Lester spoke with smug satisfaction, his eyes sweeping over the private office like a conqueror claiming new territory.
"Come to think of it," he said, voice dripping with arrogance, "I should really thank you for stepping aside."
"From now on, this office... will be mine."
The look on his face, so full of conceit, was a far cry from the polite, humble intern I once knew.
"With your skills?" I took a step forward, closing the distance between us. "You mean the skill of changing variable names on interfaces other people have already debugged? The skill of reformatting existing comments, then submitting pre-organized test cases as if they were core algorithms?"
"Or do you mean the skill of pretending to code nonsense every time President Schmidt walks by, or keeping a pre-written documentation file open to look busy?"
My tone was calm, but each word struck like a needle, hitting every weak spot he tried to hide.
Only later did I piece the truth together.
He had taken advantage of my absence, my distraction from my mother's illness—and exploited every gap I left behind.
As an intern, he couldn't access the actual core systems, but he had full visibility into test scripts, process files, and secondary modules.
In just a month, he carefully crafted an illusion—one where he appeared to be "deeply involved," even "leading the project."
Lester's face shifted instantly. His smug pride and false composure crumbled, replaced by shame and rage at being exposed. His cheeks flushed crimson; his breathing grew uneven.
"Y-you're talking nonsense!" he snapped, voice trembling, eyes darting everywhere but at me.
"You know exactly whether I'm talking nonsense," I said coldly.
"The so-called core modules you claimed to have written—the underlying functions, the logic framework—they're identical to the architecture I built."
"You just wrapped them in clumsy layers of redundant code and sprinkled in flashy, meaningless comments."
I took a step closer, lowering my voice. "Do you want me to post a side-by-side comparison—your 'work' versus my original drafts—on a tech forum and let the experts judge?"
That hit him where it hurt most.
His foundation was shallow; his code couldn't withstand real scrutiny.
Darlene might be fooled by appearances, but in the tech world, people see through fakery in a heartbeat.
His face turned from red to white, then to a sickly shade of green.
Just then, his gaze flicked to the old photo frame on my desk—a picture of my mother and me from last year's trip.
A glint of malice flashed in his eyes.
He reached out casually, as if by accident, and with a careless sweep of his hand—
Crash!
The frame hit the floor, glass shattering into jagged pieces.
He took a deliberate step forward, his shoe grinding down on the broken glass and the photo beneath it.
"Oh no," he said mockingly, "sorry, Sir Harold. Didn't see that there."
In that instant, my blood roared in my ears.
I grabbed him by the collar and swung hard.
Smack!
The slap echoed through the room. His head jerked to the side, a vivid handprint blooming across his face.
"Get. Out."
Before he could react, the office door slammed open.
"Harold! What are you doing?!"
Darlene stood in the doorway, face dark with fury. She must have been walking by and caught the scene at just the wrong moment.
Lester instantly slipped into his victim act, voice trembling with perfect pitifulness.
"President Schmidt... I-I only came to apologize about the bonus. I don't know why Sir Harold got so angry... he suddenly hit me..."
"Harold!" Darlene's voice was sharp enough to cut glass. "I never thought you'd be so petty and narrow-minded!"
"The company made its decision fairly. Even if you disagree, that gives you no right to lay a hand on your colleague!"
