Chapter 1: Outcast

The new director didn't even bother to look up from his phone when I walked in. "Why are you still here? Go make yourself useful somewhere else." His tone was sharp, the words landing like a slap.

His words hung in the air, cold and dismissive, as if I were just some forgettable face passing through. The way he delivered it—casual, not even a hint of empathy—stung more than I’d like to admit. In that moment, the fluorescent lights overhead felt a little harsher, the bland gray carpet beneath my feet even more suffocating.

Before leaving, I wanted to fix a bug, but he accused me of stealing code.

My fingers hovered over the keys, desperate to prove my worth, but my heart hammered so loud I could barely think. I’d never been treated like a criminal for doing my job before. The accusation was so sharp, I half-expected someone to call security.

"A graduate from a second-rate college—how good could their skills possibly be?"

His words cut straight through me, echoing in that awkward silence, loud enough for the nearest interns to hear. In the U.S., there’s always been this undercurrent of college snobbery, but hearing it tossed in my face like I was a total joke? That was next-level.

Soon after, the system was riddled with loopholes, setting off a chain reaction. The smart car project, which had been years in the making, was on the verge of collapse.

It was chaos—emails flying, panicked messages in every group chat, even the project leads pacing the halls with their phones glued to their ears. Sentinel’s once-stable code was now Swiss cheese, and every critical bug traced back to the parts I’d managed for years. It was like watching a Jenga tower collapse, block by block, in slow motion.

The director scrambled to get me back to put out the fire.

He called, emailed, even left a text pleading for me to help patch the disaster. But I’d seen this play before—suddenly I was the indispensable guy, but only after the ship started sinking. I let his emails pile up, unread. The next time my phone buzzed, it was a job offer from the one company Sentinel was terrified of.

But by then, the new electric vehicle developed by my new employer had smashed through 100,000 pre-orders on launch day.

The buzz was everywhere—on morning shows, auto blogs, TikTok. Every time my phone buzzed, it was another notification, another headline. My new badge still had that stiff, fresh-laminated smell. It felt like every long night and every overlooked idea was finally paying off.

I was busy attending the first batch delivery ceremony with my boss.

We were at this bright, glassy showroom, TV crews and local news reporters crammed between rows of shiny EVs. My boss handed out keys to the first buyers. The energy was electric—no pun intended. I even caught my reflection in the polished hood of our flagship model, grinning like a kid at Christmas.

I couldn't even be bothered to spare him a glance.

When my phone buzzed with yet another desperate email from the old director, I just silenced it and slipped it back into my pocket, barely resisting the urge to roll my eyes. I was finally where I belonged, and nothing—not his regret, not his petty insults—could pull me back.