I was two minutes late and had my entire year-end bonus, a whopping ten thousand dollars, docked. Mr. Sterling, the factory director, made an example of me at a company-wide meeting, declaring it a stark warning to everyone else. I didn’t argue, didn’t make a scene. I just quietly accepted it. From that day on, I clocked in at the very last second, and the moment the dismissal bell rang, my computer was off, and I was out the door. 0 The March wind still carried a biting chill, howling through the bare branches of the trees around the factory, a desolate sound. Inside Assembly Line 3, however, it was eerily silent. All the machines had stopped, the usual deafening roar replaced by the collective breathing of hundreds of people. I, Avery Hayes, stood right in the center. Everyone’s gaze, like searchlights, converged on me—pity, schadenfreude, fear, and undisguised curiosity. On the high platform, the newly appointed factory director, Mr. Sterling, held a microphone, spitting as he spoke. His slick face flushed red, a glow born from the intoxicating rush of power. “What kind of enterprise are we? We are the group’s benchmark! And what is discipline? It is the lifeline of this company!” His voice, distorted and shrill through the loudspeaker, scraped against everyone’s eardrums like a blunt knife. “But still, there are always a few individuals, disorganized, undisciplined! Self-important, treating company rules like they’re nothing!” His hand abruptly pointed at me. “Avery Hayes! Engineer in the Technical Department! This morning, two minutes late! A full two minutes!” He emphasized the words, as if those two minutes were an unforgivable crime. “According to the newly enacted labor discipline regulations, one minute late means a hundred-dollar deduction. Two minutes late, the nature of the offense is egregious! I have decided to deduct Avery Hayes’s entire year-end bonus for this year, totaling ten thousand dollars!” “Ten thousand!” A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. That ten thousand dollars represented a year of my hard work, countless all-nighters, and overcoming endless technical challenges. Now, because of two minutes, it was gone. I stood rooted to the spot, dressed in faded blue overalls, my eyes behind black-framed glasses showing not a single ripple of emotion. I was just thinking about how I’d stayed up until 4 AM last night, poring over a German document to crack the K-factor compensation algorithm for the A-7 equipment’s servo motor. When my alarm went off, I thought I was still dreaming. Was any of that necessary to explain? To someone whose only goal was to assert dominance, there was no point in even trying to communicate. Beside me, Mark, a good-natured engineer in his fifties, was sweating profusely, secretly winking at me, his lips silently forming the words: “Just give in, Avery, quickly, just give in.” I saw him, but I simply shook my head slightly. My silence seemed to thoroughly infuriate Mr. Sterling on the stage. He felt his authority challenged—an engineer, and a woman at that, dared to be so calm in front of him. He pulled the microphone closer, his voice almost a roar: “Avery Hayes! Do you have anything to say? Do you have any objections to this disciplinary decision? If not, come up and sign the confirmation!” He wanted to see me cry, to beg, to break down. That way, his “example” would be truly made. Under the scrutiny of hundreds of eyes, I began to walk, one step at a time, toward the high platform. The steps weren’t many, but it felt like I walked for an eternity. Every step felt like I was treading on the ashes of ten years of my youth. I took the flimsy disciplinary notice from Mr. Sterling’s hand. The black words on it twisted like venomous snakes. I picked up the pen from the table. Mr. Sterling’s face was already etched with the triumphant sneer of a victor. He thought I would ultimately yield. I held the pen, my hand steady, not a tremor. In the signature box, I meticulously wrote my name. Avery Hayes. Two words, calm and firm. After signing, I pushed the notice back to him, ignoring his stunned expression, and turned to leave. Below, a dead silence. No one had expected such an outcome. No arguments, no tears, just a calm acceptance, like signing a document in someone else’s story. I returned to my workstation, ignoring the complex gazes behind me, put on my noise-canceling headphones, and opened my laptop. The unfinished algorithm model from last night immediately popped up on the screen. It was as if everything that had just happened was merely a ridiculous farce that had nothing to do with me. Kevin Sterling, Mr. Sterling’s nephew, newly transferred to the technical department and rumored to be taking my place, let out a small, contemptuous snicker not far behind me. “Who does she think she is? Without the golden child, how do you expect anything to get done? Don’t try to act so superior.” I heard it. The classical music in my headphones couldn’t drown out the ugliness of human nature. I didn’t turn around. The clock’s second hand ticked, a dull, rhythmic beat. At precisely 5 PM, the dismissal bell shrilly cut through the air of the workshop. I took off my headphones, shut down my laptop, neatly organized the blueprints on my desk, put them in a drawer, and locked it. The entire process was fluid, without a single wasted movement. I picked up my backpack and walked toward the time clock. I was the first in the entire workshop to punch my employee ID. “Beep—” A crisp confirmation tone announced the end of my workday. My war had just begun. 0
The next morning, I timed it perfectly. With ten seconds left before official start time, I rushed through the factory gates. The time clock displayed: 8:00:00 AM. Perfect. Changing into my work uniform, I walked into Assembly Line 3. Usually, I’d arrive half an hour early. That’s because the A-7, the most valuable German-imported equipment in the entire factory, had a peculiar temperament. It needed to be preheated and have several core parameters finely tuned to ensure the first batch of products after startup reached optimal yield. This was a habit passed down by my mentor, the former chief engineer, and a tacit understanding I had always maintained. But today, I decided that tacit understanding could go to hell. I walked to my workstation, took out my travel mug, and unhurriedly brewed a cup of tea. Steam clouded my glasses. David, the workshop manager, a man in his forties, frowned at my leisurely pace but said nothing. He knew my habits and probably assumed I had already finished the debugging. At 8:30 AM, the startup bell rang. The massive production line, like a slumbering steel behemoth, began to slowly awaken. Conveyor belts rolled, robotic arms swung, and everything looked as usual. Until the first batch of products emerged from the A-7 equipment. “Screech—” An incredibly harsh metal grinding sound abruptly echoed throughout the workshop. Immediately afterward, the A-7’s alarm light began to flash wildly, a dazzling red. “What’s going on?!” David was the first to rush over. He picked up a freshly produced item and his face instantly turned ugly. “They’re all defective! Scratches on the surface! This whole batch is ruined!” Everyone’s gaze, in unison, turned back to me. I slowly wiped my glasses clean, walked over, and glanced at the flashing error code on the screen. “Servo motor torque overload, causing robotic arm positioning accuracy deviation.” I calmly stated the facts. “Avery! Didn’t you debug it this morning?” David was agitated, his voice laced with accusation. I spread my hands and pointed to the “Operator’s Manual” on the wall, reading out loud, word for word: “Article 3: Equipment inspection and debugging before startup are normal work tasks and should be performed during official working hours. It’s currently just past 8:30 AM, which is official working time.” My voice wasn’t loud, but every word was crystal clear. David was choked into silence, his face turning a deep, mottled red. Of course, he knew the rules were rigid, but for the past ten years, I had “voluntarily” completed this task ahead of time. They had grown accustomed to my effort and had come to take it for granted. “I’ve got this!” A voice cut in. Kevin Sterling pushed his way through, his face alight with eagerness to impress. “It’s just a torque parameter, right? I understand it!” He pushed aside the operator and sat down at the control panel, furiously typing away. Mr. Sterling, who had somehow heard the commotion and rushed over, looked approvingly at his nephew’s initiative. He shot me a scathing glare, an expression that seemed to say: See? The world still turns without you. I hugged my travel mug, retreated to the side, and watched with cold indifference. Kevin adjusted the torque parameter upward. The alarm stopped, but the machine’s operating sound became heavier, like an asthmatic struggling to breathe. “Done!” Kevin triumphantly stood up, seeking praise from his uncle. Mr. Sterling nodded in satisfaction, patting his shoulder: “Excellent, Kevin. Young people need to be brave enough to take responsibility! Not like some, who draw a high salary but only know how to shirk duties!” His words were clearly aimed at me. I ignored him, simply watching the new products emerge on the conveyor belt. The scratches were gone, but a faint burr appeared around the edges of the products. An untrained eye wouldn’t notice, but under the high-precision instruments of quality control, this batch of products was still scrap. I didn’t expose it. Why should I? In the afternoon, a core pressure sensor on the production line required annual calibration. It was delicate work, and one of my “specialties.” When I used to do it, relying on experience and feel, I could finish it in half an hour, with precision far exceeding the standard. Today, David approached me again, his tone noticeably more polite. “Avery, about that sensor, you see…” “Understood, David.” I nodded, taking out a thick “Sensor Standard Calibration Procedure Manual” from the cabinet. I opened to the first page and began the operation, step by step, strictly following the manual. Connecting wires, checking grounding, opening calibration software, inputting initial parameters… Every step, I performed meticulously, and agonizingly slowly. Mark watched beside me, stomping his feet in frustration. “Avery, you don’t usually do it this way. For that zero-point drift, you could just feel the casing’s temperature and get a pretty good estimate.” “Mark,” I said without looking up, “The manual says to use an infrared thermometer, record three readings, and take the average. I’m just following protocol.” Mark sighed, speechless. Two hours later, as the clock struck five and the dismissal bell rang again. My calibration work was still missing the final step: “data solidification.” “Ms. Hayes, Ms. Hayes! Just one more minute, just one minute! Save the data before you go!” David was practically pleading. I took off my safety glasses and powered down the equipment. “I’m sorry, David, but it’s time to clock out. The manual states that no precision instruments should be operated after working hours to prevent safety incidents.” With that, I picked up my backpack and, under the bewildered stares of everyone, once again clocked out precisely on time. Behind me, Mr. Sterling’s voice, suppressed to its absolute limit, roared. “Avery Hayes!!!” I didn’t look back, but a cold, sharp smile curved my lips. Mr. Sterling, that was just the appetizer. That evening, just as I got home, Mark’s call came through. His voice was filled with worry. “Avery, if you keep this up… Mr. Sterling will make your life hell. You can’t fight him, he’s got family connections.” “Mark,” I opened the fridge and grabbed a cold soda, “He’s already made my life hell. What else is there to fear?” “But what about the production line? Our mentor’s life’s work, it can’t be ruined like this.” The mention of my mentor made my heart ache. I was silent for a moment, then softly said, “Mark, sometimes, to protect something, you first have to make those who want to destroy it feel the pain.” Hanging up the phone, I took a sip of soda. The icy liquid slid down my throat, but it couldn’t extinguish the fire burning within me. 0
One week. In just one week, the production efficiency of Assembly Line 3 plummeted by thirty percent. The defect rate, moreover, skyrocketed to an unprecedented fifteen percent. The workshop was plagued by constant minor issues, alarms blaring intermittently like a discordant symphony. The other engineers were frantic. They could solve some routine problems, but anything involving the A-7’s core system left them helpless. Kevin, on the other hand, was overly eager, rushing to every problem. The result was often him turning small issues into big ones, and big ones into complete shutdowns. The entire workshop was filled with complaints, but no one dared to speak up openly. Mr. Sterling’s face grew darker with each passing day. Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore and called an emergency meeting for all technical personnel. In the conference room, smoke hung heavy, and the atmosphere was oppressive. Mr. Sterling sat at the head of the table, his fingers drumming heavily. “Look at yourselves! Look at what our factory has become! Low efficiency, mountains of defective products! You’ve shamed this company!” His gaze, sharp as a knife, sliced across every face. “I know some people are playing dirty, that they have issues with the new company regulations! But I’m telling you, for a company to develop, there must be iron discipline! From today on, I demand that everyone embrace a spirit of dedication, willingly work overtime, and recover the lost production capacity!” He paused, his gaze finally landing on me, like two poisoned nails. “Avery Hayes! As the factory’s only senior engineer, a technical backbone, you must take the lead!” He was cornering me. All eyes once again focused on me. I met his gaze calmly, adjusting my glasses. “Mr. Sterling,” I spoke, my voice soft but remarkably clear in the silent conference room. “According to Article 41 of the Labor Law, if an employer arranges for overtime work, overtime wages should be paid to the laborers in accordance with relevant state regulations. Article 44 clearly states that for overtime work on statutory holidays, no less than three hundred percent of the wage should be paid; for overtime work on rest days, compensatory leave should be arranged first, and if compensatory leave cannot be arranged, no less than two hundred percent of the wage should be paid.” I paused, watching his face grow increasingly grim, and continued: “May I ask, Mr. Sterling, which standard will we be following? As long as the standard is clear, I am willing to take the lead.” “You!” Mr. Sterling slammed his hand on the table, sprang to his feet, and pointed a finger at my face. “Do you have any sense of collective honor?! Are you trying to negotiate with me?!” “No,” I shook my head, my words clear and resonant, “I have respect for the Labor Law, and for our factory’s own regulations. The first rule of the factory regulations is to strictly abide by labor discipline. Since being late is severely punished, then working overtime should also be compensated. This isn’t negotiating, this is following the rules. Aren’t you the one who loves talking about rules the most?” “You… you…” Mr. Sterling trembled with rage, his face turning purple, his pointing hand shaking, yet he couldn’t utter a single word. Because everything I said was reasonable, every word legally sound. The “rules” he used to suppress me had now become my sharpest weapon against him. The entire conference room was silent. Everyone was stunned by my defiant stance. Under the table, Mark quietly gave me a thumbs up. The meeting, naturally, ended badly. I became the center of attention. Some said I was crazy, some said I was foolish, and some secretly admired my courage. I didn’t care. That night, the core drive shaft of the production line began to exhibit severe periodic tremors. This was a precursor to a major malfunction; if the drive shaft broke, the entire production line could be scrapped. Kevin, again, tried to show off, bringing a few of his newly recruited “loyalists” and confidently declaring he would fix it. At eleven o’clock that night, I received a call from Mark, his voice choked with tears. “Avery, something terrible has happened! Kevin and his team… not only couldn’t they find the problem, but they accidentally… accidentally deleted the A-7’s motion compensation program!” I held my phone, standing on the balcony, the night wind stirring my hair. I simply uttered a soft “Hmm.” “You need to come quickly! If you don’t, the production line will really be finished!” Mark was practically begging. “Mark, it’s after hours.” My voice was unnervingly calm. On the other end of the line, there was a long silence, followed by a heavy sigh. The next morning, as I arrived at my office, the door was kicked open. Mr. Sterling stormed in like an enraged bull, his eyes bloodshot and furious. “Avery Hayes!” He rushed to my desk, slamming both hands down on it, making my water cup jump. “What kind of work ethic is this?! The production line is in such serious trouble, why didn’t you come in last night?! Are you deliberately trying to retaliate?! Are you?!” He roared at me, his spittle nearly hitting my face. I leaned back in my chair, watching his flustered anger, and suddenly, I smiled. It was a genuine smile, tinged with a hint of mockery and pity. I raised my eyes, looking at him calmly. “Mr. Sterling, may I ask, do I still have a year-end bonus?” He froze, clearly not following my train of thought. I continued to smile, asking word by word: “No, right?” “Then why should I work overtime?” 0
Mr. Sterling’s face instantly changed from purple to pale, then from pale back to a deep, mottled red. He gaped, voiceless, like a duck with its neck wrung. On my desk, the small cactus was an irritatingly vivid green. He glared at me, his chest heaving violently, as if he might have a heart attack any second. Finally, he squeezed out a few words through gritted teeth: “Fine… fine! Avery Hayes, you’ve got guts!” With that, he stormed out, slamming the door so hard that dust rained down from the ceiling. I watched his retreating, disheveled back, my smile growing colder. A man consumed by humiliation would, inevitably, resort to even more foolish tactics. Sure enough, the next day, he gave me an impossible task. He demanded that I write a complete “Production Line Optimization Report,” covering all equipment and processes, within a single day. He sugar-coated it, saying it was for me, the technical backbone, to play a core role. In reality, he wanted to force me to work overtime, or to accuse me of “neglect of duty.” I accepted the task. Then, at 5 PM, I clocked out precisely on time. The next morning, I placed a two-page report on Mr. Sterling’s desk. The report’s title: “Analysis of Core Issues Affecting Current Production Line Inefficiency.” The content was extremely concise. 1. Core Issue: Long-term inadequate maintenance leading to performance degradation of key equipment. 2. Direct Cause: Multiple recent unauthorized operations by non-professional personnel, disrupting core system stability. 3. Recommendation: Immediately restrict non-professional personnel from accessing core equipment and conduct re-qualification certification for all operators. Each point was like a resounding slap, hitting Mr. Sterling and his precious nephew right in the face. “Avery Hayes!” Mr. Sterling roared in his office, tearing the report into shreds, the paper fluttering down like snowflakes. “Is this a report?! You’re accusing *me*! I’m warning you, if you continue with this passive resistance, I will formally terminate your employment on grounds of dereliction of duty!” I stood opposite him, took out my phone from my pocket, and pressed play. “…Are you deliberately trying to retaliate?! Are you?!” “…if you continue with this passive resistance, I will formally terminate your employment on grounds of dereliction of duty!” His voice, from yesterday and today’s two咆哮 threats in my office, echoed clearly in the quiet room. Mr. Sterling’s face instantly turned ashen white. He stared at the phone in my hand, and for the first time, fear flickered in his eyes. He realized I wasn’t a docile sheep, but a hedgehog that had already laid traps, waiting for him to fall into them. Neither soft tactics nor hard tactics would work. Mr. Sterling finally quieted down for a few days. But he didn’t give up. He used his connections at Group Headquarters to poach a supposed “technical expert” named Dr. Bennett from a competitor in a neighboring city, offering him double the salary. Dr. Bennett, a man in his forties with a receding hairline and gold-rimmed glasses, arrived at the factory with the air of a savior. Mr. Sterling treated him like an honored guest, introducing him grandly in the workshop, in front of everyone. “This is Dr. Bennett, a renowned technical authority in the province! From now on, all technical issues at our factory will be fully entrusted to Dr. Bennett!” His gaze provocatively swept over me. The implication was clear: Avery Hayes, you’ve been replaced. Many people looked at me with sympathy. Only Mark, worried, whispered to me: “Avery, I’ve heard about this Dr. Bennett. His reputation isn’t great, he likes to boast.” I smiled: “Let him boast, Mark. The harder the wind blows, the more likely he is to trip over his own tongue.” On his first day, Dr. Bennett went straight to the core equipment, the A-7. He circled the machine a few times, pointing and commenting knowledgeably. “Hmm, German equipment. The design philosophy is advanced, but the control logic is too rigid, it doesn’t quite suit our operational habits. I’ll take care of this problem.” He sat down at the control panel, attempting to access the backend system. Then, he froze. He couldn’t understand some of the code comments I had left. Those comments were written in a unique style that only my mentor and I understood, mixed with our “insider language” and abbreviations. For example, “Y_Comp” stood for “Yuan-Compensation,” Yuan being my mentor’s first name. Dr. Bennett scratched his head, beads of sweat forming on his forehead as he stared at the screen. Kevin, standing nearby, wanted to help but couldn’t, pacing anxiously. And the worst was yet to come. In the afternoon, Mr. Sterling’s assistant rushed in, frantic, holding an email. “Mr. Sterling, an urgent email from Bosch Group Germany! They’re asking about the latest operating data for the ‘L-W Optimization Module,’ saying it’s crucial for their decision on additional orders! They need a reply today!” Mr. Sterling handed the email to Dr. Bennett. Dr. Bennett looked at the unfamiliar term “L-W Optimization Module” in the email, completely baffled. “L-W Module? What’s this? It’s not in the equipment manual?” Mr. Sterling was also bewildered. He turned to me, demanding sharply: “Avery! What is this L-W module? Is this your doing?” I looked up, meeting their gaze calmly. “L-W, Avery Hayes. My initials.” “That module is a power optimization and precision compensation system I developed independently, based on my mentor’s original work. It’s specifically designed to match that batch of special custom products for the Bosch Group.” “Oh, right,” I added, my tone casual, yet it landed like a bombshell. “The software copyright and technical patent for this module are registered under my personal name. I merely granted the factory a royalty-free license for its use.” The entire office fell into a deathly silence. Mr. Sterling and Dr. Bennett’s expressions froze, a priceless silent movie. I saw the shock, the anger, and a hint of undisguised panic in Mr. Sterling’s eyes. A thrill of vengeful satisfaction, mixed with a sense of impending crisis, quietly rose within me. Mr. Sterling, now, you know what it feels like to hurt, don’t you? 0 Only three days remained until the German client’s final delivery deadline. And that multi-million-dollar production line, after days of “effort” by Dr. Bennett and Kevin, had not only failed to improve but had completely broken down.
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