"Do I need to remind you what Section Three of Chapter Seven in the company's Information Security Policy says?"

"Or would you prefer I refresh your memory right now?"

The fake smile froze on his face. A flicker of panic crossed his eyes, and he instinctively took half a step back.

"And you." I turned to the female colleague who'd said I was "past thirty and unwanted." "Ms. Whitney, I recall your resume claims you're proficient in machine learning algorithms."

"Would you like me to read aloud a passage from that analysis report you submitted last month—the one with more holes than a sieve—so everyone can evaluate your level of 'proficiency'?"

"Or perhaps we should ask the Marketing colleagues who got burned by your faulty algorithm recommendation how they felt about it?"

Antonia Whitney's neck stiffened, ready to fire back.

But under the suddenly shifted gazes around her, she didn't dare make a sound.

I swept my eyes across the room, letting them settle on the ones who'd been most enthusiastic in piling on.

"And you lot—the records of you slacking off during work hours, day-trading, binge-watching shows, gossiping. Want me to pull the backend system cache and help you relive those highlights? Then forward them to Ms. Pruitt?"

"Philip Lawrence in IT and I get along pretty well. Shouldn't be any trouble."

The air turned to ice.

The office that had been buzzing with noise moments ago was now silent enough to hear a pin drop.

Face after face cycled through red and white, veins pulsing at temples. Not a trace of mockery remained—only humiliation and fear.

They'd grown accustomed to making me their entertainment.

What they hadn't expected was that the guy who always kept his head down, grinding away without a shred of social awareness, actually knew this much.

Clint stood at a distance, that easy smile of his finally cracking. His gaze turned dark as he watched me.

I didn't look at him again. Didn't look at anyone.

The few odds and ends I'd planned to pack suddenly seemed pointless.

I bent down, picked up the half-filled cardboard box, and walked out.

I'd just reached the base of my apartment building when my phone rang.

The name flashing on the screen: Naomi.

I answered. Said nothing.

"Max!"

Her voice dripped with displeasure, crashing down like a wave.

"Do you have any idea what time it is? What's going on with the Hengtai proposal?"

"The client's asked three times already. I told you I needed the first draft before end of day."

"You're not picking up your desk phone, you're not at your workstation—"

"Where the hell are you?"

I looked up at the warm glow spilling from my apartment window. My voice stayed flat.

"Ms. Pruitt, I've already resigned and gone home. My resignation letter—didn't you throw it away?"

Dead silence on the other end.

Then her voice shot up an octave, that imperious tone thickening.

"Max! Are you done with this tantrum? I told you, that whole thing is in the past!"

"Next year's promotion and raise—I guarantee I'll make it happen!"

"You're still hung up on that bit of year-end bonus? Seriously? It's not that big a deal!"

"Do you have any sense of the bigger picture? The company needs you right now!"

I almost laughed.

"Ms. Pruitt, is your 'bigger picture' giving two hundred fifty dollars to the people who actually do the work, while the ones who kiss ass and steal credit walk away with a hundred eighty thousand?"

"Is your 'bigger picture' dangling carrots year after year, working the oxen until they drop dead in the harness?"

"You—"

Naomi choked on her words. After a breath, her tone softened slightly.

But it still carried that air of condescension, like she was doing me a favor.

"Max, I know you're upset."

"But Clint... he does fit certain aspects of what the company needs right now."

"You're a veteran employee. You need to understand the company's difficulties and strategic adjustments."

"Come back and finish the proposal. I'll have HR process your raise right away—twenty percent to start. How does that sound?"

"The Hengtai project can't move forward without you!"

"Can't move forward without me?" I let out a dry laugh. "Ms. Pruitt, you flatter me."

"Your company is overflowing with talent. Especially certain people."

"Outstanding capabilities. High emotional intelligence. PowerPoint presentations that could win awards."

"A simple Hengtai proposal? Child's play for someone like that."

"I suggest you save the opportunity for those who truly need it."

"Like, say, the one who walked away with that hundred-and-eighty-thousand-dollar bonus."

"Max!" Naomi's voice turned to ice, laced with threat. "Don't bite the hand that feeds you. You think you'll find anything better out there after leaving this company?"

"You think your outdated skill set is in high demand?"

"Let me make this clear—walk out that door today, and don't expect to come crawling back."

"If the Hengtai project falls through because of you, can you even afford to take that responsibility—"

I cut her off, my voice steady. "Ms. Pruitt, the moment you threw my resignation letter in the trash, any responsibility between me and this company ceased to exist."

"The Hengtai project benefits someone. That someone can take responsibility."

"As for my future..."

I watched the motion-sensor light in the hallway flicker on, casting its warm yellow glow.

"That's no longer your concern."

I hung up before she could say another word.

Silence. Finally.

I held the near-empty cardboard box against my chest and climbed the stairs, one step at a time.

The road ahead was uncertain. Maybe even lined with thorns.

But at least I'd never again have to chase a carrot that was always just out of reach. Never again have to choke on the stench of shameless flattery.

When I got home, my wife was clearing the dinner table.

She looked up as I walked in, surprise flickering across her face. "You're home early?"

I set down the box. No point in hiding it. I told her everything—the bonus, the betrayal, all of it.

"So I quit."

I braced myself for her disappointment.

It never came. Instead, she walked over and took my hands in hers, her voice soft.

"It's okay. If you quit, you quit."

"These past few years... you've worked yourself to the bone. And you've never really been happy."

"I've seen it all along. It's broken my heart."

My throat tightened. I pulled her into my arms and held on.

She patted my back gently, then asked if I was hungry.

I nodded. She disappeared into the kitchen.

Minutes later, a steaming bowl of egg noodles appeared before me.

She sat across the table, chin propped in her hand, watching me eat.

"What's the plan now?"

"Haven't really thought it through." I slurped a mouthful of noodles. "After the new year, I'll scope out the industry. Maybe... pick up some freelance work?"

"Mm. You're good at what you do. Someone will want you." Her tone left no room for doubt. "Just don't rush it. Your health comes first."

I nodded.

The broth was warm, spreading from my throat all the way down to my stomach.

All these years, I'd always eaten in a hurry. Racing to finish proposals, scrambling to save time. I'd never once stopped to taste what my wife's noodles actually tasted like.

Tonight, I did. It tasted like home.

After dinner, I volunteered to do the dishes.

Outside the window, night deepened. The city lights blinked on, one cluster after another.

Right about now, the office was probably still blazing with fluorescent light. Clint was probably cradling his coffee, pitching some "fresh perspective" to Naomi.

But none of that was my problem anymore.

I finished cleaning the kitchen and walked back to the living room.

That's when my phone buzzed in my pocket.

A text from Naomi. Every word dripped with fury:

"Max, I'm giving you one last chance. Send me the Sterlinggate proposal by nine o'clock."

"My patience has limits. Don't burn every bridge you have."

"If you don't, I guarantee you'll regret it."

I stared at the screen, the corner of my mouth twitching into something that wasn't quite a smile.

My fingers tapped out a reply:

"Ms. Pruitt, I won't have any regrets."