friend], rest well. Thinking that I won’t be bullied tomorrow, won’t have to be the scapegoat, I feel much better.”

Chinese police are investigating the case, including whether or not Sun was brutalized. But the Chinese media and bloggers have surged to the case as a sign of workplace pressure gone awry. They have posted what they say is a Foxconn confidentiality and non-compete agreement, which promises fines for workers who break it. More fundamentally, they have enshrined the story of Sun Danyong as a bitter symbol of China’s industrial age.