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I was laid off. Having reached middle age and lacking any special skills, I could only work as a warehouse manager in a private company. On the first day of work, I saw a large, dusty object in the corner. An imported precision instrument worth four million dollars sat there as scrap metal. My new colleague scoffed. "Stop looking. The boss spent a fortune on it. Even ten experts couldn't handle it. It's just a decoration." I walked up and touched the familiar body of the machine. "I can fix this." The entire workshop fell silent. My boss came upon hearing the news. He looked at me with contempt. "If you can fix it, I'll give you half of my shares. If not, you'll pay with your life."

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On the day of the state-wide exam, the Johanson family's real daughter accused me of cheating. Two perfect-score papers lay side by side, identical in every detail. No matter how I argued, I could not clear my name. Everyone sided with her. They branded me a cheater and cast me out of the Johanson family in front of everyone. To appease her, the Johansons went even further. They used their influence to blacklist me across every industry within their reach. I ended up sleeping on the streets. One hardship followed another until my thoughts dulled and a car struck me with such force that it sent me airborne. Even at the end, one question haunted me: "Why did my paper match hers?" Then I opened my eyes and found myself back in the exam room. This time, I turned in a blank sheet. I wanted to see for myself how someone who scored zero could possibly copy anyone.

ღ꧁ღ╭⊱ꕥ Maria Isabel Monedero fantasized about being like Shakespeare. She devoted her all life to writing romance tragedy stories. She joined many writing competitions but never won. She almost gives up her spirit, but her bubbly personality doesn’t. Until the day she graduated college. Then, Maria Isabel Monedero, known as Mimo as her pseudo name, joined Story & Life publishing incorporation to work as a creative novelist. She got admitted, and many editors demanded that she be in their lineup. Unfortunately, before she gets to designate a team, she must undergo provision training within six months. Then, finally, the publisher assigns her a personal editor named Jaime Tejedor, who claims to be a hopeless romantic. He dislikes tragedy romance stories, which is Mimo’s best field in writing. He rejected Mimo’s works twice, and she only has the last chance to stick around. If she ever gets rejected again, it’s the edge of her career. For her to evade that… She plots to seduce her editor to approve her work. Will she succeed? Or fall entirely to his charm? ꕥ⊱╮ღ꧂ღ

When Lisa from Human Resources informs me that I'm being laid off, she casually mentions one more thing. According to her, I'm not a company employee—I'm just a temporary contractor. I freeze for a moment before nearly bursting into laughter. After dedicating three years of my life to the company, I discover that I have no employment contract, non-compete agreement, or confidentiality clause. To make matters even better, I am the patent applicant for the company's core risk management system, which has generated over a hundred million dollars in revenue. I am also the original owner of the source code repository. The higher-ups tell me to pack up my things and leave that very day, while the director who got his position through connections slams his hand on the table. "You're nothing without this company," he declares. I look at him and almost feel sorry for him. After all these years, someone has finally reminded me of how much freedom I actually have. Alright then. I'll leave—but I'm taking everything I own with me.

For three years, I worked for my coworkers for free—designing, covering for their mistakes, cleaning up their messes. They used my work to get promoted, to win awards, even to run side jobs on the sly, and I never took a cent for any of it. Then I single-handedly landed the hardest client project the company had ever taken on and walked away with a hundred-thousand-dollar bonus. That was the day everyone lost their minds. The same people who'd leeched off me the hardest led the charge, cornering me at my desk and tearing into me in front of the whole office. "The whole concept for that project was a team effort. What gives you the right to keep the bonus for yourself?" "Your work has always been garbage. That free labor of yours was never worth anything anyway!" Worse, they spent the whole night digging up old grievances, stitching together every minor slip-up they could find, and spreading rumors through the entire company—that I'd stalled projects, that my work was worthless, that I'd tanked the department's numbers. Finally, they gave me an ultimatum. "Either split the entire bonus with the department, or pay us two hundred thousand dollars for our trouble. Take your pick." Even the department manager tried to smooth things over, telling me, "We're all colleagues here. You've already got a big bonus—taking a small loss won't kill you. Don't be so difficult about it." Wonderful. So three years of quietly covering for everyone had just produced a pack of lazy, credit-stealing backstabbers. Since they wanted to gang up on the one person who'd always played fair, fine. I was going to lay out three years of original files, timestamps, and proof of exactly who'd done the work—all of it, all at once. And what none of them knew was that the special project behind my bonus was an AI system built to replace every single one of them.