Who would've thought that the "simple work" I assigned him somehow became the "core code" in Darlene's report.
And my reduced overtime—because I was caring for my dying mother—became "proof" of my laziness and lack of dedication.
The door creaked open softly.
A familiar figure stepped inside.
It was Lester.
He looked uneasy, guilt and hesitation written all over his face. He approached slowly.
"Sir Harold..." he began, voice low. "About that five million... I don't deserve it. The bonus should've been yours. I want to give it back."
I paused mid-pack, not looking up.
For a moment, the image of the timid young intern I’d once mentored surfaced in my mind—the way he’d hold his notebook nervously, his eyes shining with curiosity whenever he asked me questions.
"Alright," I finally said, lifting my gaze to meet his calmly. "Do it now. Transfer it to me. I'll wait."
The guilt on his face froze. It was as if someone had hit pause.
A flicker of surprise—and then irritation—crossed his eyes. He clearly hadn't expected me to take his words seriously.
After a moment of awkward silence, his lips curved into a smirk.