Chapter 1

Tags: Probation drama, taking the hit, workplace bullying, corporate underdog revenge

When the six-month probation period ended, my coworkers were brought on as full-time staff one after another.

I was the only one told I didn’t meet the requirements. On top of that, the company refused to release the six months of wages they had withheld.

In reality, I was the only person in this entire batch of new hires who actually did any real work.

The proposal that ultimately won a massive bid was something I pulled three straight all-nighters to deliver.

When I confronted my boss, Mr. Lewis, he just sneered dismissively.

"Look, Chris, when you interviewed, it was only a verbal offer.

"No audio recording, no signed contract, no direct deposits, no benefits paperwork. How do you plan to prove you're an employee of this company?

"Besides, taking a few hits builds character for young people. Don't be so petty."

I laughed out of sheer disbelief, echoing his words with chilling sarcasm:

"You're right. No matter who you are, taking the hit is a real blessing."

With that, I turned around, left the building, and went straight home. I blocked their numbers, powered off my phone, and crashed into bed.

Seventy-two hours later, I turned my phone back on. Just as expected, I was greeted by 999 missed calls.

The moment the quarterly all-hands meeting wrapped up, a thick wave of fake celebration flooded the open floor.

Coworkers who had just passed probation clapped each other on the back, trading hollow congratulations.

Mia from HR carried a stack of official employment contracts, handing them out desk by desk with a practiced corporate smile.

Only I sat silently at my window cubicle, staring out at the overcast sky.

"Chris," Mia said, walking over with an awkward expression, "Mr. Lewis wants to see you in his office."

The ambient laughter and chatter died instantly. Dozens of covert glances darted my way.

A few held pity, some held curiosity, but most were steeped in cold, detached indifference.

I stood up and smoothed out the faded dress shirt I was wearing.

I had bought this shirt right after college for interviews, and it had kept me company through countless late nights at the office.

Mr. Lewis’s corner office wasn't far from the floor. When I walked in, he was leisurely brewing a cup of artisanal tea.

Seeing me, he lazily lifted an eyelid and gestured for me to sit.

"Chris, over these past six months, I’ve seen your hard work."

He poured a cup of tea in slow motion and pushed it toward me.

"However, this firm maintains exceptionally high standards.

"After a comprehensive review by management, we feel you haven't met our bar for a full-time role. So, unfortunately, we won't be keeping you on."

I looked at him calmly, not touching the cup.

Noticing my silence, he cleared his throat and went on.

"And as you know, company policy states that the trial period is unpaid.

"Look at these six months as an opportunity for learning and gaining experience."

I finally spoke. "Mr. Lewis, if I recall correctly, the commercial proposal I developed completely on my own won the bid just last week.

"Our firm secured a thirty-million-dollar project, and my contribution was the cornerstone of that."

Mr. Lewis’s face instantly darkened. "Don't let a tiny bit of success get to your head, kid.

"That project succeeded because of the firm's platform and the team's collective effort. It wasn't your personal achievement."

"The team?" I scoffed. "Mr. Lewis, I think your memory might be failing you.

"When I asked for extra hands, you told me everyone had their own workload and said I needed to figure it out myself.

"When I pulled seventy-two straight hours to beat the deadline, where was the team? When I revised the blueprints seventeen times, where was the team then?"

"Enough!" Mr. Lewis slammed his hand on the desk. "Chris, don't bite the hand that feeds you!

"When you joined, it was purely a verbal arrangement. No contract, no payroll slips, no social security or insurance records. What proof do you have that you're an employee here?

"Even if you run to the Department of Labor, do you have any evidence?"

He stood up, walked around the desk, and looked down at me, his voice dripping with condescension.

"Be smart. Taking a few hits builds character. Grab your stuff and get out."

Looking at his bloated face and the unmasked contempt in his eyes, I suddenly found the whole situation hilarious.

I didn't blow up. I didn't argue.

I simply stood, straightened my collar, and looked him dead in the eye.

"You're right, Mr. Lewis," I said evenly. "No matter who you are, taking the hit is a real blessing."

He froze, clearly not expecting that response.

I turned around, opened the frosted glass door, and walked back to my desk under the prying eyes of my coworkers, keeping my gaze straight ahead.

I had very few personal belongings: a mug, a couple of architecture reference books, and a pen.

I dropped them into a paper shopping bag, then woke up my monitor.

On my desktop, the folder containing the winning project proposal was still open—filled with blueprints and structural schematics that had cost me dozens of sleepless nights.

I grabbed the mouse, selected the entire folder, hit Shift-Delete, and permanently wiped it.

With that done, I took my bag and walked toward the elevators without a shred of hesitation.

Behind me, hushed whispers rippled through the floor.

"He's just leaving like that?"

"After getting screwed over that hard? Man, that’s so cowardly."

"If it were me, I'd make a scene. At least get the back pay first."

I didn't turn around.

The metal doors slid shut, cutting off the noise.

Stepping out of the glass tower, the midday sun hit my eyes.

I took a deep breath. The city air carried its usual stuffiness, but it was still infinitely cleaner than the toxic atmosphere up on the fourteenth floor.

For the first time in six months, I knew I was finally going to get a good night's sleep.