Chapter 1

"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.