1 I had worked at Horizon Holdings for three years without a single late arrival on my record. This afternoon, the layoff notice went up. Right there on the third line was my employee ID. Fine by me. It took me exactly ten minutes to hand over my responsibilities, pack my things into a cardboard box, and walk out. But right at the main entrance, the CEO’s daughter blocked my path. She looked completely innocent. “Um, firing you was just a little show for my boyfriend. You can come back to work now.” I looked at the exit clearance papers in my hand, covered in official red stamps, and then looked back at her. “Miss Sinclair, do you think if I eat this piece of paper right now, we can pretend none of this happened?” … Monday, 11:40 AM. Twenty minutes before lunch. I was still debating whether to grab a turkey sub or some takeout tacos when Lily from Administration rushed over to my desk. “Luke! The bulletin board! Go look, quickly!” Her face was pale, like she’d seen a ghost. I let go of my mouse and walked down to the end of the hallway. A crowd of colleagues had already gathered around the board, whispering and buzzing with nervous energy. I squeezed through the gap and cast my eyes over the paper. Notice of Third-Quarter Personnel Optimization and Restructuring Underneath was a list of employee IDs and names. Third line. ID: HZ-20210315. Name: Luke Benson. Department: Technical Operations and Infrastructure. Oh. I stared at those words for three seconds. Then I turned around and walked back to my desk. The quiet murmurs of my coworkers followed me. “Luke is on the list?” “Isn’t he the guy who maintains the entire company system?” “It’s not like he’s the only one who can do that job, right?” Right. I wasn’t the only one. I sat back down in my chair and pulled open my desk drawer. There wasn’t much inside. A thermos, an unopened pack of wet wipes, and a thick LSAT prep guide, something I had bought on my very first day at Horizon and hadn’t opened once. I swept everything into a small cardboard box. Then I sent a quick message to Marcus, my department head: “Marcus, I saw the list. How do you want to handle the transition of my tasks?” Marcus replied instantly: “Wait, you’re on the list? I haven’t even looked yet… hold on, don’t pack up, let me ask around.” I didn’t wait. I opened my computer, updated the last-modified dates on my three main server maintenance documents, and saved them to the shared network drive. Then I composed a brief email to the department group. Subject: Ops Transition Memorandum The body of the email contained only one sentence: “All system admin credentials, server configurations, and third-party API documentation are saved in the shared drive under the folder ‘Luke Benson – Ops’. If you run into issues, refer to the documents.” Send. I checked the time. Exactly eight minutes had passed since I saw the notice. I shut down the computer, unplugged my flash drive, and unclipped my ID badge. The box wasn’t heavy, easily cradled in one arm. I stood up and took one last look at the cubicle where I had sat for three years. On the divider, there was a sticky note from last year: “Remember to swap out the backup hard drives in the server room on Friday.” I peeled it off, crumpled it into a ball, and tossed it into the trash. My colleagues watched me in silence. No one spoke. No one came over to say goodbye. That was fine. When layoffs happen, the survivors are usually too busy feeling relieved and terrified of being next to offer any real sympathy. I walked to the HR office and knocked twice. Audrey, the HR supervisor, opened the door. She froze when she saw me. “That was fast.” “Let’s get the paperwork over with,” I said. Audrey gave a slightly awkward smile and handed me a stack of papers. Termination agreement, non-compete waiver, final payroll confirmation. I signed them one by one. “About the non-compete,” Audrey said quietly. “Standard protocol means we wouldn’t usually waive this for someone of your level, but since you were put on the list, management decided to release you from it directly to keep things simple.” I nodded. No non-compete meant I could go to a competitor tomorrow. I guess that was the only real perk of getting laid off. As I signed the last line, Audrey stamped the documents with the official corporate seal. “Thanks for your hard work, Luke. Your severance will be deposited by the end of the month.” “Sounds good.” All in all, ten minutes. Three years of my career, wrapped up and filed away in ten minutes. I walked out of the HR office with my cardboard box, crossed the lobby, passed the bulletin board, and stepped into the elevator. I was alone in the elevator car. I looked down at the box. The thermos, the wipes, the pristine LSAT prep book. It felt incredibly light. I wasn’t even sad. Three years at Horizon, earning eighty thousand a year, a perfectly average salary. My daily grind consisted of maintaining the company’s internal intranet, keeping the servers running, and dealing with various messy software integrations. To put it bluntly, I was just the IT guy. Firing the IT guy was a standard corporate move. The elevator doors opened on the first floor. The bright midday sun made me squint. A few people were bustling across the lobby, paying no attention to me. I headed toward the glass entrance doors. And then I stopped. Someone was blocking the exit. Specifically, a young woman wearing a cream-colored dress and high heels. Sienna Sinclair. The only daughter of our CEO, Arthur Sinclair. A mythical figure around the office. She rarely ever set foot in the building. But here she was today, standing right in front of me. She glanced at the box in my hands, then at the empty space on my shirt where my badge used to hang. “Are you Luke Benson?” she asked. I nodded. “Look…” She glanced around, dropping her voice to a whisper. “The whole firing thing? It’s not real.” I stared at her. “Excuse me?” “I had them add your employee ID to the list,” she said casually, as if she were talking about the weather. I didn’t say anything. She continued to explain, “My boyfriend, Zach, is a bit of a jealous type. He hates the idea of some guy constantly coming around to help me fix my laptop or whatever. I just wanted to put on a little show for him to make him feel secure, to let him see that you were gone.” “So you just…” “Yeah, it was just a little act. Don’t worry about it. I’ll talk to my dad later, and you can just come back tomorrow like nothing happened.” She finished speaking and flashed me a sweet smile. It was so sweet that for a second, I thought I was losing my mind. “Miss Sinclair.” “Yes?” I shifted the box to my left arm and reached into my pocket with my right hand, pulling out a sheet of paper. My official termination letter. Complete with the bright red HR stamp and signatures. “The paperwork is already done.” Sienna’s smile faltered. “What do you mean?” “It means I’ve already signed the exit agreement, HR has stamped it, my severance is locked in, and my non-compete is waived.” I gave the paper a gentle wave in front of her face. “Legally speaking, once this is signed by both parties, the employment relationship is officially over. It’s binding.” “Why… why did you sign it so fast?!” “My name was on the list. Did you expect me to sit around and wait for a formal farewell party?” Sienna was stunned. She clearly hadn’t anticipated that anyone would execute their exit paperwork within ten minutes of a layoff notice. “Wait a second, let me make a phone call right now…” “Miss Sinclair,” I interrupted, stepping around her. “A piece of advice.” “Next time you want to put on a show, make sure you brief your actors first.” Then I walked out. Behind me, the sharp click-clack of her heels hurried after me. “Wait! Luke! Stop right there!” I didn’t look back. The security guard at the door looked at me, then at Sienna chasing after me, completely bewildered. I gave him a nod. “Take care, Gary.” “Take care, Luke,” Gary replied automatically. And then he watched the CEO’s daughter stand frozen at the glass doors, looking like a lost mannequin in her high heels. The sun was warm. And for my first day of unemployment, the sky looked incredibly blue. 2 First thing I did when I got home was draw the curtains. Second thing was toss the cardboard box into a dusty corner. Third thing, I collapsed onto the couch and turned on the TV. A food documentary was playing, focusing on slow-smoked Texas brisket. The bark on the meat looked perfectly dark, the fat glistening and rendering down. Perfect. I watched the screen for about ten minutes before my phone buzzed. It was a message from Marcus, my old boss. “Luke, did you really leave? I just talked to HR, and they said you signed the papers. Why didn’t you wait for me?” I replied with a simple “Yep.” My phone buzzed again. “Man, don’t panic. Let me see if I can get them to roll it back…” “Don’t bother, Marcus. The ink is dry, and honestly, it’s fine.” “But…” “All the handover documents are in the shared drive. The passwords are there too. Just have Pete take over.” “Pete? He barely knows how to install a printer driver…” “Then he’ll have to learn.” I flipped my phone face-down on the couch and went back to watching the brisket. Half an hour later, the phone started vibrating violently. It wasn’t Marcus this time. It was the departmental group chat. Messages were flying in one after another. Pete: “@All, uh… the internal payroll and HR portal Luke used to manage is down. Does anyone have the admin password?” Three minutes later. Pete: “Urgent! Anyone? I’m locked out.” Five minutes later. A guy from Marketing popped into the chat: “Our project tracking platform is completely inaccessible. It says the security certificate expired. Who’s running this?” Ray: “…That was Luke’s domain.” Marketing: “Where is he?” Ray: “He’s gone. Laid off today.” Marketing: “WTF??” I quietly left the group chat. Not my circus, not my monkeys. The brisket segment finished, followed by a piece on wood-fired Italian pizzas. My phone buzzed again. A direct message. From Ray. Ray and I got along well enough, occasionally grabbing beers after work. “Luke, I’m looking at your handover folder on the shared drive. Quick question…” “Yeah?” “The ‘Core Credentials Master List’ is password-protected. What’s the key?” I stared at the screen for three seconds. “It’s in the metadata tooltips.” A minute later… “I don’t see any tooltips?” “Hover your mouse over the file icon and hold it there for two seconds. A dialog box will pop up.” Two minutes later… “Luke, it popped up. But it says: ‘This master password is tied to the active administrator’s security token. Upon employee termination, access is automatically revoked. Please contact your IT Systems Architect to reset.’” “Then contact the IT Systems Architect to reset it.” “Who the hell is the IT Systems Architect?” “Up until ten o’clock this morning, it was me.” There was a long silence from Ray. So long that I thought his phone had died. Then he sent a single word: “Damn.” I locked my phone and went into the kitchen to boil some pasta. Before the water even reached a boil, there was a knock on my door. I walked over and peered through the peephole. A middle-aged man in a slightly rumpled suit stood there, clutching a briefcase and wiping sweat from his forehead. I didn’t recognize him. “Can I help you?” I called out. “Mr. Benson? I’m from Horizon Holdings’ administration department. My name is Mason.” I opened the door. Mr. Mason took a deep breath, trying to summon a professional smile. “Mr. Benson, look, regarding this afternoon—” “I’m not coming back.” His smile froze. “I haven’t even said anything yet—” “You’re here to ask me to come back to work, aren’t you?” The look of sheer panic on his face told me everything. “Well, Mr. Sinclair sent me personally. He said there was a massive clerical error in the layoff list. Your employee ID was never meant to be on there. It was all a misunderstanding…” “Mr. Mason.” I leaned against the doorframe. “You have a copy of the exit agreement I signed, right?” “Well, yes—” “Take a look at the stamp on it. Is that the official corporate seal?” “Yes…” “And the date? Is it today?” “Yes, but—” “Then do you really think a legally binding bilateral contract can be dissolved by calling it a ‘misunderstanding’?” Mr. Mason’s mouth opened and closed, opened and closed. He looked exactly like a fish gasping for air on dry land. “Mr. Benson, please. If you could just come back to the office, we can negotiate the terms of the agreement—” “I appreciate your hustle, Mr. Mason, but my pasta is on the stove. If I don’t get back to it, it’s going to turn to mush.” I gently closed the door. Through the wood, I could hear his muffled voice: “Mr. Benson? Luke? Please reconsider! I’ll wait out here!” I went back to the kitchen, drained the pasta, and tossed it with some garlic, olive oil, and red pepper flakes. Simple, clean, and perfectly al dente. It tasted infinitely better than anything from the company cafeteria. Eventually, the hallway went quiet. Mr. Mason had left. I finished my meal, washed the dishes, and decided to take a nap. My phone screen kept lighting up, notifications piling up on the lock screen. I glanced at them. One of them was an automated system-wide email from Horizon Holdings. Subject: Retraction of Third-Quarter Personnel Notice I clicked it open and read the first couple of lines. “Due to an administrative data entry error, Employee ID HZ-20210315 (Luke Benson) was mistakenly included on the list. The notice regarding said employee is hereby retracted…” Too late. I tossed the phone onto my nightstand. Time for a nap. I was a free man now. 3 At 3:30 PM, my landline rang, waking me up. Yes, I still had a landline. Usually, it was only used by delivery guys or telemarketers. I groggily picked up the receiver. “Hello?” “Luke Benson? This is the Office of the Chairman at Horizon Holdings.” The voice was deep, authoritative, and instantly recognizable. My sleepiness vanished. Arthur Sinclair. The big boss of Horizon Holdings. Sienna’s father. I sat up. “Hello, Mr. Sinclair.” “Luke, today was an absolute mess. I’ve already dealt with the people responsible. I want you to know that I value your contribution to this company very highly.” His tone was incredibly warm, almost apologetic. “Here’s what we’ll do. You come back to your position tomorrow. I’ll bump you up a grade, increase your base salary to a hundred and twenty thousand, and make sure your full performance bonus for this quarter is paid out. How does that sound?” From eighty thousand to a hundred and twenty thousand. A fifty percent raise. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted. But… “Mr. Sinclair, I have one question.” “Go ahead.” “Who authorized my name to be on that layoff list in the first place?” Silence stretched over the line for two seconds. “Well… it was processed through Administration.” “And why would Administration put my name on there?” Another three seconds of heavy silence. “Luke, I will launch an internal audit into this matter—” “Mr. Sinclair, I heard it was Miss Sinclair who requested my employee ID be added.” Silence fell again, thick enough to cut with a knife. Five full seconds. “Luke, regardless of the circumstances, I want to personally apologize on behalf of the company.” He didn’t confirm it, but he didn’t deny it either. That was all the confirmation I needed. “Mr. Sinclair, it’s a very generous offer. But I’ve already signed the termination papers. And,” I paused, letting the words hang, “your HR department officially signed my non-compete waiver.” The sound of Arthur Sinclair’s breathing grew noticeably heavier. “They did what?” A waived non-compete meant I could legally start working for their direct competitor this very afternoon. No garden leave. No cooling-off period. Audrey had simply followed the standard protocol for mid-level employees. The system wasn’t designed to catch the fact that the “mid-level” guy held the keys to the entire castle. I was the only one who understood Horizon’s system architecture, server setups, and third-party API keys. Allowing a person with that level of institutional knowledge to walk away with zero restrictions is what corporate risk managers call a catastrophic vulnerability. “Mr. Sinclair, I don’t bear any ill will. But from a legal perspective, I’m a free agent now. I have no obligation to Horizon.” “Luke—” “You should probably look into how your internal operations are being run. Have a good evening.” I hung up. Then I unplugged the landline. I lay back down and stared at the ceiling. To be honest, my palms were sweating during that call. Arthur Sinclair was a billionaire, after all. But every word I said was a fact. They had set their own house on fire. Why should I be the one to carry the water buckets? I rolled over to try and get back to sleep when my cell phone buzzed. It was an unknown number. I hesitated, then answered. “Mr. Benson? Hello, I’m Fiona, the VP of HR at Zenith Solutions.” Zenith Solutions. Horizon’s fiercest rival in the region. “Hi, Fiona. What can I do for you?” “Well, word travels fast. We heard you parted ways with Horizon today.” “You have good sources.” “It’s a small industry,” she said with a light chuckle. “We were wondering if you’re open to new opportunities. We actually have an opening for an Infrastructure Director. The base salary starts at three hundred thousand, plus equity. We’d love to discuss it.” Three hundred thousand. More than triple what I was making at Horizon. “Fiona, how did you even know who I was?” “To be frank, we’ve been watching the infrastructure setup at Horizon for a long time. Your work speaks for itself in our circles.” I remained quiet. “If you’re free, we’d love to grab coffee and chat.” “Let me think about it,” I said. I hung up. The day was starting to feel surreal. This morning, I was an eighty-thousand-a-year IT guy. Now, a competitor was offering me three hundred thousand to lead their team. And just eight hours ago, a wealthy girl had used my career as a cheap prop to play relationship games with her insecure boyfriend. Life is a weird, dark comedy. 4 The next morning, I grabbed a coffee and a croissant from the bakery down the street. I sat on a park bench to eat. The morning sun was pleasant, and nearby, an old man was walking a corgi. The corgi’s wobbly walk was surprisingly therapeutic to watch. My phone rang. Ray. “Luke, everything is burning down.” “Not my problem, Ray.” “No, listen to me. The entire intranet portal collapsed this morning.” I took a bite of my croissant. “How bad?” “The SSL certificates expired. Every single browser-based internal system is throwing security warnings. No one can log in. Pete spent the whole night trying to fix it, and now two hundred employees are sitting at their desks staring at blank screens. Nobody can do a damn thing.” “The renewal process is fully detailed in the handover docs.” “Pete says he can’t understand the script.” “Again, not my problem.” Ray sighed. “Look, there’s more. Do you know how much stuff the company realized you were managing only after you walked out?” “How much?” “I ran an audit. The internal portal, the mail servers, the shared drives, three external client APIs, the financial database, the security gate system, the timecard tracker, the conference room booking system, the VPN… seventeen core systems in total.” “Yeah. I built them.” “The issue is, when you built them, the company never officially classified them as separate assets. Your job description was literally just one line: ‘Responsible for general IT infrastructure maintenance.’” “So they thought firing me just meant getting rid of a guy who replaces keyboards.” “…Exactly.” I laughed. I actually laughed out loud. Right there on the bench, with half a croissant in my mouth, choking slightly on my coffee. The corgi got startled and trotted away. “And then what happened?” “Then Sinclair called an emergency board meeting this morning. He apparently ripped Administration and HR a new one. Audrey took the brunt of it because she signed your non-compete waiver.” “Audrey was just following standard procedure.” “Sinclair doesn’t care. He thinks she let the golden goose walk.” “I’m hardly a golden goose.” “Well, you are to Horizon right now. Zenith is already boasting that they’re recruiting you. Did you know that?” “I got a call yesterday.” Ray’s tone shifted, becoming more complex. “Luke, did you plan this?” “What do you mean?” “The ten-minute exit. Did you calculate that they wouldn’t react in time?” I took another sip of coffee. “Ray, do you really think an employee who gets casually discarded as a pawn needs to spend his time worrying about the company’s operational safety?” He didn’t reply. “And honestly,” I added, “I didn’t plan anything. I just didn’t care.” “A guy earning eighty thousand, treated like a ghost in the corner, gets laid off. So he signs the papers, packs his box, and leaves. That’s standard. They just forgot that the ghost was the one holding up the ceiling.” Ray remained silent for a long moment. “You’re cold, man,” he finally muttered. I smiled but didn’t argue. Finished my breakfast, threw the trash away, and heard my phone buzz again. A new contact request on my personal messaging app. The name: Sienna. The message: Mr. Benson, do you have a moment to talk? I stared at it for a few seconds. Accept. She typed back almost instantly. “Mr. Benson, I am so incredibly sorry about yesterday. I really didn’t think it through.” “Okay.” “My dad said we can offer you a promotion, a massive raise, whatever terms you want.” “Your dad already called me yesterday.” “Then why didn’t you accept??” Two question marks. I could picture the frustrated pout on her face. “Because I don’t see the point.” “What do you mean you don’t see the point?” “I don’t see the point in coming back.” A long pause. Then she sent a massive block of text. “Please let me explain. That layoff notice was truly just a stupid show for Zach. He’s been so insecure lately, constantly questioning why I had to contact you to troubleshoot things. I thought if he saw your name on the list, he’d drop it and feel secure. I was going to have HR quietly reinstate you this afternoon. I had no idea you’d sign everything and leave in ten minutes!” Reading her words, a profound sense of absurdity washed over me. Here was her logical chain: Boyfriend gets jealous -> Boyfriend is upset -> Put an innocent employee on a layoff list -> Pretend to fire him -> Reassure boyfriend -> Call employee back -> Act like nothing happened. In this entire equation, “Luke Benson” wasn’t a human being. I was a prop. A disposable tool. Something to be used and discarded without a second thought. “Miss Sinclair, I understand your reasoning.” “So you’ll—” “But did you ever consider a very simple possibility?” “What?” “That if you casually fire someone, they might actually choose not to come back?” “But why wouldn’t you—” “And yet, here we are.” She sent a sweating, awkward emoji. I couldn’t tell if she actually felt bad or was just out of arguments. “Mr. Benson, name your price.” “I’m not for sale.” “What??” “I said, I’m not for sale. I’m not a piece of inventory, Miss Sinclair. You don’t get to pull me off the shelf, use me, and then try to put me back when you realize you made a mess.” This time, the silence lasted so long I thought the conversation was over. Then, she sent one last message. “If you don’t come back, my dad is going to be furious with me. And honestly, it won’t look good for your reputation in this industry if you burn bridges like this.” Looking at the screen, a strange feeling washed over me. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t resentment. It was a clear sense of validation. Validation that leaving was the absolutely correct choice. “Miss Sinclair, is that a plea for help, or a threat?” She didn’t reply. I slipped my phone into my pocket, stood up, and brushed the crumbs off my jeans. The sky was still blue. Day two of freedom was turning out to be great. 5 Day three of unemployment. I spent the morning cleaning the apartment, dusting off the bookshelves, and setting up a folding chair on the balcony with a hot mug of coffee. The morning sun was warming my face. For three years, I had never realized how beautiful the morning light was on my balcony at 9:00 AM. Mainly because I was usually crammed into a crowded subway car at this hour. My phone rang. Fiona from Zenith Solutions. “Luke, have you had a chance to think about our offer?” “Fiona, let me ask you something first.” “Of course.” “How did you guys find out I was laid off so quickly? You called me literally half an hour after I signed the papers.” She let out a soft laugh. “To be frank, Luke, we have our eyes on Horizon. Word of your exit leaked within thirty minutes of you signing that waiver.” Thirty minutes. A major competitor knew about my termination within half an hour. Horizon’s internal security was practically a sieve. “Would you be open to dropping by our office tomorrow at two? It’s not a formal interview, just an informal chat with our leadership.” “Sure, I can do that.” I hung up and took a sip of my coffee. Before it could even cool down, a loud car horn blared from the street below. A moment later, my apartment buzzer rang. I got up and checked the security camera. Standing at my door was a young man in his early twenties, wearing a perfectly tailored navy suit, a luxury watch on his wrist, and hair styled with military precision. He was handsome in a generic, catalog-model sort of way. But there was an undeniable sneer playing on his lips. I opened the door. “Are you Luke Benson?” his voice was dripping with arrogance. “And you are?” “Zachary.” Sienna’s boyfriend. The jealous guy. The indirect catalyst for my sudden unemployment. I looked him up and down. “What do you want?” He tilted his chin up, looking down his nose at me. “I’m here to make things clear. Stay away from Sienna.” I blinked, momentarily speechless. It was fascinating how reality could sometimes be cheesier than a bad reality show. “Look, man,” I said, leaning against the doorframe. “I’m already unemployed. You know that, right?” “I do.” “Then coming to my apartment to tell me to stay away from your girlfriend seems a bit… unnecessary.” “I just want to make sure you don’t try to crawl back,” he said, stepping closer. “Guys like you get fired and then try to play the victim to get back in her good graces. I’m just setting boundaries early.” I laughed. Not a bitter laugh, but a genuine chuckle at the sheer absurdity of it. “Zachary, my entire relationship with your girlfriend consists of fixing her laptop twice. Once because her MacBook wouldn’t connect to a projector, and once because she spilled coffee on her keyboard. We’ve spoken maybe twenty words to each other. I have zero interest in her.” He frowned, clearly not believing me. “Then why did she put your name on the layoff list?” “You’d have to ask her that.” “I did. She said she did it to make me feel secure.” “And do you?” He didn’t answer. But his tense posture said it all. “So what is this?” I asked, tilting my head. “You came to a laid-off employee’s apartment to mark your territory? Are you living in a movie, Zachary?” His face flushed red. “Watch your mouth—” “I’m being serious. Did you tell your girlfriend you were coming here?” He stiffened. “No.” “So you snuck over here to threaten her ex-coworker.” I nodded slowly. “You know what that is?” “What?” “A psychological issue. It’s called pathological control.” I said it calmly. “Your girlfriend used an innocent man’s livelihood as a toy to appease your insecurities, and now you’re showing up at my door to puff your chest. The two of you deserve each other.” Zachary’s fists clenched tightly, a vein pulsing on his temple. But he didn’t swing. Whether it was to preserve his expensive suit or because he was calculating the legal cost of an assault charge, he held back. “You’ll regret this,” he spat out. “Doubt it.” “Horizon can blackball you from this entire industry with one phone call.” “Is that so? Someone else tried to warn me about that yesterday.” “Who?” “Your girlfriend.” Zachary’s jaw tightened. “You both have the exact same script,” I said, stepping back to close the door. “It’s actually kind of sweet. Match made in heaven.” “You—” “Have a safe drive back, Zach.” I shut the door. Through the peephole, I watched him stand in the hallway for a few seconds before kicking the wall in frustration. He winced, clearly hurting his foot, and limped away. I leaned against the door, reflecting on a simple truth. The worst part of being a regular guy in corporate life isn’t a lack of talent. It’s being treated as background noise while rich people play their games. They fight, they make up, they play power games, and they never once stop to think about the people they trample on. But that was fine. From now on, I wasn’t going to be anyone’s background prop.
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