Workplace Tagalog

At the factory, my arm is pulled into a machine. After the surgery, the factory supervisor tells me it's my fault. Because of my arm, the machine has to be shut down for repairs, and every day of downtime will cost them millions. "Someone has to take responsibility for this, Zachary," the supervisor tells me. "It wouldn't make sense to demand millions from you, so just compensate us with 300,000—that's all." Under their threats—and my family's desperate begging—I sign the IOU for 300,000. With one arm gone, I can no longer find a job. All I can do is collect trash to repay the debt. While picking up bottles outside a restaurant one day, I hear the factory supervisor laughing and bragging inside. "Actually, that one-armed guy didn't violate any rules. In fact, the HQ gave three million dollars in compensation. My house and car? All bought with that money," he said. "I mean, who'd ever find out? With that debt hanging over him, he's probably already run off somewhere." Shaken by the news, I stagger onto the street. A truck roars out of nowhere, slamming into me and throwing me 16 feet across the road. When I open my eyes again, I had returned to the day I lost my arm.

When I'm trying to save a female patient's life, I use a pair of scissors to cut open her bra. But my fiancee, Scarlett Baxter, uploads a video of me pressing on the patient's chest to the Internet. "I know you're saving the patient's life, but isn't protecting the patient's privacy important as well? Besides, you keep touching her chest! This makes me feel very uncomfortable!" This incident goes viral on the Internet. The hospital I work at chooses to de-escalate this matter by demoting me and deducting my annual bonus. On top of that, I also receive a huge penalty for my actions. I did everything I could to save that patient's life, and yet everyone decided to paint me as a molester. Fine. I might as well not do anything, then. I'm not going to save anyone now. This time, the entire hospital falls into chaos.

The company just hired a clueless new intern. For a contract worth millions, she misplaced a decimal point and practically handed it over for one dollar. I chased after the high-speed train and drank until my stomach bled before I managed to recover the company's losses. While I was still in the hospital, she ran to my fiance, Edward Cooper, to complain. "I've always been bad at math. How was I supposed to know something like that!" Edward smiled at her dotingly, replying, "You just lack experience. Go ahead and do whatever you want. If anything goes wrong, Zoe will take the blame." I was so furious I nearly quit on the spot. To so-call "make it up to me," Jenny insisted on cleaning my office as an apology. She ended up throwing newly approved bidding proposals straight into the shredder. The company lost hundreds of millions. I was fired and sued. I ended up in prison, where I was tortured to death by inmates. As I lay there on my last breath, I heard Jenny crying once more. "If only I were smarter… maybe Zoe would still be alive?" Edward stroked her head gently, soothing her, "She was incompetent. She couldn't even keep track of her documents. You're still young. You don't need to blame yourself." I died of anger. When I opened my eyes again, I had returned to the day Jenny first joined the company.

At the award-giving ceremony of the end-of-the-year gala, my boss, George White, suddenly announces that he will be adding a bonus round on a whim. "This is the annual department evaluation! The department that comes last shall come onto the stage and receive a tiny encouragement from me!" The huge screen lights up at that moment. The sales achievements accumulated by all departments are being shown in a ranking system. The sales department is ranked first. The operations department comes second, and the marketing department gets third place. As for the administrative department, the sales achievements shown on the screen are none. After all, that department has no KPI to achieve at all. George beams at us from the administrative department. "Everyone from the administrative department, come on up and receive your prize!" Two people can be seen carrying a basket of brooms up the stage. Everyone bursts into laughter instantly. "Come now, sweep away your bad luck with the brooms! Try not to come up as the bottom-ranked department again next year!" George personally thrusts the brooms into our hands. Camera flashes go off beneath the stage—people are clearly taking photos of us. The people from the sales department are the ones laughing the hardest. "Finally, the peeps from the administrative department are getting the recognition they deserve!"

For snacking in the office during overtime, I was fined 600,000 dollars by my manager! She was extremely furious as she pointed at me. “Taylor, don’t be so arrogant just because you’ve secured a deal! “You should be working in the office. Go home if you want to eat! “You’re violating company rules. No snacking during working hours! You should be punished since you’re aware of that rule! “You won’t be getting the 600,000-dollar commission from this deal!” I looked at her and said indifferently, “Suit yourself.” Then, I decided to slack. She could not stand it.

Unable to take it anymore, I upload a photo of my husband, Johann Garner, holding hands with his secretary, Eva Ford, to the company's group chat. A long while later, Johann finally replies, "It's just something we do when we're working together. Those who are vile in nature will always view things differently from others." Messages from his colleagues begin flooding the group chat immediately. They all discuss whether or not I'm delusional. But I'm the only one who knows just how skilled Johann is at manipulating others as an expert manipulator. After muting the group chat, I look down at the ring Johann has slipped onto my finger when he first proposed to me. When exactly can I escape from the prison he has built around me?

According to company policy, anyone who achieves the feat of being the top salesperson for three years in a row will receive a thousand-square-foot apartment as a bonus. To achieve this goal, I work day and night, chasing every order I can find. But once I finally meet the criteria, I'm told that the policy has been abolished. Saul Hurst, my direct superior, brushes me off with a bonus of 500 dollars instead. Smirking at me, he says, "Being good at sales is all well and good, but you still need to improve your understanding of the company's rules and values. "Young people need to stay humble and know their place. Don't keep trying to show off. It isn't good to constantly hog the spotlight." I don't lose my temper. Instead, I manage to stay unusually calm as I took the "massive bonus" I got in exchange for three years of hard work. Two days later, our company headquarters conducts its annual sales evaluation. When one of our clients offers me a sales deal worth eight million dollars, I turn it down on the spot. After all, I believe that part of what it means to be professional is to do as my superior says. Since I'm supposed to stay humble and know my place, I've chosen to keep a low profile and not do anything that puts me under the spotlight. Besides, even if our branch fails to meet the total sales target, I'm not the one who's going to be held accountable for that.

Giselle Shaw, the intern, has sent a five-dollar bonus to the company's group chat that has 500 members in it. I get crowned as the luckiest person for being able to claim 20 cents from the bonus. So, Giselle tags me in the group chat immediately. "Hey Rebecca! Since you're the luckiest person in the group chat, why don't you send a bonus here? There are 500 people in this group chat altogether, so you can just send 5,000 dollars here. "5,000 dollars isn't much for you, right? It so happens to be the bonus you've received from Mr. Gallagher because of the project you've secured. You can send us the bonus so that we can get some good luck from you!" The moment I refuse, Giselle begins playing the pity card in the group chat by claiming that she can't reap good luck for everyone in the company. My boyfriend, Vincent Gallagher, rushes into my office and starts berating me angrily. "Rebecca Campbell, just how stingy are you to not want to send a five-thousand-dollar bonus to the group chat despite being a higher-up in this company? You even made a young woman cry! Is this how you do things? "You'd better send a 50-thousand-dollar bonus to the group chat right now and write a five-thousand-word apology letter by hand! I want you to sincerely apologize to Giselle as well! Otherwise, I'll break up with you! You can forget about retaining your position in this company, too!"

I won eight million overnight. The first thing I did was rush to the hospital to pay for my son's surgery and treatment. That was when my phone rang. Ian, a coworker from the company, called, "Something urgent came up! You need to get back here right this instant!" My wife, Mara, took the bank card from my hand, and said with an gentle and understanding voice, "You can give me the PIN. I'll take care of our son's hospital bills. Go. Work is important. Don't worry about us." In my previous life, I didn't hesitate one bit. I trusted her completely and hurried back to the office. My son never made it into surgery. Instead, the police came for me. It turned out that Mara and Ian had conspired together to frame me, pinning the crime of embezzling company funds on me. The very money Ian had stolen. With no money for treatment, my son died in the hospital. My parents, shattered by grief, suffered fatal heart attacks one after the other. And I, rotting in prison, ended my life in despair. After my death, my soul drifted to the holiday villas of Moldeves, where Mara was on vacation. I heard her laughing as she spoke to Ian, "That idiot won a fortune and wasted it on that useless sick kid. He dragged me into a miserable life." Laughing even harder, she added, "Now, their whole family is dead, and we get to enjoy wealth for the rest of our lives. Consider it compensation from that idiot! Haha!" Then, I opened my eyes. I was back in the hospital corridor, at the exact moment my wife reached out and took the bank card from me. This time, I still told her the PIN.

I'm the top salesperson at a tutoring center. Payday comes, and my commission is 50 cents. I'm so furious that I march straight to my boss to demand answers, but his secretary, Sasha Watson, steps in front of me. She digs through her pocket, pulls out 50 cents, and flicks it straight at my face in front of everyone. "Here's your 50 cents!" My ears ring. Heat crawls up my neck and into my skull. "Ms. Watson, this has to be a mistake. I closed 1.5 million dollars on my own last month. My team pulls in over three million dollars. My commission should be at least 200 grand." Sasha rolls her eyes. She reaches into her wallet, pulls out a dollar bill, and slaps it against my cheek. "Stop barking! Fine, I'll throw you a dollar. Keep the change!" I'm about to lose it. "My mom is still waiting on that 200 grand for her surgery. Without it, she could die." The coworkers around us start whispering. "50 cents? For the top salesperson? That's insane!" "Lower your voice. She's the boss's niece! What she says goes. Unless you want to get fired, pretend you didn't hear anything." I turn away, pull out my phone, and dial our biggest competitor. "I'm in. Five million dollars a year."