Chapter 3

Two or three hundred unread messages flooded my phone—all from HR departments of well-known companies across the country, and even a dozen overseas giants.

The one that surprised me most was Genting Technology.

Before I joined Dalton, Genting had always led our country's chip industry. Over the past ten years, the chips I developed had hit the market one after another, and Dalton had snatched a huge number of orders from Genting. Conservatively, we had cost them billions in losses.

By all logic, they should have wanted nothing more than to see me gone. Yet here they were, extending an olive branch?

As I sat there in disbelief, my phone vibrated. A local, unfamiliar number was calling.

I answered, and a calm, warm voice spoke.

"Hello, I'm Greg Ramsay, CTO of Genting Technology. May I have the honor of inviting you for afternoon tea?"

Greg was approaching fifty, yet carried himself with the vigor of someone much younger. His body bore the traces of regular exercise, his eyes were bright, and there wasn't a hint of the usual arrogance one expects from a big-company executive.

Within three sentences of meeting, he got straight to the point.

"Josh, to show our sincerity, I'm giving you three conditions.

"First, you join as Director of the Technical Department, with full access to the highest-security labs. All company tech resources will be at your disposal. Research budgets require no approval—just expense them. No upper limit.

"Second, the company has prepared a 210-square-meter luxury flat for you in Roscoe City's financial district, in a top-tier school zone, plus a Maybach for commuting.

"Third, your monthly salary—"

He smiled and held up five fingers.

I was still reeling from the first two offers. Instinctively, I said, "Five thousand?"

Greg froze, then raised an eyebrow, a half-amused, half-exasperated smile on his face.

"Of course not. Fifty thousand. That doesn't even include year-end stock bonuses and guaranteed annual incentives starting at one million.

"Josh, you're revered worldwide in the chip field. How could you think you're only worth five thousand?"

I couldn't believe my ears and laughed in disbelief.

"At Dalton, I make two thousand a month, and my annual raise never exceeds two hundred."

Greg's smile vanished instantly. His expression darkened.

"I was curious why Dalton's cornerstone suddenly wanted to leave. Now I see—it's Zachary, blind to talent, treating a key contributor with utter neglect!"

He stood, gripping my hands with warmth and sincerity in his gaze.

"Josh, past or present, you are indisputably the top expert in our country's chip industry. I speak for Genting Technology, and for myself personally, when I sincerely invite you to join us. If you accept, I—your CTO—will step aside without hesitation. No obstacles, no conditions."

My chest tightened—not because of the jaw-dropping offers, but because of the unhidden admiration and respect in his eyes.

Ten years with Zachary had never given me a glimpse of anything like it.

Greg didn't pressure me for an immediate answer. He simply exchanged contact information and told me to take my time.

Back home, I recounted the surreal experience to my wife. She held our child in her arms, burying her face in my chest, tears of joy streaming down.

We agreed to finalize my resignation at Dalton first, then respond to Genting officially.

Time passed quickly, and soon, it was the first day back at work.

I slung my worn, faded backpack over my shoulders and rode my electric bike to the office, as usual. Everything looked the same, but I knew nothing was the same anymore.

I stopped at the pantry to brew a cup of coffee, resignation letter already written and tucked safely in my bag. I walked forward, head down, oblivious to the strange glances from colleagues.

It wasn't until a foul, pungent smell invaded my nostrils that I jerked my head up.