Surviving My Father’s KPIs

College life, for me, was a survival game.

To make sure that the remaining 150 dollars didn't get wiped out, I lived like a machine.

Every morning at 6 a.m., I was up memorizing vocabulary. To save money on breakfast, I drank water from the tap to fill my stomach.

The cheapest veggie dish in the dining hall was about three bucks. I would only get one serving each time and just keep going back for more rice since that was unlimited.

When my roommates invited me out for food, I always said I was "cutting weight." When the class went out to eat, I always had "something else."

Before long, I became the weird guy in class.

I didn't care. I just wanted to survive.

But the body isn't a machine.

When the first winter flu hit, I went down hard. My fever spiked to 104°F. It felt like I had been thrown into a furnace, heat seeping into my bones.

I lay on my dorm bed, too weak to even get up and pour a glass of water.

My phone buzzed.

It was "Mr. Baker," the name I had saved for my father.

[Where's your weekly report? Why hasn't it been submitted?]

The weekly report was another chain he had locked onto me.

Every Sunday before 8 p.m., I had to send a 1,000-word report covering my study progress, detailed expenses, and next week's plan.

I forced my eyes open, fingers trembling as I typed.

[Dad, I've got a 104-degree fever. Can I send it later?]

The message went out and disappeared into silence.

Ten minutes later, my phone chimed.

It wasn't words of concern, but a payment notification.

[You received 0.01 dollars.]

Then his voice message came through.

"Walter, physical fitness is a key part of workplace competitiveness. Breaking down at a critical moment shows your health management is completely inadequate. Since you failed to submit your weekly report on time and missed evening study due to illness, your attendance bonus is canceled, and your performance rating is C.

"Next month's allowance will be suspended as a disciplinary measure."

I listened to his cold voice, tears slipping into my pillow.

Suspended?

I didn't even have money for fever medicine. I had six dollars left on my card.

"Dad… I feel awful. Can you lend me 50 bucks so I can see a doctor? Just treat it as an advance on my pay…"

My voice shook as I sent it.

A long time passed before he replied.

"The company doesn't provide salary advances. Figure it out yourself. Don't expect the company to bail you out."

At that moment, something inside me went dead. The fever blurred everything. I honestly thought I might not make it.

One of my roommates noticed something was wrong and carried me straight to the campus clinic without a word.

The registration, blood test, and IV drip all came to over 150 dollars.

My roommate paid for it.

Watching the fluid drip down the IV line, all I could think of wasn't gratitude; it was how I was going to pay him back.

The next day, the fever had barely broken when I pulled the needle out myself.

Without telling anyone, I went to an underground blood-selling clinic.

There was a waiting period for legal donations. I didn't have time for that.

The place reeked of cigarette smoke. The needle was thick enough to make your skin crawl.

"Four hundred milliliters. A hundred and sixty dollars."

The guy tossed a few wrinkled bills at me.

I used most of it to pay my roommate back. With what was left, I bought two plain dinner rolls.

Biting into the cold bread, I opened my social feed.

I saw a new post from my father.

The photo showed Harry wearing a brand-new pair of Nike sneakers. In front of him sat a whole buttered lobster.

The caption read, [Empowering high-potential assets. Eat well, think fast. Son, keep it up. I've always got your back.]

The timestamp matched exactly when I had been burning up with a fever, begging him for 50 dollars for medicine.

I chewed the dry bread, tears and snot running down my face.

So in his portfolio, I was the kind of asset he cut losses on without hesitation.