Less than a minute after I hit send, the office began to buzz. Whispers vibrated through the room like a disturbed hornet's nest.

I sat at my workstation, eyes fixed on my screen, but Madison made no effort to hide her disdain.

"Look at him," she muttered. "Acting like some kind of big shot all of a sudden."

William scoffed, hammering his keyboard with aggressive, performative force. "Let him put on his little show. Let's see how long this spine of his lasts."

"Exactly." Madison sneered. "He calls himself a 'person in charge,' but what has he actually managed? Pouring tea, ordering takeout, printing handouts. That's his ceiling."

"Once he walks out those doors, he's nothing," William added.

Jack leaned toward his neighbor, pitching his voice perfectly so I'd catch every word. "Zero talent, massive temper. Give it two days—he'll be on his knees begging Ms. Pruitt to take him back."

I reached for my noise-canceling headphones and drowned them out.

Then I navigated to a folder on my desktop: Support_Materials.

Inside lay a labyrinth of subfolders—by project, date, department. Seven years of work. Market analyses for Madison. Debugging logs for Blake. Presentation decks for Jack. The digital footprint of my competence, all claimed by others as their own.

I selected the root folder.

Shift + Delete.

Are you sure you want to permanently delete these items?

Enter.

The progress bar flashed, then vanished. Seven years of uncredited labor, gone. Not even the Recycle Bin.

Ten seconds. But physically, it felt like a concrete slab lifting off my chest.

At 5:00 PM sharp, the workday ended.

Usually, this just marked the start of overtime. But today, under stunned gazes, I shut down my computer. Screen went black.

I picked up my bag and walked out.

First time in seven years I'd left on time.

The evening air hit my face—cool, crisp, tasting distinctly of freedom.

At 9:15 PM, my phone buzzed. The screen lit up: Madison Finch.

I let it ring twice.

"Alex," she barked the moment I answered. "Where's the proposal for the new project?"

I leaned back on my sofa, remote in hand. "What proposal?"

"Don't play games. Ms. Pruitt needs it tomorrow morning. The client's pushing. Send it over!"

Her tone dripped entitlement—as if my email had been a hallucination.

"Madison," I said calmly. "The proposal is a core deliverable. That's your jurisdiction as project lead. I have no authority to access that data."

Pause.

"I'm just an errand boy," I added. "Strategic planning has nothing to do with me."

Two seconds of silence. Then her voice jumped an octave. "What do you mean?! You've always done it before!"

"That was before."

"Stop playing dumb! Just get it done!"

"Helping you was a favor," I said, cold as a winter draft. "Doing my actual job is duty. I don't have time for favors anymore. I'm watching TV."

"Alex, don't you dare hang up! You ungrateful—"

I tapped the red icon mid-screech.

Phone on silent. Tossed onto the cushion.

The next day, the office atmosphere shifted from mockery to confusion.

Jack tried first. He strolled over holding a printed Excel sheet—raw, messy data—and tossed it onto my desk without looking at me.

"Alex, need analysis charts for this. Meeting this afternoon. Make it look professional."

I didn't glance at the paper. Just slid it back until it teetered on the edge.

"Jack. Data analysis is part of your reporting duties. It's in your job description."

He froze. His smile faltered like he'd swallowed a lemon. He wanted to explode, but the office was watching.

"Come on, help a brother out. We're all friends here."

"Sorry." I kept typing. "I'm busy too."

He stood there, face flushing. Finally snatched the spreadsheet back. As he turned, he muttered loud enough for me to hear: "Gave you a chance to save face. Idiot."

Next came Blake.

He approached with his laptop, pointing at error messages on screen.

"Hey, Little Alex," he said—that condescending nickname he loved. "Code's bugging out again. Looks like that issue from last month. Fix it for me?"

I didn't even look up.

"Blake, I'm not tech support. I can't fix your code."

He adjusted his glasses, his tone dripping with that habitual, command-giving arrogance. "Just take a look. It won't take five minutes. I have a meeting to get to."

"I really don't know how," I lied, my voice steady.

He opened his mouth to argue, then clamped it shut. Frowning, he tucked his laptop under his arm and stormed off, muttering loud enough for me to hear. "Why do young people these days have zero team spirit?"

The office settled back into a hum, but the peace didn't last. As lunch approached, the atmosphere shattered.

A major client under William's jurisdiction had suddenly demanded a preliminary proposal draft. The timeline had been slashed; the first draft, originally due next week, was now required by end of day.

William was catastrophically unprepared.

He spent twenty minutes frantically rifling through files, clicking through folders. With every passing minute, more color drained from his face.

Finally, he snapped. He marched over to my workstation and slammed his fist down.

Bang.

My pen holder rattled. A highlighter skittered across the desk.

"Alex! What game are you playing?" he roared. The entire open-plan office fell silent. "You have all the previous concepts and materials! Send them to me, now! If we lose this client, can you handle the fallout?"

Heads turned. Some colleagues watched with gloating smirks, others with morbid curiosity.

I slowly raised my head.

"William." I kept my voice low, forcing him to lean in. "That proposal is your project. From initial planning to client coordination, you've handled the entire process. I don't have any materials."

I paused, letting the silence stretch.

"As for the fallout... whoever owns the project owns the consequences. Simple principle."

"Bullshit!" He jabbed a finger toward my face, shaking with rage. "When have I ever done the grunt work? It's always me coming up with creative direction and you handling execution!"

"And now you want to change the rules?"

"I'm telling you, if this proposal isn't ready today, neither of us survives this!"

"In the past, I helped you," I corrected him, my gaze cold. "But it wasn't my duty. It was a favor. And I'm done doing favors. Now, please let me work."

I turned back to my monitor, dismissing him completely.

William stood there, chest heaving, glare burning into the side of my head. After a long, tense moment, he spun and stormed toward the executive suite, slamming the door behind him.

Less than ten minutes later, my line rang. The secretary's voice was pure ice.

"Alex, Ms. Pruitt wants to see you. Immediately."

Here it comes.

I stood, straightened my collar, and walked the length of the office. Dozens of eyes tracked my movement, waiting for the execution.

I pushed open the heavy oak door.

Willow sat behind her massive desk, face a mask of suppressed fury. William stood to the side, arms crossed, wearing a smug wait-until-mom-hears-about-this expression.

"Alex! What the hell do you think you're doing?" Willow slapped her palm against the mahogany. "Why aren't you assisting William? The client is demanding that draft—do you not understand the urgency?"

She didn't wait for an answer. "This project is worth over a hundred million! If this deal collapses because of your refusal to cooperate, can you afford the consequences?"

Her accusations fired rapidly, framing the entire chaos as my personal failure.

I waited until she ran out of breath.

Then I smiled. Faint, but sharp enough to cut.

"Ms. Pruitt."

I met her gaze without flinching. "Yesterday, in the general meeting, you stated quite clearly that I wasn't responsible for any major projects. You said I was 'usually quite idle.'"

I gestured toward William.

"So I'm curious. How did responsibility for a hundred-million-dollar order suddenly land on the company's 'most idle' employee?"

A short, dry chuckle escaped me.

"That's a massive accusation, Ms. Pruitt. I'm afraid I'm not important enough to accept it."

Willow's expression froze. As if I'd slapped her.

She opened her mouth to refute me, to scream, to fire me—but the logic was a trap she'd set herself. For a long, agonizing moment, she couldn't find the words.

My words cut through her hypocrisy with surgical precision.

William, sensing the shift, panicked. He turned to the CEO, his voice rising. "Ms. Pruitt, look at his attitude! He's just lying down on the job! He's giving up completely!"

Willow ignored him, her glare fixed on me. "You claim to be the project department's chief person in charge?"

I scoffed. "Chief person in charge? Please. For seven years, my 'responsibilities' have consisted of pouring tea, ordering takeout, signing for deliveries, and printing your materials. That is the extent of my leadership."

I met her eyes, my gaze steady. "Isn't that exactly what you said to me earlier?"

Her face flushed crimson—the precursor to a volcanic eruption. The reaction of a narcissist who had never been challenged by someone she considered an insect.

For a moment, she was speechless.

"Alex Dickerson!" she finally shrieked. "You are insolent! The company has supported you for seven years, and this is how you repay us? By talking back to your superiors?"

She slammed her hand against the desk. "If you don't want to work, then get out! Get out of my company right now! And don't you dare think you'll see another cent in wages or bonuses!"

Her voice cracked. "Don't delude yourself into thinking the world stops turning just because you're gone!"

I nodded calmly. A faint smile played on my lips.

"Thank you, Ms. Pruitt."