Chapter 5: Exit Wounds

I was boiling with frustration and nowhere to vent.

I stomped back to my cubicle, the hallway suddenly feeling miles long. Every step echoed with anger and disbelief. I tried not to let anyone see my hands shaking as I started pulling my things together.

The break room still smelled like burnt popcorn from someone’s lunch, and a faded motivational poster—TEAMWORK MAKES THE DREAM WORK—hung crooked by the coffee machine. Back at my desk, my close colleagues looked at me with sympathy.

The usual office buzz had died down. A couple of folks offered small, helpless smiles; others avoided eye contact, as if afraid the same fate might befall them.

Sam saw me packing up and rushed over. "Michael, are you really taking the transfer?"

Sam’s voice was thick with disbelief, eyes wide as if he’d just watched someone cancel Christmas.

I forced a smile. "It's not a transfer, it's resignation. I'm out today."

I tried to make it sound casual, but the words felt heavy. The cardboard box in my hands felt even heavier.

Damn it.

I muttered it under my breath, but Sam heard me. He patted my back in solidarity—a classic, wordless gesture of support.

I was full of ambition, ready to shine in the new business.

I’d spent months sketching out ideas, running simulations, dreaming of finally seeing my work on the road. It was supposed to be my time to step up.

But because of my 'lowly background,' I got kicked out of the team.

It stung—talent meant nothing to this guy, just pedigree.

Who am I supposed to complain to?

There’s no HR hotline for being undervalued by elitists. I looked around, half-wishing there was a suggestion box labeled "Fix Office Politics."

Sam slapped the desk. "Michael is the only one who really understands the redundancy system architecture! What is this guy thinking?"

His frustration echoed mine. The rest of the team started chiming in—voices low but urgent.

Colleagues chimed in: "Losing Michael now? That’s a disaster. Who’s gonna keep this thing from crashing and burning?"

Someone leaned over their cubicle wall, worry etched on their face. I could see the stress lines deepening by the second.

"The schedule was already tight. Is this leader nuts?"

Another voice piped up from across the aisle. You could feel the anxiety spreading like wildfire.

"Keep your voices down, don't let anyone hear."

A whispered warning—a reminder that walls had ears, and self-preservation was king. Office paranoia at its finest.

I sighed.

All I could do was offer a weak shrug. There was nothing left to say.

After thinking it over, I submitted the debugged code version.

I took a deep breath and hit send, hoping someone would notice the care I’d put in, even on my way out. It was a small act of defiance—leaving things better than I found them.

Even if I'm leaving, I want to do my part to the end.

It’s the American way: finish strong, even if nobody’s watching.

But the moment I hit submit—

A pop-up appeared: User permissions invalid.

My screen flashed a harsh red warning. Locked out, just like that. I blinked, not quite believing how fast they’d pulled the plug.

Just then, Robert Jennings strode over.

He must’ve been waiting, lurking just out of sight. His footsteps were heavy, deliberate, like he wanted everyone to know he was in charge.

"Michael, what are you doing?"

His tone was sharp, accusatory. Heads started to turn. Suddenly, the office felt twice as small.

I was stunned.

I froze, hands still hovering above the keyboard, caught mid-motion.

Before I could respond, he barked, "Company policy states that departing employees cannot modify or copy any files or code."

His voice carried across the open office. People stopped typing, pretending not to eavesdrop. My heart pounded so hard, I could feel it in my throat.

In an instant, every head in the office turned my way.

It was like being put on trial in the middle of Times Square. The embarrassment was suffocating.

My face burned. It felt like a slap.

My cheeks went hot, a mix of humiliation and anger. I stared down at my shoes, fighting the urge to lash out.

Robert Jennings actually suspected me of trying to steal code?

I couldn’t believe it. A decade of loyalty, and now I was a criminal in his eyes.

I was furious. "I just wanted to submit a bug fix. Not modifying, let alone copying."

I forced the words out through gritted teeth, barely keeping my composure. Every eye in the place was on me, waiting for the drama to unfold.

Robert Jennings sneered. "Who'd believe that? People with your kind of education—you never know what you might try. For the safety of company data and code, you're not allowed to access anything on this computer. Pack up and leave."

The final humiliation. He said it loud enough for the whole floor to hear. I stared at the computer screen, wishing I could wipe away every trace of my work from their servers.