At the annual company banquet, the boss had the tables and chairs from the logistics department removed, leaving only a stainless steel dog bowl in the center of the stage.

"Logistics is just the company's watchdog," he said coldly. "Since when do watchdogs sit at the table and eat?"

The top sales champion laughed as he dumped leftovers into the bowl. The boss casually slipped a black garbage bag over my shoulders.

"From now on, you're the company's living trash can. Catch it properly."

Laughter erupted across the room.

Amid the jeers, I silently tightened my grip on the universal access card in my hand.

What they didn't know was that the building's special approvals for water and electricity—and all its property management connections—were maintained by this very "dog face" of mine.

I tossed my ID badge into the dog bowl and turned to leave.

Let's see how long you last once the new year passes—without logistics there to hold everything together.

The stainless steel bowl—the one used not only to feed dogs but also to hold leftover scraps—now glinted with a harsh, cold light.

Standing on the raised stage, my boss held the envelope that was originally meant for me. His eyes brimmed with mockery.

I took a deep breath.

Instead of lowering my head to pick up that so-called "reward" like I always did, I raised my hand and removed the work badge that had hung around my neck for five years.

With a light flick of my wrist, the badge traced a clean arc through the air and landed with perfect accuracy in the greasy dog bowl. The splash of leftover broth even spattered onto the sales champion's pair of gleaming leather shoes.

The laughter in the room stopped instantly.

"Sandra, what the hell?!"

The Administrative Director, Vanessa Martin, stormed out of the crowd, her ten-centimeter red-soled heels striking sharply against the floor. The evening gown she had specially ordered for the annual party now looked strained, tightened by her anger.

"Have you lost your mind? The boss was joking with you—just livening up the atmosphere! What kind of attitude is that?"

Vanessa pointed straight at my nose, her finger nearly poking my face.

"Stop acting like a child. Without this company, you're nothing. For a logistics job like yours, I could tie up a dog, and it could do the work. And you still think you deserve special treatment?"

I looked at the woman who had parachuted into the company only six months ago.

Just yesterday, she had screamed in the office like a cat with its tail stepped on because the printer jammed, insisting that I drop everything to pull the paper out for her.

Unhurriedly, I removed the black garbage bag from my shoulders, crumpled it into a ball, and tossed it casually at my feet.

"If you think even a tied-up dog can do the job," I said calmly, "then I'm relieved."

I straightened my collar. My voice carried not the slightest ripple of emotion.

"So I guess there's no need for a handover, right? I'll give you the keys now, and I'll resign."

Vanessa clearly hadn't expected me to be this decisive. She froze for a moment before glancing toward the boss, who was still standing on the stage.

From afar, he waved his hand dismissively, as if shooing away a fly.

Vanessa immediately stiffened her posture. "Fine. I'll come watch you pack up. Wouldn't want you walking off with so much as a needle from the company."

On the drive back to the office, Vanessa sat in the passenger seat beside me, and her mouth never stopped.

She complained that the annual party had been her carefully planned themed event, and that because she had to supervise me clearing out my things, she had missed the final lucky draw. Her resentment spilled out with every word.

When we arrived at the empty fifteenth floor, I walked to my workstation and picked up the heavy ring of keys from my desk.

"This one's for the high-voltage electrical room on the 15th and 16th floors," I said, holding it up for her to see. "This one's for the low-voltage room. These are for the storage rooms in Zones A and B. And this is the spare key to the boss's office…"

It had taken me years to collect and duplicate this entire set of keys, one by one.

Vanessa stood beside me like a supervisor, her eyes full of disdain.

"Just dump them there," she said impatiently. "Hurry up and get out. For positions this low-level, we'll just outsource in the future. No need to keep freeloaders around."

I opened the drawer and began packing my personal belongings. I didn't have much—just a mug and a small cactus.

When I put a tube of hand cream and a packet of brown sugar ginger tea into my bag, Vanessa suddenly rushed forward and snatched the backpack from my hands.

"I need to check it!"

She dumped everything from the bag onto the desk. Only after confirming there were no company hard drives or documents did she toss the bag back at me.

"Get out. Don't come crawling back. Without you, this company will only run faster," Vanessa said.

I quietly gathered my belongings and put them back into my bag. Before leaving, I cast one last look at the place where I had poured five years of my youth. In my hand, I gripped the universal access card tightly.

They had no idea that the building's special approvals for water and electricity—and all its property management connections—were maintained by me.

If I were nothing but trash, then I would at least take with me the dignity that belonged to trash.

After returning the universal access card, I stepped out of the building. The late-night wind cut across my face like a blade.

I pulled my coat tighter and glanced back at the 15th and 16th floors.

Five years ago, I had joined the company full of hope, hired as an administrative specialist.

The turning point came two years ago, when the company reassigned me under the pretext that I lacked a "formal administrative management background." I was made "Logistics Supervisor." My salary stayed the same, but my work shifted from coordination to running errands—and the entire department consisted of just me.

Six months ago, Vanessa parachuted in as Administrative Director. She found me "unsophisticated" and began fostering an atmosphere where logistics staff were treated as inferior.

For the sake of the promised year-end bonus, I endured it for half a year.

And in the end, I got a dog bowl.

For the past five years, I arrived at work at 7:30 every morning, without fail.

The first thing I did each day was take that specially authorized access card and check the central air conditioning panels in the high-voltage rooms on both floors. The building's system only turned on heating at 8:30, but I would manually start it early, making sure that when everyone walked in and took off their coats, they were greeted by spring-like warmth.

Lunch was the most tedious part. There were too many employees and too few microwaves. To make sure everyone could eat hot meals the moment their break started at noon, I began reheating food in batches at 11:15 every day—labeling, timing, controlling the temperature—so no one had to wait in line.

Vanessa called this "nanny behavior," saying it lowered the company's standards.

What she didn't understand was that this "nanny behavior" gave everyone an extra twenty minutes of rest during lunch.

And then there were the countless messes I had to clean up.

Just last month, there was an important client reception. To show off her "taste," Vanessa ordered an expensive batch of imported flowers.

The florist delivered the wrong order—white chrysanthemums meant for funerals.

With only half an hour before the clients arrived, Vanessa could do nothing but shout in panic.

I rode my electric scooter through heavy rain, rushing to three different flower markets before finally securing the right arrangement—anthuriums and lilies. By the time I got back, I was soaked to the bone, only to be scolded by her for dirtying the carpet.

And then there was the printer. That old Xerox copier broke down several times a month. The administrative staff would simply report it for repair, hang up an "Out of Order" sign, and wait two days.

I was the one who took a screwdriver, watched repair videos online, and figured it out bit by bit.

Even replacing toner cartridges and cleaning out waste powder—I did those things secretly in the stairwell, wearing a mask, because Vanessa said the dust would pollute the office air.

As for the discounted rent for this office building—that was an even bigger coincidence.

Three years ago, I was jogging in a nearby park. As I passed by a small grove, I saw an elderly man collapsed on the ground.

People stood around watching, but no one dared to help.

I had learned first aid. Without hesitation, I stepped in, performed CPR, called emergency services, and stayed with him at the hospital until his family arrived.

That elderly man turned out to be the chairman of the Seagar Group, the property owner of this building—Mark Seagar.

Later, when the company was searching for office space, he learned that I worked here and personally instructed his son, Jonathan Seagar, to offer us a heavily discounted rate.

They even waived the first three years of property management fees and parking fees.

At the time, Jonathan had said to my boss right in front of me, "This is for Sandra's sake. She saved my father's life. You should treat her well."

Back then, the boss beamed like a flower, patting his chest as he promised to treat me like a younger sister.

Looking back now, this "younger sister's treatment" was nothing more than that dog bowl at the annual banquet.

They had grown used to this kind of comfort—taken it for granted, like the air they breathed.

Only when the air is stripped away will those high-and-mighty elites understand what suffocation truly feels like.

I raised a hand and flagged down a taxi.

"Home, please."

My phone vibrated—a bank notification. My salary had been deposited.

Just the base pay. No year-end bonus. They had even deducted the past few days' attendance.

A moment later, a message popped up on WhatsApp.

Vanessa: [Sandra, don't think you're off the hook just because you left. If you dare spread rumors about the company, I'll sue you for defamation.]

They probably really believed that discount had come from the boss's personal charm. Now that I was gone, the favor was gone. Everything would return to its true, transactional nature.

…

The holidays began.

The first thing I did after returning to my hometown was switch my phone to silent.

I blocked my ex-boss, Vanessa, and those former colleagues who used to do nothing but tag me in group chats—"change the water," "fix the lights," "pick up deliveries."

On the first morning, I woke to sunlight already spilling across the windowsill.

No more 5 a.m. ticket-booking calls. No more sudden repair requests lighting up my phone.

The silence was so complete it almost made me want to cry.

With nothing to do, I absentmindedly scrolled through TikTok.

Big data can be eerily precise—and cruel. It pushed me a local post. The cover image was a carefully edited collage of photos from the annual party.

The poster was none other than Vanessa. In the photos, she stood center stage, holding a glass of champagne, laughing as if she owned the world.

Her caption read: [Out with the old, in with the new. Removing negative energy from the team. Next year, I'll lead the administrative department onto the international stage!]

I tapped into the comments.

Just as I expected—it was lively.

A few familiar accounts chimed in below, their profile pictures belonging to the so-called "socialites" in the company.

Keisha Brody from reception commented: [Finally, don't have to deal with that hag's mood swings anymore. Always meddling in everything like someone's mom. She's so annoying. Last time I was just a little slow picking up a package, and she nagged forever.]

I let out a cold laugh.

What she called "nagging" was me reminding her that the package contained perishables that would spoil if not refrigerated.

Another girl from the finance department wrote: [Exactly. Dresses like a cleaning lady every day. Just standing at the front desk ruins the company's image. Vanessa is amazing—should've kicked her out long ago.]

Someone even posted a photo of that dog bowl in the comments.

The caption was even more vicious: [Some people should know their place. The annual party is for those who create value, not for janitors. Everyone belongs where they belong.]

As I read through the posts, I didn't feel angry.

If anything, I laughed.

They had no idea that what they called "low-skill work" was built upon a system held together by countless invisible details.

Like an iceberg—they only saw the polished surface above water, never realizing how vast the foundation beneath it truly was.

Just then, a message popped up. It was from Lisa Trudy, the only intern in the administrative department.

[Happy New Year, Sandra.]

A crying emoji followed.

[I don't want to stay anymore. Vanessa doesn't teach anything—she only scolds. You used to guide me step by step with spreadsheets and processes. Now that you're gone, I'm completely lost.

[And she told me to go back to the office during the holiday to feed the fish. She said if they die, she'll dock my pay. I told her I'd already gone back to my hometown, so she dropped it.]

Lisa had joined just a month ago. No one in administration had taken her under their wing. I couldn't bear to see it, so even though I was in logistics, I quietly taught her the administrative workflow.

Now, she was the only one in the company who understood that the sky was about to fall.

Me: [Don't rush to quit. There's a good show coming after the holiday. That tank of tropical fish is delicate—if the power and oxygen cut out for more than two hours, they'll start floating belly-up. Vanessa definitely has no idea where the backup power supply for the tank is.]

That tank of red arowana was the boss's prized possession, worth a fortune.

During the New Year holidays, the building would undergo electrical maintenance, cutting power for half a day.

Every year at times like this, I would go to the low-voltage room and switch on the backup power supply to keep the tank oxygenated.