Chapter 4

"Look at this, team! AI solves everything in seconds!"

Kevin posted a screenshot in the group chat.

It was a formal email reply to Fahad’s team generated by their AI 2.0 system.

The Arabic was complex and formal. It used high-level religious honorifics.

The closing sentence was particularly poetic:

"We are willing to bear all liability for failing to satisfy you, and we humbly beg for another opportunity to cooperate."

Two hours later, Fahad’s assistant replied.

A single line: "Received. We look forward to seeing you at tomorrow’s business banquet."

The group chat exploded.

Victoria forwarded the reply, tagging everyone, and then tagged me specifically:

"@Ethan Cole, open your eyes and look. The AI pacified the client in seconds. That is the difference between a genius machine and a stubborn dinosaur."

Over forty messages followed. I only remembered a few:

"And Ethan said AI couldn't translate dialects. What a joke."

"The company should sue him for defamation."

"Lol, he’s probably crying in some hospital right now."

Zach's message was the longest: "To be honest, Ethan isn't a bad guy, he just thought too highly of himself. When the world leaves you behind, it won't say goodbye. Keep that in mind, buddy."

He attached a patronizing gif.

I leaned against the wall of the ICU hallway, reading through them one by one.

I still didn't have the money for Lily's surgery, and the hospital had just sent a second payment notice.

Two hours ago, I called my old mentor. He said he was retired and couldn't help. A legal aid attorney told me that a commission dispute would take three to six months through normal arbitration.

Three to six months.

My daughter’s heart didn't have that long.

At 9:00 PM, my phone buzzed with a social media notification.

It was Victoria’s TikTok account.

The video title was: [Toxic Ex-Employee Uses Sick Daughter as Shield to Blackmail Company for $300k]

I clicked it. The video was edited security footage from the office lobby.

It only showed the part where I handed Victoria the critical condition notice, with a dramatic voiceover:

"A former employee of a translation firm, angry about being replaced by AI, tried to extort $300,000 from his former employer by using his sick daughter as an excuse.”

“After being rejected, he repeatedly harassed staff and tried to break into the office."

The video already had 600,000 views and 1,300 comments.

"What a parasite."

"What does your kid being sick have to do with your ex-company? Get a life."

"Classic loser mentality. Replaced and throwing a tantrum."

"The company should call the cops."

The top pinned comment had over 800 likes:

"Basically, an obsolete translator who can't accept reality is using his own kid for sympathy. Disgusting."

In the comments, someone had leaked the name of the hospital Lily was in.

I locked my phone. The black screen reflected the green flashing lights of the monitors inside the ICU.

A nurse came out to change medication. She looked at me, then down at her phone. She probably recognized me from the viral video.

She said nothing, walked past me, and left.

The hallway fell dead silent.

Inside, my daughter was sleeping, her life kept steady by the rhythmic hum of the ventilator.

The payment notice was slipped inside her medical folder. The number $300,000 sat quietly on the white paper.

Another message popped up in the WhatsApp group. It was a photo from Kevin:

A long table at the InterContinental seafood buffet was piled high with king crab legs and lobsters. Thirty people were smiling, raising their champagne glasses for a selfie.

The caption read: "Thanks to AI and team collaboration! Phase two is secured!"

In the bottom right corner, Zach was grinning, holding a crab leg and throwing up a peace sign.

I stared at that photo for a long time.

Not out of anger.

But because that $300,000 could have put my daughter on the operating table tomorrow.

Instead, it was being eaten, digested, and turned into empty shells and lobster tails.

It was turned into a filtered Instagram post captioned "A night to celebrate."

My phone vibrated again.

An unknown number.

A deep, professional voice of a middle-aged man spoke:

"Is this Mr. Ethan Cole?"

"Yes, speaking."

"I'm Director Arthur Pendleton from the Federal Foreign Service Bureau.”

“I wanted to reach out because your application to the National elite Interpreter Registry was formally approved this afternoon. Are you free to come in tomorrow morning?"