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!"

"Besides," Darlene snapped, "Lester came here to apologize!"

"Apologize?" I pointed coldly at the floor. "He smashed my mother's photo and stepped on it. That's your idea of an apology?"

Darlene glanced down, her brows tightening briefly—but the frown quickly faded.

"It's just a picture frame. So what if it broke? Is that really worth throwing a punch over?"

She let out a scornful laugh. "Looks like that bonus really went to your head. You've lost your mind."

Lester sniffled right on cue, looking pitiful and fragile.

"President Schmidt, please don't blame Sir Harold... maybe I said something wrong that upset him..."

The sight of his fake humility only fueled Darlene's anger.

"Harold, I gave you a chance. You're the one who didn't value it."

"Now pack your things and get out of this company—immediately!"

I bent down, picked up the shattered photo from the floor, and placed the last of my belongings into my bag.

My silence and composure caught them both off guard.

They probably expected me to get mad, to argue, to lose control.

But I didn't.

I zipped up my backpack and walked straight to the door.

When I passed by Darlene, I stopped. Turning slightly, I met her eyes and said evenly, "President Schmidt, remember what you said today."

"I hope you won't regret it."

"And I hope Lester... really is as 'capable' as he pretends to be."

Darlene's brow creased, as if she wanted to retort, but I didn't give her the chance. I turned and walked away, without looking back.

There was nothing here worth holding onto anymore.

...

When I got home, my mother—just discharged from the hospital—was resting on the sofa.

Seeing me back so early, and the heaviness on my face, she immediately grew concerned.

I didn't hide anything. I told her everything—about the resignation, the stolen bonus.

Not a trace of blame crossed her face. Instead, she gently took my hand, patting it softly.

"Then it's good you left," she said, her voice full of quiet strength. "A company like that isn't worth my son breaking himself for."

"Your health matters most—and your peace of mind even more."

"I still have some savings. Don't rush into another job. Rest for a while."

Her words flowed through me like warmth on a winter morning.

The days that followed seemed to slow down, each moment stretching softly into the next.

In the mornings, I accompanied her to the market, listening to her bargain cheerfully with vendors while picking the freshest vegetables.

By late morning, we'd stroll through the park, blending into a crowd of elderly people practicing Tai Chi—her moves were graceful while mine was awkward and clumsy.

In the afternoons, we'd sit on the balcony, brewing herbal tea, watching the leaves swirl in the water as we chatted about neighbors and small, inconsequential things.

The peace of those days began to thaw something inside me—the part of my heart that had been dulled by years of corporate exhaustion and quiet bitterness.

And during that rare stretch of calm, the past nine years had played in my mind like an old film—faded, but vivid in memory.

I remembered the hardest days when the company was still in its infancy.

To break through a client's technical barrier, I led a handful of engineers—our entire tech team at the time—and lived in the office for three straight months.

We'd nap under our desks on flattened cardboard when sleep finally overpowered us.

But in the end, we did it.

We not only solved the problem, but also designed an optimized system that far exceeded the client's expectations.

That victory earned the company its first real profit—and its first taste of reputation.

I also remembered when a rival company launched a malicious cyberattack that nearly paralyzed our servers and infuriated our clients.

For forty-eight sleepless hours, I led the team in tracing the breach. We not only defended against the attack, but also located the source, exploited their vulnerabilities, and turned the tide—saving the company millions and hitting back hard.