Chapter 1: The Punchline of Loyalty

HR accidentally sent me the new hire’s pay stub. Every month, she takes home $2,500—exactly $1,400 more than me, the so-called veteran who’s worked my tail off for six years. And she’s only been here three months.

She can’t do anything, won’t learn a thing, and leans on me—her 'mentor'—for every little task. Fine, fine, fine. That’s pay inversion for you: veterans don’t count for squat.

I stared at the screen, knuckles white around my battered travel mug from last year’s company Secret Santa. Out in the open-plan office, someone cracked a joke about fantasy football while a half-eaten box of Krispy Kreme donuts sat forgotten in the break room. I tried to laugh it off, but my stomach twisted. This was classic corporate America—work your ass off and watch someone fresh out of college waltz in and cash a fat check while you do their job for them. The flickering fluorescent lights made my headache worse. Maybe it was finally time to wake up and smell the burnt office coffee: loyalty here was a punchline.

Even though HR yanked the email in seconds, I still saw it. Emily Harris, last month's net pay: $2,516. My brain just crashed right there. As the company’s most senior employee, my monthly take-home—on a good month—is just over $1,100. But a newcomer who’s only been here three months and still needs my guidance gets $1,400 more than me. A full $1,400. Tell me how that’s fair.

Six years ago, when I joined Starline Media, the company only had a handful of people. The office was in a run-down strip mall on the edge of town. I did everything: copywriting, operations, shooting video, editing—sometimes I even had to get in front of the camera myself. Countless nights, I racked my brain writing scripts, trying to make the content fresh and interesting. To get the best footage, I drove all over the city. A clip barely half a minute long still meant seven or eight hours straight at the computer, editing.

Hard work pays off. With a few viral videos, we seized the moment and Starline shot up in the short-form video world. Now, we have over ten million followers on TikTok. The company has grown and grown. The office has long since moved to a fancy downtown high-rise. The old coworkers who built the company with me have all gradually left. Only I stayed. I thought my place in the company, if not irreplaceable, was at least a pillar. But today, reality slapped me in the face.

With mixed feelings, I looked at Emily across from me. She was sipping an iced caramel macchiato, tapping away at her keyboard, occasionally pursing her lips and giggling. Clearly she was slacking off and chatting on Instagram. Meanwhile, I was putting aside my own mountain of work to help her fix her error-ridden copy. The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. The more I thought, the more it ate at me.

I suddenly stood up, swallowing my anger, and walked straight to the boss’s office. "Mr. Thompson, can you explain why Emily—who just started—makes twice what I do? I’ve been here six years."

Boss David Thompson was stunned at first, then frowned. "Jason, our company has a salary confidentiality policy. How can you just go around asking about other people’s pay?"

My hands shook a little, and I could hear the hum of the city below our windows. I squared my shoulders, thinking of all the late nights and weekends I'd given up for this company. My jaw clenched. No way was I backing down now—not when I’d earned every cent I was asking for.

My hands shook as I stood. Enough was enough.