"Do I need to remind you what Section Three of Chapter Seven in the company's Information Security Policy says?"
"Or would you prefer I refresh your memory right now?"
The fake smile froze on his face. A flicker of panic crossed his eyes, and he instinctively took half a step back.
"And you." I turned to the female colleague who'd said I was "past thirty and unwanted." "Ms. Whitney, I recall your resume claims you're proficient in machine learning algorithms."
"Would you like me to read aloud a passage from that analysis report you submitted last month—the one with more holes than a sieve—so everyone can evaluate your level of 'proficiency'?"
"Or perhaps we should ask the Marketing colleagues who got burned by your faulty algorithm recommendation how they felt about it?"
Antonia Whitney's neck stiffened, ready to fire back.
But under the suddenly shifted gazes around her, she didn't dare make a sound.
I swept my eyes across the room, letting them settle on the ones who'd been most enthusiastic in piling on.
"And you lot—the records of you slacking off during work hours, day-trading, binge-watching shows, gossiping. Want me to pull the backend system cache and help you relive those highlights? Then forward them to Ms. Pruitt?"
"Philip Lawrence in IT and I get along pretty well. Shouldn't be any trouble."
The air turned to ice.
The office that had been buzzing with noise moments ago was now silent enough to hear a pin drop.
Face after face cycled through red and white, veins pulsing at temples. Not a trace of mockery remained—only humiliation and fear.
They'd grown accustomed to making me their entertainment.
What they hadn't expected was that the guy who always kept his head down, grinding away without a shred of social awareness, actually knew this much.
Clint stood at a distance, that easy smile of his finally cracking. His gaze turned dark as he watched me.
I didn't look at him again. Didn't look at anyone.
The few odds and ends I'd planned to pack suddenly seemed pointless.
I bent down, picked up the half-filled cardboard box, and walked out.
I'd just reached the base of my apartment building when my phone rang.
The name flashing on the screen: Naomi.
I answered. Said nothing.
"Max!"
Her voice dripped with displeasure, crashing down like a wave.
"Do you have any idea what time it is? What's going on with the Hengtai proposal?"
"The client's asked three times already. I told you I needed the first draft before end of day."
"You're not picking up your desk phone, you're not at your workstation—"
"Where the hell are you?"
I looked up at the warm glow spilling from my apartment window. My voice stayed flat.
"Ms. Pruitt, I've already resigned and gone home. My resignation letter—didn't you throw it away?"
Dead silence on the other end.
Then her voice shot up an octave, that imperious tone thickening.
"Max! Are you done with this tantrum? I told you, that whole thing is in the past!"
"Next year's promotion and raise—I guarantee I'll make it happen!"
"You're still hung up on that bit of year-end bonus? Seriously? It's not that big a deal!"
"Do you have any sense of the bigger picture? The company needs you right now!"
I almost laughed.
"Ms. Pruitt, is your 'bigger picture' giving two hundred fifty dollars to the people who actually do the work, while the ones who kiss ass and steal credit walk away with a hundred eighty thousand?"
"Is your 'bigger picture' dangling carrots year after year, working the oxen until they drop dead in the harness?"
"You—"
Naomi choked on her words. After a breath, her tone softened slightly.
But it still carried that air of condescension, like she was doing me a favor.
"Max, I know you're upset."
"But Clint... he does fit certain aspects of what the company needs right now."
"You're a veteran employee. You need to understand the company's difficulties and strategic adjustments."
