“When the hell is Serena going to leave?” I heard a few employees whispering about me in the break room. “Soon, right? It’s been three months already.” “I bet she’s gone this week. One fancy dinner.” “Deal.” I didn’t say anything. I turned and went back to my desk. My desk was next to the bathroom, and it smelled 24/7. I sat down, opened my computer, and went back to my spreadsheet. Nobody knew what I’d been recording every day for the past three months. And nobody knew just how long the layoff list would be at the company gala three months from now—the list I would be reading aloud. My name is Serena. I’m 32 years old. Three months ago, I was transferred to this branch office. My position was “clerk.” No specific duties, no clear reporting structure, not even an official ID badge. HR’s explanation was: “It’s a transition period. Just get acclimated.” I didn’t ask what “transition period” meant, or what I was supposed to be acclimating to. I just clocked in on time every day, sat at my desk, and worked on spreadsheets nobody wanted. The first week, some people still said hello. The second week, fewer people greeted me. The third week, out of twenty-plus people in the entire department, not one person looked at me. When I walked over, they scattered. When I sat down, they lowered their voices. When I went to the break room, it immediately fell silent. I wasn’t stupid. I knew what was happening. But I didn’t say anything. I just showed up on time every day, left on time, and finished whatever needed doing in between. On Monday morning, I discovered my desk had been moved. It used to be by the window. Now it was next to the bathroom. “Serena,” The admin assistant smiled sweetly. “It’s quieter over there. Perfect for you.” I glanced at her and said nothing. Fine. They wanted to move it? So be it. I carried my computer over, arranged my folders, and kept working. The bathroom door opened and closed, and the smell came in waves. People walked by, covering their noses and laughing. I pretended not to notice. At noon, I was the last to know about the department lunch. Manager Rachel came back in the afternoon and paused by my desk. “Serena, you didn’t go to the department lunch?” I looked up at her. “Nobody told me.” She froze for a second, then smiled. “Oh my, we forgot. Next time, okay?” She walked away. I lowered my head and kept typing. A colleague nearby muttered: “Acting like what? Still waiting for someone to invite her.” Another person laughed: “She’s thick-skinned. Let her wait.” I didn’t turn around. But I opened a new document and wrote on the first line: [Deliberate Exclusion Record] I wrote down names, one by one. When I finished, I saved it, closed it. Then I went back to my spreadsheet. At 4 PM, I finished a market analysis report. This was work I’d found for myself—nobody assigned it, nobody wanted it. But I did it anyway, and I did it carefully. I sent the report to Manager Rachel and CC’d General Manager Maxwell. “Manager, this is the Q4 market data I compiled. For your reference.” Five minutes later, Rachel replied. “Received.” Two words. That was it. The next day, I saw that report on Maxwell’s Instagram. The caption read: “Rachel’s team is incredible! This report is so professional!” Tons of likes and comments below. “Amazing!” “Following you means eating well!” “This data compilation is so detailed—great work!” I scrolled to the report’s cover page. In the author field, my name was gone. Replaced with “Rachel’s Team.” I stared at those four words for a long time. Then I opened my document and wrote on a new line: [Work Theft Record – Report Author Changed] I saved it and closed it. Over the next few days, similar things kept happening. The PPT I made became Lisa’s. The data I compiled became Maxwell’s. The proposal I wrote became “the department’s collective wisdom.” Every time, I recorded it. Date, content, people involved. One entry at a time, crystal clear. Friday afternoon, Rachel called me into her office. “Serena,” She sat in her chair, legs crossed. “How long have you been with the company?” “Three weeks.” “How’s it going?” “Okay.” She smiled, but there was no warmth in her eyes. “Okay? You think your work is okay?” I didn’t answer. “Serena, let me be honest with you.” She leaned forward. “You’re not a good fit for our department.” “Oh.” “Look at you—you don’t fit in, you’re not proactive, you just sit there alone every day like a piece of wood.” “Mm-hmm.” “Don’t you have anything to say?” I looked at her and said calmly: “Manager Rachel, what would you like me to say?” She paused, then gave a cold laugh. “I want you to have some self-awareness. If you know what’s good for you, write your resignation letter yourself. The company will give you compensation.” “What if I don’t?” “Don’t?” She leaned back. “Then don’t blame me for not being nice.” I stood up. “Okay. Got it.” I turned and left, gently closing the door behind me. Back at my desk, I opened the document and wrote: [Coerced Resignation Attempt – Rachel ] I saved it and closed it. I glanced at the calendar. Three more months.
Starting the fourth week, the isolation escalated. Before, it was not inviting me to meals, not talking to me. Now it was not notifying me about meetings. “Accidentally” losing my reimbursement forms. The printer always breaking down whenever I tried to use it. Office supplies I requisitioned never getting approved. The stapler I used—I bought it myself. The pens—I bought them myself. Even the A4 paper—I brought my own. Once, I went to the admin desk to get a notebook. The girl smiled and said: “Serena, your request isn’t in the system.” I said: “I submitted it last week.” She shrugged. “Maybe it’s a system issue. Could you submit it again?” I submitted it again. A week later, still not approved. I stopped submitting. I went to the convenience store downstairs and bought a dozen notebooks for myself. Wednesday afternoon, I heard about the bet in the break room. “I bet she quits this week.” “I bet next week.” “What’s the wager?” “One fancy dinner. How’s that?” “Deal!” I stood in the doorway holding my cup, completely still. The people inside didn’t notice me. That afternoon, Rachel made her move again—calling a monthly department meeting. Ten minutes before the meeting, I saw everyone packing up their things. I asked Wendy next to me: “What meeting?” She glanced at me without answering and walked away with her notebook. I caught up and asked Maxwell: “What time is the meeting? Which conference room?” Maxwell didn’t even look back: “Don’t know.” I stood there, watching them disappear down the hallway one by one. The office area emptied out. Only me left. I opened my email and scrolled through it. No meeting notice. I sat back at my desk and opened my document: [Deliberate Exclusion from Meeting – All Department Members – Date: XX/XX] After writing it, I thought for a moment and added: [Meeting content to be investigated.] Half an hour later, they came back. Rachel walked in front, looking displeased. She passed my desk and stopped. “Serena, why didn’t you come to the meeting?” I looked up: “Nobody told me.” “We did notify you.” She frowned. “It was posted in the group.” “I checked. There wasn’t.” “Then maybe you didn’t see it.” There was mockery in her tone. I didn’t respond. She didn’t say anything more and turned away. Soon, my phone buzzed. HR had sent [Notice Regarding Exit Interview] “Ms. Serena, please come to the HR department at 3 PM on December 15th for an exit interview.” I stared at that email for a long time. They didn’t know who I was. They had no idea what would happen at the company’s year-end gala three months from now.
On the day of the exit interview, I arrived on time. HR Director Andrew said: “You’re Serena, right? Sit.” I sat down. He flipped through some documents and looked up at me. “Serena, I’ll be direct. The company isn’t satisfied with your performance.” “What about it isn’t satisfactory?” “All aspects, really.” He shrugged. “You don’t fit in, you’re not proactive, your work output isn’t high…” I interrupted him: “That market analysis report—the one Maxwell praised on Instagram—I wrote that.” He paused. “That… wasn’t that from Rachel’s team?” “The byline said Rachel’s Team, but I was the original author.” He frowned: “Do you have proof?” I smiled. “Director, I’m here today to listen to what you have to say, not to argue with you. Please continue.” He was taken aback but quickly recovered. “Anyway, the company’s position is that we hope you’ll voluntarily resign.” “What if I don’t?” “Don’t?” He took off his glasses and wiped them. “That would be rather complicated.” He didn’t finish, but the meaning was clear. If I didn’t leave, the isolation would continue. But I stood up and said bluntly: “I’m not leaving.” He froze. I looked at him calmly and said: “I will not voluntarily resign. If the company wants to fire me, follow proper procedure. Labor law requires written notice with stated reasons for contract termination.” “You…” “And let me remind you,” I paused, “Every time my work was credited to someone else, every time I was deliberately isolated—I have records. If the company wants to take this to court, I’m ready.” His expression changed. I didn’t say another word. I turned and walked out. Walking out of HR, I took a deep breath. Back at my desk, I noticed the atmosphere had changed. Before, they treated me like I didn’t exist. Now it was hostility. I opened my document. It was already several pages long. Dates, incidents, people involved, sources of evidence. Before I came here, I’d done my homework. This branch had been bottom-ranked in performance for three consecutive years. This department had issues with expense reimbursements for two straight years. This manager, Rachel—annual salary of $120,000, but virtually zero performance. Headquarters had wanted to take action for a long time, but they didn’t have evidence. So they sent me. My official title was “clerk.” In reality, I was the head of headquarters’ audit team. I was here to fire them.
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