Two or three hundred unread messages flooded my phone—all from HR departments of well-known companies across the country, and even a dozen overseas giants.
The one that surprised me most was Genting Technology.
Before I joined Dalton, Genting had always led our country's chip industry. Over the past ten years, the chips I developed had hit the market one after another, and Dalton had snatched a huge number of orders from Genting. Conservatively, we had cost them billions in losses.
By all logic, they should have wanted nothing more than to see me gone. Yet here they were, extending an olive branch?
As I sat there in disbelief, my phone vibrated. A local, unfamiliar number was calling.
I answered, and a calm, warm voice spoke.
"Hello, I'm Greg Ramsay, CTO of Genting Technology. May I have the honor of inviting you for afternoon tea?"
Greg was approaching fifty, yet carried himself with the vigor of someone much younger. His body bore the traces of regular exercise, his eyes were bright, and there wasn't a hint of the usual arrogance one expects from a big-company executive.
Within three sentences of meeting, he got straight to the point.
"Josh, to show our sincerity, I'm giving you three conditions.
"First, you join as Director of the Technical Department, with full access to the highest-security labs. All company tech resources will be at your disposal. Research budgets require no approval—just expense them. No upper limit.
"Second, the company has prepared a 210-square-meter luxury flat for you in Roscoe City's financial district, in a top-tier school zone, plus a Maybach for commuting.
"Third, your monthly salary—"
He smiled and held up five fingers.
I was still reeling from the first two offers. Instinctively, I said, "Five thousand?"
Greg froze, then raised an eyebrow, a half-amused, half-exasperated smile on his face.
"Of course not. Fifty thousand. That doesn't even include year-end stock bonuses and guaranteed annual incentives starting at one million.
"Josh, you're revered worldwide in the chip field. How could you think you're only worth five thousand?"
I couldn't believe my ears and laughed in disbelief.
"At Dalton, I make two thousand a month, and my annual raise never exceeds two hundred."
Greg's smile vanished instantly. His expression darkened.
"I was curious why Dalton's cornerstone suddenly wanted to leave. Now I see—it's Zachary, blind to talent, treating a key contributor with utter neglect!"
He stood, gripping my hands with warmth and sincerity in his gaze.
"Josh, past or present, you are indisputably the top expert in our country's chip industry. I speak for Genting Technology, and for myself personally, when I sincerely invite you to join us. If you accept, I—your CTO—will step aside without hesitation. No obstacles, no conditions."
My chest tightened—not because of the jaw-dropping offers, but because of the unhidden admiration and respect in his eyes.
Ten years with Zachary had never given me a glimpse of anything like it.
Greg didn't pressure me for an immediate answer. He simply exchanged contact information and told me to take my time.
Back home, I recounted the surreal experience to my wife. She held our child in her arms, burying her face in my chest, tears of joy streaming down.
We agreed to finalize my resignation at Dalton first, then respond to Genting officially.
Time passed quickly, and soon, it was the first day back at work.
I slung my worn, faded backpack over my shoulders and rode my electric bike to the office, as usual. Everything looked the same, but I knew nothing was the same anymore.
I stopped at the pantry to brew a cup of coffee, resignation letter already written and tucked safely in my bag. I walked forward, head down, oblivious to the strange glances from colleagues.
It wasn't until a foul, pungent smell invaded my nostrils that I jerked my head up.
My workstation was gone. In its place stood two enormous trash bins, set side by side, right in the center of the office.
"Josh," Brian said, hands in his pockets, strolling over with a slow, deliberate swagger, his face brimming with unhidden provocation. "Aren't you usually the model worker? How come you're late today?"
"By the way," he added, smirking, "five minutes ago, Zachary officially appointed me Director of the Technical Department. From now on, everyone in tech answers to me.
"Everyone always complains about trash disposal being inconvenient, so I commandeered your spot—turned it into the trash zone. Josh, you won't mind, will you?"
His hostility didn't surprise me.
When he first joined the company, I had genuinely taken him under my wing, teaching him everything I knew without reservation. But he was proud and conceited, always sneering at my "outdated thinking" behind my back.
Just last week, he had shut down the backup data interface I had left in the Vespere chip, solely to force higher test performance. I had scolded him on the spot, warning that it was equivalent to triggering self-destruction—the entire chip would be ruined. From that day, he had harbored resentment.
Now, newly promoted, the first thing he did was assert authority by stepping on me.
I watched his blatant pride, but no anger rose in me. I asked, "Does Zachary know about this?"
Before he could respond, Zachary's voice came from behind.
"Brian reported it to me. I approved it."
He approached, suit pressed, belly protruding, patting my shoulder with a self-satisfied look of magnanimity.
"Josh, even though you've been with the company for ten years, you still have to follow the company's arrangements. Your desk should have been moved before the holiday, but I delayed it so you could have a good New Year. You should be grateful."
He gestured toward the short, worn desk and chair by the restroom.
Among the colleagues' stares—some curious, some sympathetic, some mocking—I walked over and set my bag on the desk.
The next second, it wobbled and collapsed entirely.
The laughter around me erupted louder.
Zachary stepped closer, lowering his voice, putting on a mock understanding expression.
"Josh, don't take it personally. Brian just started and wants to assert authority over you—let him have it. Don't worry, I'll compensate you…"
He waved five fingers in front of me.
I looked at him, my heart frozen with scorn. "Five hundred?"
"Hah! Fifty dollars!" Zachary slapped my shoulder, his face shaking with forced laughter.
"You've grown bold over the New Year, daring to ask for five hundred? Money's tight everywhere in the company. You're my bro; I expect you to understand…"
In the past, whenever he invoked the word bro, I swallowed my resentment. No matter how much I suffered, I would endure.
But now, I found it absurd, laughable.
"Being your bro means I have to swallow humiliation, get trampled underfoot, and not even deserve a proper desk?"
I looked at him, speaking each word deliberately, "If that's what it means, I'd rather be your enemy."
The office fell silent.
Zachary's smile froze, and his face darkened little by little. "Josh… what do you mean?"
For ten years, I had always complied, always retreated, always let him save face.
But not today.
I met his gaze calmly, my voice carrying across the entire office.
"Zachary, no need to rack your brain trying to force me out. I'm resigning. I don't want any compensation. I just want it done as fast as possible."
