A Gen‑Z Snitch Ruined My Name

Before the Christmas and New Year holidays, I called all the department heads into the conference room and announced the company's holiday schedule.

"This year, the company is giving nine days off for the year-end holidays."

The words had barely left my mouth when the room broke into polite applause.

I paused for a moment, then continued, "During the holidays, the office will remain fully operational; water, electricity, and heat included. Anyone who wants to work overtime can sign up voluntarily based on their own personal circumstances.

"Overtime pay will be triple the normal rate. And if you accumulate three days of overtime in total, in addition to the triple pay, the company will also give you an extra 500 dollars as a 'grind bonus.'"

The conference room instantly exploded. A few older employees, weighed down by mortgages and car loans, practically had sparkles in their eyes.

"You're the best, Lyra!"

"Thank you, Ms. Pierce! I was just stressing about next month's mortgage!"

"Sign me up! My kid's tuition for next semester is riding on this!"

Seeing their genuine happiness, I felt pretty satisfied too.

My philosophy for running a company had always been simple—pay generously and respect individual choice.

If someone wanted to hustle, I'd give them the platform and the rewards. For those who wanted to rest, I'd give them a holiday break far exceeding the legal requirement.

Everyone got what they needed. That was what a healthy company looked like.

But amid the cheers, a discordant voice suddenly cut through.

"Ms. Pierce, I object."

The speaker was the new Gen Z intern, Sylvie Mercer. She stood up, her face full of righteous indignation.

"What you're doing is basically encouraging toxic competition and creating holiday anxiety! Everyone may say they're choosing freely, but when they see others working overtime and making money, can they really relax? Isn't this just forcing us to trade our lives for money?

The room fell completely silent.

"Sylvie, the company respects everyone's choices," I explained patiently, looking at her. "Whether you work overtime or not is entirely up to you. No one is forcing you.

"This policy exists to give employees with real financial burdens and who really need the money a legal, compliant way to earn extra income.

"If you want to rest, then enjoy your nine-day holiday. No one will criticize you for it."

But Sylvie clearly wasn't open to my explanation. Her face flushed red as she argued, "But the signal you're sending is wrong! As the boss, you should be guiding everyone to focus on their physical and mental health, not tempting us with money!"

I couldn't be bothered to argue with her anymore. "This is the company's final decision. If there are no other questions, the meeting is adjourned."

After the meeting ended, several longtime employees eagerly went to my assistant, Bree Thatcher, to sign up for overtime. Their smiles were the best validation I could ask for.

But not long after, there was a knock on my office door.

It was Sylvie. She walked in, looking very serious, and closed the door behind her.

"Ms. Pierce, I hope you'll revoke that overtime policy."

I almost laughed. "And why would I listen to you?"

"For everyone's physical and mental well-being!" she insisted firmly. "You can't deprive us of our right to enjoy our holidays in peace!"

My expression cooled.

"And I also don't have the right to deprive others of their right to work hard and earn money. You're free to choose comfort, but you don't get to stop others from choosing to hustle. Now leave."

Sylvie clearly hadn't expected me to be so blunt. After a stunned pause, she slunk out in defeat.

I got up to grab some water from the break room. Just as I reached the door, I heard Sylvie's voice coming from inside.

"Ryan, do you agree with what I did? She only cares about money. She doesn't care about whether we employees live or die at all!"

Another voice jumped in immediately. It was Ryan Voss, one of the company's longtime employees.

"You absolutely did the right thing, Sylvie. We need young people like you who dare to stand up and fight this kind of exploitative culture!

"Don't worry, I've got your back. With the internet so powerful nowadays, we should let the public weigh in!"

Holding my mug, I silently walked back to my office.

Ryan was an old fox. His performance had been declining year after year, but when it came to stirring up trouble, he was an expert.

Just before getting out of work, I unwittingly glanced over at Sylvie's desk. She had propped her phone up on a stand, angled perfectly.

Then she slightly lowered her head and discreetly squeezed two drops of eye drops into her eyes. When she looked up again, she looked exhausted and full of grievance.

She faced the camera, adopted a choked, wounded tone—as if she'd suffered the greatest injustice—and started recording.