The drone program I led to develop won an international award and sold for 300 million.

The company promised me a bonus of five million. But on payday, that five million went to a newly hired intern.

I thought the finance department had made a mistake, so I stormed straight into the CEO's office.

"President Schmidt, wasn't that five-million bonus assigned incorrectly?"

Darlene didn't even bother to lift her eyes as she replied indifferently, "Harold, I looked into it carefully. Most of the core code was written by Lester."

"He's been working overtime until midnight and coming in on weekends. What about you?"

"You finish your work, play with your phone, and leave right on time. Attitude determines everything."

I almost laughed from sheer disbelief. "He's just an intern! Does he even understand all the code?"

"Enough," Darlene cut me off, her tone cold. "The company doesn't make mistakes. I've been watching everyone's performance closely."

"If you're unhappy, you can look for another job."

Saying that, she tossed a resignation letter across the desk.

My heart went cold. I signed my name on the spot.

Before leaving, I threw one last line over my shoulder. "Darlene, if you ever run into any technical issues, go find that hardworking overtime hero Lester. Don't bother coming to me!"

She just smiled, unconcerned. "No problem."

——

As I walked through the office, whispers followed me like shadows.

"Look, he's leaving. His face is darker than a burnt pot."

"Tsk, five million gone—who wouldn't be mad?"

"What’s the point of being mad? If you can’t hold your position, that’s on you. President Schmidt was right—attitude is everything."

"Exactly. Lester works overtime every night while this guy clocks out on the dot and still wants all the credit. What a joke."

A particularly sharp voice chimed in—it was Freddy, who'd always been close to Lester.

"I think he’s just using his seniority to act all high and mighty. Got pushed out? Serves him right!"

"Totally! He thought the project couldn't run without him, but Lester took over and did even better! That so-called 'lead developer' title of his is just a pure fluff."

“I heard he’s been going to the hospital every day last month. Probably some family issue, huh?”

“Hmph, who doesn’t have family problems? What makes him so special?”

“The company values dedication. People like Lester are the true role models.”

"He just can't keep up anymore. Getting replaced was inevitable."

"Giving the five million to Lester makes perfect sense—gotta encourage the young talents."

"Old folks should know when to step aside."

Their words dripped with sarcasm and petty satisfaction—twisting the truth, relishing my downfall.

They'd all conveniently forgotten the past nine years I spent pulling all-nighters, breaking through one technical barrier after another, building this department from scratch.

All they saw was my "leaving work on time" for the past month.

Especially Freddy—always calling me "brother," yet now, his voice was the loudest, spitting venom about how I was "unworthy" and "hogging the spotlight."

I finally couldn't take it anymore. I stopped, turned around, and walked straight to his desk.

He was mid-sentence, sneering.

My gaze fell on the mug on his table—printed with the words Company's Excellence Award.

A souvenir we'd all received last year, after I led the team to win a major contract.

I grabbed it.

Before he could react, I smashed it hard against the floor.

Crash!

The sharp crack echoed through the open office. Porcelain shards scattered everywhere.

The entire floor fell into dead silence.

All the whispers, all the snide remarks—vanished instantly.

Freddy's face flushed red, then pale. His lips trembled, but no words came out.

I swept a cold glance around. Everyone averted their eyes, pretending to focus on their screens, their hands moving mechanically across keyboards or shuffling papers that didn't need sorting.

Without a word, I turned away.

In that suffocating silence, I walked back to my private office, closed the door behind me, and began packing my things.

My fingers brushed over the worn photo frame on my desk.

Inside one was a group photo—our team’s first major success after completing the initial module testing.

Everyone in that picture had a genuine smile and light in their eyes.

Now, everything had changed.

The anger burning in my chest slowly gave way to a deeper, colder sorrow.

Nine years.

Nine whole years.

I had poured the best years of my life into this place.

How many nights had I been the last one to turn off the lights in the office? How many weekends had I spent in the server room debugging alone? How many breakthroughs had I led the team through, grinding through the hardest technical challenges?

And this drone program, which won international awards and sold for hundreds of millions—its architecture, its original concept, its most difficult flight control algorithms and path planning systems—every line of core logic bore my sweat and sleepless nights.

Then last month, my mother fell critically ill and was hospitalized.

By that point, the main development phase was complete; what remained was tedious but low-complexity finishing work.

I was stretched thin, torn between work and family. I had no choice but to delegate.

That was when Lester—the diligent, mild-mannered intern—approached me, saying he was willing to help out so I could focus on my mother.

I was genuinely grateful. I gave him the repetitive, low-skill tasks: unit testing, interface debugging, coding and commenting on non-core modules, organizing documentation, and the like.

I even praised him publicly in a department meeting for being proactive and responsible.

Who would've thought that the "simple work" I assigned him somehow became the "core code" in Darlene's report.

And my reduced overtime—because I was caring for my dying mother—became "proof" of my laziness and lack of dedication.

The door creaked open softly.

A familiar figure stepped inside.

It was Lester.

He looked uneasy, guilt and hesitation written all over his face. He approached slowly.

"Sir Harold..." he began, voice low. "About that five million... I don't deserve it. The bonus should've been yours. I want to give it back."

I paused mid-pack, not looking up.

For a moment, the image of the timid young intern I’d once mentored surfaced in my mind—the way he’d hold his notebook nervously, his eyes shining with curiosity whenever he asked me questions.

"Alright," I finally said, lifting my gaze to meet his calmly. "Do it now. Transfer it to me. I'll wait."

The guilt on his face froze. It was as if someone had hit pause.

A flicker of surprise—and then irritation—crossed his eyes. He clearly hadn't expected me to take his words seriously.

After a moment of awkward silence, his lips curved into a smirk.

"Sir Harold, I was just being polite. You actually dared to take it seriously?" Lester chuckled softly, a hint of open mockery in his tone. "This money—I earned it with my skills. President Schmidt saw the truth clearly. She recognized my ability and my effort."

"I wrote the core code. I worked overtime. Why do you think you deserve this money more than me?"

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!"