My father was a senior HR executive.

He used KPIs to define my life.

"Rank top ten in your grade, and I'll give you a B, with a bonus of 250 dollars.

"Place in a state-level competition, and you'll get an A, with a bonus of 500.

"If your SAT score hits Ivy-level, I'll give you an S+ and a 5,000-dollar year-end bonus."

I studied as if my life depended on it, and in the end, I got the acceptance letter.

My father slapped a contract down in front of me instead.

"Congratulations on onboarding into the next phase. Starting today, your allowance will be structured as base salary plus performance plus attendance bonus.

"Base pay is 250 dollars a month, enough to keep you from starving.

"To prepare you for a high-pressure work environment, I’ll conduct random inspections. Fail, and your pay gets docked."

When I ran a 104°F fever, he cut my attendance bonus, saying my physical resilience didn't meet standards.

When I forgot to submit a weekly report because I was buried in schoolwork, he froze all my money.

To stay alive, I went behind his back and sold blood at the hospital.

At the end of the semester, I held my transcript and scholarship certificate, thinking I had finally earned the highest rating.

But my father looked at me without a trace of warmth.

"Your S+ bonus has been reallocated. The company decided to invest it in your brother, Harry. He has more potential."

I looked at the 100-dollar "consolation prize" he handed me and laughed.

So in his company, I didn't even qualify as an "outstanding employee."

The day my SAT ended, I thought I would be greeted with flowers and a hug.

Instead, I got a "Family Employment Contract."

My father sat on the couch, spinning a pen between his fingers, studying me like I was a candidate fresh out of college.

"Sit."

He pointed at the stiff wooden chair across from him.

Two documents lay on the coffee table. One was my acceptance letter from a top-tier college, majoring in a high-demand field.

The other was the contract.

"Walter, congratulations on completing all K-12 objectives. Per our prior verbal agreement, you've achieved an S+ performance rating."

My eyes lit up, my heart racing.

"So… The 5,000-dollar bonus?"

I had nearly killed myself for that money.

In my senior year, I barely slept a full night. Practice tests piled up high enough to fill the whole room, and my hair fell out in clumps.

My father smiled. "As for the S+ bonus distribution, after careful consideration, I've decided on a resource reallocation."

I froze. "What does that mean?"

"Harry has his high school entrance exams next year. You know he's the family's priority project. He's at a critical incubation stage."

He pushed the contract toward me like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Resources are limited. They have to be directed toward high-potential assets. Your bonus has been used to enroll him in an intensive prep program."

It felt like someone had dumped ice water over my head.

"Dad, that was my bonus! You promised!"

The words came out before I could stop them.

"Watch your tone."

His expression hardened, fingers tapping against the table.

"In the workplace, questioning your superior's decision is a major taboo. As a senior HR professional, I'm teaching you the rules. Besides, you're already a mature product. You don't require further investment."

He flipped open the first page of the contract.

"Since you're about to enter college, the family's obligation to you transitions to basic survival support. Starting today, your allowance will be structured as base salary plus performance plus attendance bonus. Base pay is 250 dollars a month. That covers your meals, transportation, phone bill, and all social expenses."

Two hundred and fifty?

In a place as expensive as Castlebrook, that wouldn't even stretch far enough for cheap cafeteria food without counting every dollar.

"That's not enough to live on," I said through clenched teeth.

"That's your problem." He looked at me coldly. "Cutting costs and increasing income are basic employee competencies. You can take a part-time job or earn scholarships. But…"

He tapped a clause on the contract.

"None of that can affect your academic KPIs. If your GPA drops below 3.5 or you fail a class, your base salary will be cut in half.

"Additionally, to prepare you for a high-pressure work environment, I'll conduct random inspections.

"Fail a dorm cleanliness check, minus 25 dollars. Miss a message, minus 10. Go over your weight limit, minus 50.

"Sign it."

He handed me the pen. There wasn't a trace of a father in his eyes, only the calculation of a boss managing cheap labor.

"You don't have to sign. But then you'll pay your own tuition, move out of the house, and we'll terminate this arrangement."

I stared at the pen, my eyes stinging.

I knew he meant it.

In the ten years since my mother died, he had used these cold KPIs to rank my brother, Harry Baker, and me into different tiers.

Harry was the core asset. I was disposable.

My hand trembled as I signed my name on the contract.

"Good."

He took it back, satisfied.

"Welcome to your new phase. Also, due to your insubordination just now, 100 dollars will be deducted from this month's base pay. You'll have 150 left."

I closed my eyes and forced the tears back down.

College life, for me, was a survival game.

To make sure that the remaining 150 dollars didn't get wiped out, I lived like a machine.

Every morning at 6 a.m., I was up memorizing vocabulary. To save money on breakfast, I drank water from the tap to fill my stomach.

The cheapest veggie dish in the dining hall was about three bucks. I would only get one serving each time and just keep going back for more rice since that was unlimited.

When my roommates invited me out for food, I always said I was "cutting weight." When the class went out to eat, I always had "something else."

Before long, I became the weird guy in class.

I didn't care. I just wanted to survive.

But the body isn't a machine.

When the first winter flu hit, I went down hard. My fever spiked to 104°F. It felt like I had been thrown into a furnace, heat seeping into my bones.

I lay on my dorm bed, too weak to even get up and pour a glass of water.

My phone buzzed.

It was "Mr. Baker," the name I had saved for my father.

[Where's your weekly report? Why hasn't it been submitted?]

The weekly report was another chain he had locked onto me.

Every Sunday before 8 p.m., I had to send a 1,000-word report covering my study progress, detailed expenses, and next week's plan.

I forced my eyes open, fingers trembling as I typed.

[Dad, I've got a 104-degree fever. Can I send it later?]

The message went out and disappeared into silence.

Ten minutes later, my phone chimed.

It wasn't words of concern, but a payment notification.

[You received 0.01 dollars.]

Then his voice message came through.

"Walter, physical fitness is a key part of workplace competitiveness. Breaking down at a critical moment shows your health management is completely inadequate. Since you failed to submit your weekly report on time and missed evening study due to illness, your attendance bonus is canceled, and your performance rating is C.

"Next month's allowance will be suspended as a disciplinary measure."

I listened to his cold voice, tears slipping into my pillow.

Suspended?

I didn't even have money for fever medicine. I had six dollars left on my card.

"Dad… I feel awful. Can you lend me 50 bucks so I can see a doctor? Just treat it as an advance on my pay…"

My voice shook as I sent it.

A long time passed before he replied.

"The company doesn't provide salary advances. Figure it out yourself. Don't expect the company to bail you out."

At that moment, something inside me went dead. The fever blurred everything. I honestly thought I might not make it.

One of my roommates noticed something was wrong and carried me straight to the campus clinic without a word.

The registration, blood test, and IV drip all came to over 150 dollars.

My roommate paid for it.

Watching the fluid drip down the IV line, all I could think of wasn't gratitude; it was how I was going to pay him back.

The next day, the fever had barely broken when I pulled the needle out myself.

Without telling anyone, I went to an underground blood-selling clinic.

There was a waiting period for legal donations. I didn't have time for that.

The place reeked of cigarette smoke. The needle was thick enough to make your skin crawl.

"Four hundred milliliters. A hundred and sixty dollars."

The guy tossed a few wrinkled bills at me.

I used most of it to pay my roommate back. With what was left, I bought two plain dinner rolls.

Biting into the cold bread, I opened my social feed.

I saw a new post from my father.

The photo showed Harry wearing a brand-new pair of Nike sneakers. In front of him sat a whole buttered lobster.

The caption read, [Empowering high-potential assets. Eat well, think fast. Son, keep it up. I've always got your back.]

The timestamp matched exactly when I had been burning up with a fever, begging him for 50 dollars for medicine.

I chewed the dry bread, tears and snot running down my face.

So in his portfolio, I was the kind of asset he cut losses on without hesitation.

After selling my blood just to stay alive, something in me changed for good.

I stopped sending my father those desperate messages. I still turned in the weekly reports, but they were nothing but copy-pasted filler, empty words that said nothing.

I started taking on every job I could find.

Picking up packages for people, bussing trays in the dining hall, tutoring on weekends, even posing as a paid model for art students.

If it made money and wasn't illegal, I did it.

One afternoon, right after I got back from a tutoring session, I saw my father standing outside my dorm building.

The moment he spotted me, he raised his voice. "Walter!"

My chest tightened.

"I hear you've been very busy lately." He walked up to me.

"Running side gigs unrelated to your primary responsibilities. Did you think the contract was just for show? If your Aunt Cecelia hadn't told me, I wouldn't even know you had the nerve to take on private work behind my back!"

My aunt, Cecelia Baker, lived nearby, so it made sense she knew.

People around us had already started to look over.

"I need money to live," I said quietly, fists clenched.

"Need money? What about your base salary?"

"You suspended it."

He let out a cold laugh, his voice rising sharply.

"I suspended it because your performance didn't meet standards. You made mistakes, showed no remorse, and now you're secretly generating secondary income and setting up a private fund? This is a serious violation."

More people stopped to watch. My face burned. I wanted to disappear into the ground.

"Dad, can we talk about this somewhere else?"

"Somewhere else? Why? What's there to hide? I'm going to audit your personal account right now."

He yanked my backpack off my shoulder and dumped everything onto the ground in front of everyone.

My books, notes, and a pen fell out, along with the 400 dollars I had just earned from tutoring, along with the debit card that held every dollar I had bled for.

He picked up the card and sneered.

"Just as I thought. Walter, you've got some nerve."

"Give it back!" My eyes burned red.

That was my lifeline.

He stepped back, gripping the card and the cash tightly.

"According to company policy, all unauthorized income will be confiscated. This card will also be frozen until you fully recognize your mistake."

After he finished lecturing me, he walked off with every dollar I had.

I crouched there, picking my things up one by one, tears falling like they wouldn't stop.

Now, the clause in that contract about a ten-thousand-dollar bonus for winning a national merit scholarship had become my only way to survive.