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.

That battle made the company's name resound throughout the entire industry.

But what I remember most vividly was the drone project that later won an international award.

The original concept came from my graduate research—the core flight control algorithm and the dynamic path-planning model.

Those weren't born overnight. They were the product of countless nights I spent staring at endless lines of code and data, running simulations over and over, tweaking, refining, and polishing every variable.

The first crude demo was built and tested right in my living room.

You could say the soul and framework of that project were engraved with my name from the very beginning.

Through these battles, our company grew from a cramped office of barely a dozen people into a strong and respected force in the industry. Our technical capabilities soared.

And with that drone project, we not only won international recognition but also secured major contracts, pushing the company's valuation to new heights—right to the edge of going public.

The founder, Mr. Arnold Schmidt—Darlene's father—was a sharp and visionary man. He had always trusted and valued me deeply.

He gave me complete freedom in technical decisions, and in private, he would often pat me on the shoulder, half joking, half serious, saying to others, "If only Darlene were half as steady and capable as Harold. Honestly, I'd feel at ease handing both her and the company to him someday."

At that time, Darlene was still studying abroad, and everyone took his words as nothing more than a lighthearted remark.

But to me, his recognition and trust were a source of strength—they made every hardship worthwhile.

However, fate was cruel.

Mr. Schmidt passed away suddenly from illness. Darlene hurried back from overseas, armed with a few years of business and arts education, to take over the company.

At first, she was polite, even respectful—she sought my advice on major technical decisions. But gradually, things began to change.

She introduced a new style of management that emphasized attitude, dedication, and corporate culture, replacing the old pragmatic focus on technology and results.

Now, how pretty the presentation slides looked, whether the desk light was still on after hours, or how enthusiastically the employees joined team-building events—these superficial displays started to matter more to her than the tangible results that her father had once cared about.

I was too absorbed in the pursuit of technology itself to notice the shift at first.

Until the five million bonus incident hit—a thunderclap that finally woke me up.

Darlene didn't want a battlefield-tested technical leader. She wanted a "model employee" who fit her new philosophy of management. And Lester, with his polished words and carefully crafted humility, was exactly that.

After a month of rest, I started browsing job websites, updating my resume, and submitting applications to several leading tech firms.

With my background and skills, I thought finding a new position would be easy. But my applications vanished without a trace.

The few interviews I did get turned cold right after the technical round—vague promises, polite rejections, then silence.

After several setbacks, a former colleague finally told me the truth in private.

"Harold, it's not that your skills aren't good enough... Someone's been spreading rumors about you—saying you're arrogant, steal credit from interns, and even got violent."

"Now a lot of companies see you as toxic."

At that instant, I understood.

It was Darlene's doing. She hadn't just fired me—she'd cut off every path forward.

When my mother noticed the furrow in my brow deepening day after day, she gently pressed me for the reason—and I finally told her everything.

Her face turned pale with anger. She immediately stood up, ready to rush out the door. "I'm going to confront her! How can she slander you like that?"

I caught my mother's hand gently, pressing it down. "Mom, don't worry."

I looked out the window, my tone was calm and steady. "It's about time."

"Soon enough, she'll come to me on her own."

My mother gave me a puzzled look. Just as she was about to speak, my phone on the table rang sharply.

The caller ID flashed on the screen: Darlene Schmidt.

I pressed the answer button and put it on speaker.

"Harold?" Darlene's usual composure was gone, replaced by an edge of panic. "You need to come to Skyfeather Tech on the west side of the city—right now! It's urgent!"

"The drone program we sold them just malfunctioned during the final demonstration! The flight control system keeps failing intermittently, and the path-planning is completely scrambled!"

"The client is furious. We have to fix it today, no matter what!"

In the background, I could hear chaos—raised voices, arguments, the sound of panic spreading through a crowd.

I waited until she finished before speaking, my tone deliberately unhurried.

There wasn't a trace of emotion in my voice. "President Schmidt, I think you've called the wrong person."

"I already resigned. Any technical issues at the company should be handled by the one who won the five million bonus—Lester. I'm sure he's still working overtime every night, right?"