Chapter 2
On the first day of the new policies, Creative Team 1 transformed from an inspiring artists’ salon into a living hell.
The open floor plan that once hummed with the rich aroma of fresh coffee, spontaneous creative sparks, and unrestrained laughter was now reduced to the oppressive clatter of keyboards and heavy, collective sighs.
My star creative director, Julian—a brilliant talent who had taken home a Young Lions award at Cannes—was currently clutching his head, staring blankly at a bare Word document.
On the screen sat a single, lonely line for a title: A Daily Work Log Regarding How I Conceptualized an Idea Today.
Thirty minutes had passed. He hadn't typed a single word of body text.
Instead, the delicate bonsai tree on his desk had been plucked half-bald from sheer nervous frustration.
Another senior copywriter, famous for dropping three killer taglines in five minutes flat, was also zoning out at his screen, muttering under his breath:
"Does my morning latte count as billable work? I took a bathroom break and had an existential crisis about the physics of water pressure—can I stretch that into two hundred words?"
The entire department was trapped in an existential panic. Productivity plummeted off a cliff.
Meanwhile, Chloe, my hand-picked "Compliance Officer," wasn't having an easy time either.
Clutching a fancy leather notebook, she weaved between the cubicles, trying to catch anyone slacking off or chatting.
The only things greeting her, however, were icy, resentful glares.
"Hey, Chloe, take a look at this," Julian said, swiveling his monitor toward her with a cold, fake smile. "Does this description of my emotional journey during our brainstorm sound deep enough? Think it hits the three-hundred-word mark?"
"Inspector Chloe, I need to use the restroom. Do I need to submit a formal request?" another colleague chimed in with biting sarcasm. "Estimated duration is five minutes. Am I required to write an eight-hundred-word reflection essay when I get back?"
Chloe’s cheeks burned hot, flushing red and white. She desperately wanted to lash out, but she couldn't find a legitimate excuse.
After all, everyone was "diligently" following the new rules—they were just doing it with pure malicious compliance.
At six in the evening, when the daily logs were due, this corporate farce reached its absolute peak.
I received the compiled folder from Chloe. When I opened the attachments, I nearly burst out laughing.
Someone had simply summarized yesterday's trending local news, claiming they were "analyzing cultural touchpoints to uncover viral marketing angles."
The most unhinged entry came from Julian. He had submitted a 3,000-word literary essay titled:
The Gradual Withering of a Desk Plant as a Spiritual Metaphor for the Modern Corporate Soul. The prose was poetic, the emotional resonance was profound—it just had absolutely nothing to do with client work.
Reviewing these chaotic "work logs," I didn't lose my temper. Instead, I picked a few of the most "exceptional" ones, posted them anonymously into the main department chat, and appended a note:
"Today's logs reviewed. Writing style is adequate, but attitude is lacking. Starting tomorrow, all daily log content must tie directly to active client deliverables. Otherwise, process compliance scores will be set to zero."
The group fell dead silent again.
I knew they were reaching their breaking point.
And that was precisely what I wanted.
Just then, my desk phone rang. It was the CEO.
"Sue, get up to my office." His voice offered no hint of what he was feeling.
I stepped into the top-floor executive suite. Our CEO, Richard, was standing by the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, looking down at the evening traffic snarls below.
"I saw the intranet thread," he said, cutting straight to the chase. "And I heard about the new boot-camp rules in Creative Team 1. What the hell are you doing?"
"Richard," I met his gaze steadily, "I'm restoring order."
"Restoring order?" He spun around, scowling deeply. "The entire department is in an uproar, and several key pitches have completely stalled out. That’s your idea of restoring order?"
"Sometimes," I said coolly, "you have to let people taste genuine misery before they learn to appreciate how good they actually had it."
"I don't care about your management philosophies!" Richard snapped, his tone turning sharply aggressive. "Next Monday is the first-round brand strategy pitch for Stellar Motors.”
“It’s our biggest account of the year, and the client specifically asked for you by name. If this goes sideways, you won't just be losing your title—my neck will be on the line too!"
"I understand," I replied with a nod. "Consider it handled."
Walking out of the executive suite, I had given him my word, but I knew the reality. Under our current department dynamic, this pitch was set up for catastrophic failure.