The computer screen still glowed, frozen on the complex architectural diagram for the Sterlinggate Group proposal.
I moved the mouse, the cursor hovering between "Save" and "Close" for a moment before I just hit the power button.
Near the end of the workday, I headed to the restroom.
I'd barely stepped into a stall and shut the door when voices and footsteps drifted in from outside—two of the younger guys from the department, the ones who always had something to say.
"...Max actually handed in his resignation?"
"For real. Heard it straight from Ms. Pruitt's secretary."
"Tch. He's just banking on his seniority, trying to threaten her with quitting. Like he doesn't know where he actually stands."
"Exactly. Guy thinks way too highly of himself. Look at Clint—smooth talker, knows how to play the game. Ms. Pruitt obviously values him more."
"No kidding. Clint's a pro. His PowerPoints in meetings? Flawless. Every presentation has Ms. Pruitt grinning ear to ear."
"And his attitude! Always the last one to leave the office. I mean... half the time nobody knows what he's actually doing, but hey—attitude is everything, right?"
"Max just buries himself in work like a mule. Zero awareness."
"Remember when Ms. Pruitt wore that new dress? The whole office complimented her. Not him—head down, grinding away on his proposal. You could see her face drop."
"A guy like that? Getting screwed on his bonus is exactly what he deserves."
The faucet turned on. The rush of water drowned out whatever snickering came next.
I stood in that stall, thinking back to seven years ago when I first joined. The company was just a scrappy startup, thirty-some people.
Who pulled all-nighters on proposals? Me. Who cracked the toughest technical problems? Me. Who got shoved in front of furious clients to absorb their rage? Me.
That make-or-break contract that determined whether the company lived or died—the preliminary research, the technical breakthroughs, the countless revisions—which page didn't have my fingerprints and sweat on it?
Back then, Naomi used to give me a thumbs-up all the time. "Max, you're the backbone of this company."
"Keep it up. I'll make sure you're taken care of."
I believed her. Worked myself even harder.
Then the company scaled up, multiplied in size, moved into a sleek office tower.
That was the year Clint joined. Elite university pedigree. Suits sharper than mine. Words smoother than mine.
He didn't need to understand technical details—just had to be visibly perfecting a PowerPoint border whenever Naomi walked by.
He didn't need to handle clients—just had to hand her a coffee at precisely the right temperature when she frowned, along with a few words of "Ms. Pruitt, you work so hard."
As for all that late-night overtime? I'd caught him several times.
Every single time, his screen showed shopping sites or video games.
Back at my desk, I continued packing my things.
Clint happened to be walking out of the CEO's office. When he spotted me, his stride faltered for just a beat.
"Max, buddy—heard you told Ms. Pruitt you're leaving?"
His voice was pitched just right—not too loud, not too soft—perfectly calibrated so everyone nearby could hear. Dripping with concern.
"So sudden. Ms. Pruitt was just saying the company can't do without you."
"Is there some kind of misunderstanding?"
"The bonus situation—I'm sure Ms. Pruitt has her reasons, looking at the bigger picture."
"We're just subordinates. Gotta be understanding."
I looked at him.
His eyes were bright, gleaming with shrewdness and the easy confidence of someone who'd already won.
That face—in front of Ms. Pruitt, it was nothing but loyalty and diligence.
In front of me, it always let slip a hint of contempt.
This was the man who, last year, took the technical risk assessment report I'd spent multiple sleepless nights creating and put his own name on it.
