Jack leaned toward his neighbor, pitching his voice perfectly so I'd catch every word. "Zero talent, massive temper. Give it two days—he'll be on his knees begging Ms. Pruitt to take him back."
I reached for my noise-canceling headphones and drowned them out.
Then I navigated to a folder on my desktop: Support_Materials.
Inside lay a labyrinth of subfolders—by project, date, department. Seven years of work. Market analyses for Madison. Debugging logs for Blake. Presentation decks for Jack. The digital footprint of my competence, all claimed by others as their own.
I selected the root folder.
Shift + Delete.
Are you sure you want to permanently delete these items?
Enter.
The progress bar flashed, then vanished. Seven years of uncredited labor, gone. Not even the Recycle Bin.
Ten seconds. But physically, it felt like a concrete slab lifting off my chest.
At 5:00 PM sharp, the workday ended.
Usually, this just marked the start of overtime. But today, under stunned gazes, I shut down my computer. Screen went black.
I picked up my bag and walked out.
First time in seven years I'd left on time.
The evening air hit my face—cool, crisp, tasting distinctly of freedom.