At the year-end company meeting, I was announcing the bonuses when a new employee suddenly raised her hand.

"Over at the other company, they handed out two boxes of imported cherries at their annual party," she said, shaking her phone. "And we only get performance bonuses?"

The video, maliciously edited, went viral online and hit the trending list the very next day.

I had the finance department cancel all the year-end bonus transfers.

"If cherries are what really count as a gesture of goodwill," I said, "then this year's year-end benefit will be cherries—fifty boxes per person."

When they saw the mountain of cherries piling up before them, the employees who had once joined in mocking me panicked instantly.

One by one, they cried and apologized, begging me to reconsider.

On the day of the year-end settlement meeting, I pushed the financial report to the center of the conference table.

"Profits grew forty percent this year," I said, looking from one side of the long table to the other. "Year-end bonuses will be three months' salary, and the money will be in your accounts by the end of the day."

Two dozen department heads sat along the sides of the table.

I waited for the smiles to spread across their faces. In past years, someone would have started clapping by now.

But this year, no one did.

Polly Malfoy, a newcomer who had joined three months ago, was the first to lift her head. She said, "Mr. Bassett, I heard that at Midea Tech's annual meeting, everyone got two big boxes of cherries."

The room fell abruptly silent.

I frowned. "What did you just say?"

"Cherries," she repeated, tracing a small circle on the tabletop. "Imported ones.

"One box costs seventy or eighty dollars. Two boxes are 160 dollars—and that doesn't even include the extra two months' salary they give."

I smiled, a thin, sharp smile. "Polly Malfoy, right? How much is your three months' salary?"

"6,000 dollars," she said, uncertain.

I scoffed. "And you think we should compete with them on perks? Or that I should swap three months' salary for a few boxes of fruit?"

She shook her head but didn't flinch. "It's not about competition. It's a matter of difference. And thoughtfulness."

"Thoughtfulness?"

"Yes," she said, leaning slightly forward, locking eyes with me. "Salary—more or less—is one thing. But they also gave their employees something tangible. Cherries on the coffee table, sharing them with the whole family… that's the feeling of the holiday."

At that moment, Lucy Rue from HR spoke up meekly, "Actually, I saw it on a friend's social feed. The cherries at Midea Tech were perfectly dark and red."

Another veteran employee spoke up, avoiding my gaze. "My wife asked me yesterday… She said our company did well this year, so why are we getting less than a smaller company next door? She said her friends' group chats were comparing who got more and better perks."

Then someone else hesitated before adding, "Mr. Bassett… employee happiness matters too. If we get more, we are motivated. We feel loyalty to the company."

One by one, it came out like a line of dominoes.

Six managers chimed in quietly. Their voices were soft, but each word cut deeper than any shout could.

Those avoiding my gaze chilled me more than those who dared to look directly at me.

I let out a cold laugh and swept my eyes across the room in silence.

It turned out that what I thought was generous—three months' salary for year-end bonuses—was considered "too little" when compared to two months' salary plus a couple of boxes of cherries elsewhere.

A chill ran through me. My eyes darkened with a cold, unreadable light.

The room went silent.

I said nothing. After a full minute of stillness, I finally said, "Meeting adjourned."

The scrape of chairs echoed sparsely as people got up.

I stayed seated, watching them leave in single file.

Polly glanced back at me as she walked out. Not with defiance, but with a trace of sly satisfaction.

I watched her retreating figure and remained thoughtful.

By three o'clock that afternoon, the ping of year-end bonus notifications echoed through every corner of the company.

Carrying my coffee past the marketing department, I caught fragments of conversation drifting from behind the cubicle walls.

"So our bonus is going to be three months' salary?"

"Mm."

"Well… that's not too bad."

"It's not bad, but over at Midea Tech, they gave cherries on top of the bonus. My college classmate works there—posted on social media. The boxes were huge. Dark, glossy red. Just looking at them makes you jealous."

"My wife even called to ask. She said they got both money and gifts, and wondered if our company's performance wasn't good, or…" He lowered his voice, "…if the boss is stingy."

Another voice cut in, "My parents asked too. Said the neighbor's kid's company gave so much more, and they asked what we got. I said money. They just said, 'Oh… just money?'—the tone alone felt suffocating."

"Yeah, but there's nothing we can do. That's just how our company is. Practical. As for sentiment? Forget it. Doesn't exist."

"Yeah… nothing to be done. The company gave us the bonus for convenience. Sentiment? Forget it."

Outside, daylight had dimmed without anyone noticing. Dark clouds pressed down, heavy, brewing a storm.

In the muted light, my expression was unreadable. I quickened my pace.

Back in my office, I had my assistant pull up Midea Tech's benefits report.

Last year, their net profit had been only half of ours. They'd given one month's salary as a bonus—but this year, suddenly two months, plus two boxes of cherries. Unit price on the procurement sheet: 83 each. Total cost: under ten thousand.

My assistant knocked lightly. "Mr. Bassett, there's something…"

"Speak."

"Polly and a few colleagues were chatting when someone filmed them. The video's online now."

I took the tablet.

In the video, Polly's eyes were red.

"I just feel wronged. The company earned more this year, so why are we getting less than the neighboring company? My parents are back home; I can't go home for the New Year again. I'm not asking for much—just even a box of cherries to send them, and I'd feel better…"

Someone patted her shoulder. "You're not wrong, Polly. Don't cry."

"Yeah… the company made so much more profit this year. How's it a problem to gift two more boxes of cherries?"

"Midea Tech already did it…"

There it was again—Midea Tech.

I scanned the video. There were people in it I had personally helped.

The son of a patient whose medical fees I had covered.

A divorced mother I promoted and allowed to leave early to care for her child.

A man I had taken in as an exception when he couldn't find a job and couldn't support his family—now a mid-to-senior executive.

My heart went cold.

Blood seemed to reverse in my veins. My hands hung by my sides, trembling slightly with anger and disappointment.

The video ended there.

The uploader captioned it: [Stingy company! Profits soared, yet employees are neglected. Is it wrong for staff to want a taste of the New Year?]

Shares had already passed three thousand; comments, eight thousand and climbing.

I scrolled through the comments.

The top-voted comment was: [Modern bosses only care about money. They make so much profit and give so little. Can't even spare a box of fruit?]

The other comments were nasty too.

[I bet all the profit went straight into their pockets. Such a big company—can't even gift cherries?]

[Haha, a small company next door gave two months' salary plus cherries. And this company's profit jumped forty percent? So stingy. Pathetic.]

[The girl just wanted to send a little to her parents. Is that wrong? The company's rich—they wouldn't die giving a bit more to employees.]

[Exactly. If I were an employee, I'd be heartbroken too. It isn't just about the money—it's the thought that's missing.]

[Support employee rights! Why can't workers ask for reasonable benefits?]

[The small company next door gave two months' salary plus two boxes of cherries. This giant company gave nothing—and still has the nerve to brag about profits?]

[Products from this company blacklisted. Boycott cold-blooded corporations!]

The comments surged like a tide, wave after wave.

The cruel part was that every single one assumed our bonuses were tiny. Nobody knew the actual amounts—and what broke my heart more, not a single employee had defended the company.

The video had been edited to highlight complaints about low bonuses and missing cherries. Actual figures were never mentioned.

Some commenters did the math: [Midea Tech gave two months' salary; this company gave less and no gifts. Absolute stinginess.]

Some compared: [Midea Tech is half the size but gave more and better. By comparison, the company looked like a vampire.]

Some went further: [The capitalist nature revealed. Profit growth had nothing to do with employees.]

My assistant whispered, "PR asked if we want to respond…"

I kept silent for a while.

"How should we handle this?" My voice was unnervingly calm. "If we release the actual numbers now, will anyone believe them?"

"They'll just say we made up the figures under public pressure. Or they'll ask why, with a forty-percent profit increase, we're only giving three months' salary. And the employees who joined the online uproar—will they step forward to clarify on the company's behalf?"

My assistant said nothing.

I stood and walked to the window. The final board meeting of the year was next week. I had planned to report profit growth and propose raises for the management team.

No need for that now.

I returned to my office and opened the PR department's social media report.

The video had been shared over ten thousand times. The hashtag "cold-blooded capitalist" ranked seventh in local trending searches.

The comment section had begun digging into the company's history. Some claimed we'd laid off employees ruthlessly two years ago, others said we were slow paying suppliers, and some even swore they'd seen me yell at security guards in the parking lot.

Truth and rumor were tangled together, indistinguishable, and the public was marching to the beat of someone else's drum.

At nine o'clock, I called everyone into the conference room.

"I've gathered you here today primarily regarding year-end bonuses."

I paused, letting my gaze slowly sweep across the room. Many instinctively avoided my eyes.

Everyone held their breath.

"You've all seen the online backlash. Since everyone thinks cherries represent thoughtfulness, starting tomorrow, the company will distribute cherries to every employee."

"Two boxes each, same quality as Midea Tech."

A sharp intake of breath ran through the room, followed by whispers.

"So he's finally compromising… Mr. Bassett actually softens sometimes."

Another voice piped up, "See? Nothing beats public opinion." There was a hint of schadenfreude in the tone.

"Yes," I continued. "Since the company's year-end bonus system doesn't satisfy everyone—everyone seems to think it's too little money and are envious of other companies' cherries…"

The corner of my mouth curved into a faint smile. "The original year-end bonuses are canceled. This year, year-end benefits will be issued in cherries—fifty boxes per person. Two boxes a day, every day, until the New Year."

There was silence.

Everyone froze.

Disbelief, shock, panic, regret—all played across the stiff faces before me.

Several seconds passed before someone's trembling voice broke the quiet.

"Mr. Bassett… are you saying… no bonus money?"