After I Got Kicked Out, They Begged Me to Come Back

All the whispers, all the snide remarks—vanished instantly.

Freddy's face flushed red, then pale. His lips trembled, but no words came out.

I swept a cold glance around. Everyone averted their eyes, pretending to focus on their screens, their hands moving mechanically across keyboards or shuffling papers that didn't need sorting.

Without a word, I turned away.

In that suffocating silence, I walked back to my private office, closed the door behind me, and began packing my things.

My fingers brushed over the worn photo frame on my desk.

Inside one was a group photo—our team’s first major success after completing the initial module testing.

Everyone in that picture had a genuine smile and light in their eyes.

Now, everything had changed.

The anger burning in my chest slowly gave way to a deeper, colder sorrow.

Nine years.

Nine whole years.

I had poured the best years of my life into this place.

How many nights had I been the last one to turn off the lights in the office? How many weekends had I spent in the server room debugging alone? How many breakthroughs had I led the team through, grinding through the hardest technical challenges?

And this drone program, which won international awards and sold for hundreds of millions—its architecture, its original concept, its most difficult flight control algorithms and path planning systems—every line of core logic bore my sweat and sleepless nights.

Then last month, my mother fell critically ill and was hospitalized.

By that point, the main development phase was complete; what remained was tedious but low-complexity finishing work.

I was stretched thin, torn between work and family. I had no choice but to delegate.

That was when Lester—the diligent, mild-mannered intern—approached me, saying he was willing to help out so I could focus on my mother.

I was genuinely grateful. I gave him the repetitive, low-skill tasks: unit testing, interface debugging, coding and commenting on non-core modules, organizing documentation, and the like.

I even praised him publicly in a department meeting for being proactive and responsible.

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.

"Sir Harold, I was just being polite. You actually dared to take it seriously?" Lester chuckled softly, a hint of open mockery in his tone. "This money—I earned it with my skills. President Schmidt saw the truth clearly. She recognized my ability and my effort."

"I wrote the core code. I worked overtime. Why do you think you deserve this money more than me?"