Chapter 2

I hadn't expected Tiffany to call me in a panic at two in the morning.

"Warren! Manager Dawson gave the order—you need to upload every source file for that project to the shared drive tonight!

"Those files are company property! You signed an NDA! If you don't upload them, that's a breach of contract. Two hundred thousand in damages would be letting you off easy!"

I lay in bed, spinning my lighter between my fingers. "Source files?"

"Yes! Every image, every slide, every layout from the client project!"

I laughed and threw the question right back at her. "Tiffany, do you even know what this project is called?"

There was a pause on the other end of the line, her confidence draining fast.

"It's... the client visuals thing, isn't it? What else would it be?"

That made me laugh even harder. Not one person had ever bothered to actually look into this project—not my so-called peers, not the department heads above them. For three years, they'd all gotten comfortable dumping every task on me. Now the bonus had come through, and none of them even knew what the project actually was.

"Sure. Whatever you say it is."

I hung up and switched my phone to do-not-disturb. Three seconds later, Marcus's call came through. I blocked him on the spot.

I'd always thought I treated Marcus well. In three years at the company, every proposal he'd ever opened with had come out of my hands. I'd written his promotion report. I'd invented the accomplishments listed in his "Model Employee" write-up. He'd even brought clients into the conference room for side jobs and had me churn out the designs for free while he pocketed the difference, and I never said a word about it.

Marcus had once clapped me on the shoulder and promised, "Bro, first paycheck I get, I'm taking you out to dinner." Three years later, I was still waiting on that meal.

Tiffany was even worse. She'd whine her way into dumping the department's most exhausting work on me, then turn around and tell Manager Dawson, "I handle all these clients personally. Warren just helps out here and there—his skills are average at best. I'm the one who actually keeps this running."

As for Manager Dawson, every slide he'd ever presented to headquarters had been built by me. Every year, he collected a management award, and I never once got so much as a certificate of recognition. Last year, I had acute gastritis and was hooked up to an IV, and I was still editing the final slide of his "management insights" presentation.

I opened my laptop and pulled up the interface for the automated layout script I'd been quietly building on the side. I typed in the title of one of Marcus's old reports, hit enter, and ten seconds later, a beautifully formatted slide outline generated itself.

I leaned back in my chair, staring at the screen.

That's when my phone lit up—the company group chat. Someone had posted anonymously: [I just asked a friend in tech. Warren's project isn't just graphic design—it's an actual AI system! Apparently, it can build entire proposals on its own!]

Marcus: [Bullshit. He's a graphic designer. What AI is he supposedly building? Don't scare yourself over nothing.]

Tiffany: [Why panic? Tomorrow, we corner him and make him hand over the source files. If he can't produce them, that's misappropriation of company property. Get legal involved, make him pay up and go to jail!]

Manager Dawson, rarely one to weigh in, finally posted: [Everyone, show up tomorrow. I'll have the VP sit in. We'll settle this once and for all.]

I let one corner of my mouth curl up and typed into the chat: [Got it. Don't be late, any of you.]

I got up and pulled open my desk drawer. Inside sat three black flash drives.

The first one was labeled: Marcus.

The second: Tiffany.

The third: Manager Dawson.

I picked up the third one and tapped it against the desk.

"Three years of empty promises," I said. "Time you got taught a lesson."