Less than a minute after I hit send, the office began to buzz. Whispers vibrated through the room like a disturbed hornet's nest.
I sat at my workstation, eyes fixed on my screen, but Madison made no effort to hide her disdain.
"Look at him," she muttered. "Acting like some kind of big shot all of a sudden."
William scoffed, hammering his keyboard with aggressive, performative force. "Let him put on his little show. Let's see how long this spine of his lasts."
"Exactly." Madison sneered. "He calls himself a 'person in charge,' but what has he actually managed? Pouring tea, ordering takeout, printing handouts. That's his ceiling."
"Once he walks out those doors, he's nothing," William added.
Jack leaned toward his neighbor, pitching his voice perfectly so I'd catch every word. "Zero talent, massive temper. Give it two days—he'll be on his knees begging Ms. Pruitt to take him back."
I reached for my noise-canceling headphones and drowned them out.
Then I navigated to a folder on my desktop: Support_Materials.
Inside lay a labyrinth of subfolders—by project, date, department. Seven years of work. Market analyses for Madison. Debugging logs for Blake. Presentation decks for Jack. The digital footprint of my competence, all claimed by others as their own.
I selected the root folder.
Shift + Delete.
Are you sure you want to permanently delete these items?
Enter.
The progress bar flashed, then vanished. Seven years of uncredited labor, gone. Not even the Recycle Bin.
Ten seconds. But physically, it felt like a concrete slab lifting off my chest.
At 5:00 PM sharp, the workday ended.
Usually, this just marked the start of overtime. But today, under stunned gazes, I shut down my computer. Screen went black.
I picked up my bag and walked out.
First time in seven years I'd left on time.
The evening air hit my face—cool, crisp, tasting distinctly of freedom.
At 9:15 PM, my phone buzzed. The screen lit up: Madison Finch.
I let it ring twice.
"Alex," she barked the moment I answered. "Where's the proposal for the new project?"
I leaned back on my sofa, remote in hand. "What proposal?"
"Don't play games. Ms. Pruitt needs it tomorrow morning. The client's pushing. Send it over!"
Her tone dripped entitlement—as if my email had been a hallucination.
"Madison," I said calmly. "The proposal is a core deliverable. That's your jurisdiction as project lead. I have no authority to access that data."
Pause.
"I'm just an errand boy," I added. "Strategic planning has nothing to do with me."
Two seconds of silence. Then her voice jumped an octave. "What do you mean?! You've always done it before!"
"That was before."
"Stop playing dumb! Just get it done!"
"Helping you was a favor," I said, cold as a winter draft. "Doing my actual job is duty. I don't have time for favors anymore. I'm watching TV."
"Alex, don't you dare hang up! You ungrateful—"
I tapped the red icon mid-screech.
Phone on silent. Tossed onto the cushion.
The next day, the office atmosphere shifted from mockery to confusion.
Jack tried first. He strolled over holding a printed Excel sheet—raw, messy data—and tossed it onto my desk without looking at me.
"Alex, need analysis charts for this. Meeting this afternoon. Make it look professional."
I didn't glance at the paper. Just slid it back until it teetered on the edge.
"Jack. Data analysis is part of your reporting duties. It's in your job description."
He froze. His smile faltered like he'd swallowed a lemon. He wanted to explode, but the office was watching.
"Come on, help a brother out. We're all friends here."
"Sorry." I kept typing. "I'm busy too."
He stood there, face flushing. Finally snatched the spreadsheet back. As he turned, he muttered loud enough for me to hear: "Gave you a chance to save face. Idiot."
Next came Blake.
He approached with his laptop, pointing at error messages on screen.
"Hey, Little Alex," he said—that condescending nickname he loved. "Code's bugging out again. Looks like that issue from last month. Fix it for me?"
