The Chipmaker's Revenge

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 But he was proud and conceited, always sneering at my "outdated thinking" behind my back.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."