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墨書 Inktalez
The air conditioning in the conference room was set to a chilling level, yet a thin layer of sweat formed on my back. As the Chairman personally pulled out the main seat for me, the sound of the rosewood chair scraping against the marble floor pierced through the silence. It reminded me of three months ago when I was dragged out of this building by security, my leather shoes scraping against the automatic door track.
“Xiao Chen, it’s reassuring to have you in charge of the technical department.” The blue light from the projector reflected off the Vice President's gold-rimmed glasses as he slid two documents across the table. I noticed he had switched to a more understated Platinum Model watch. The penalty amount on the last page of the Compensation Agreement made my pupils constrict—it was exactly three times the Contract Amount I had been falsely accused of leaking.
The aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted from the pantry as I leaned against the window, fiddling with my new ID badge. The coolness of the metal edge still lingered on my fingertips when I suddenly heard rustling footsteps behind me. A group of programmers from the seventeenth floor had gathered at the door, each clutching a Starbucks cup. Wang, leading them, slammed his latte down in front of me, causing beads of condensation to form a crooked circle on the table.
“Brother Chen, our Server crashed three times last week.” He raked his fingers through his hair, unwashed for three days. “Those guys can’t figure out what’s wrong. Could you take a look at the Log File?” The blue light from the Monitor reflected in his eyes, and I recognized it as the interface I had built three months ago.
At the launch meeting for the Xing Huo Plan, my hand trembled slightly around the Laser Pointer. When the PPT flipped to the risk management page, a new girl from marketing raised her hand: “President Chen, do we need to adjust the redundancy plan for third-party data interfaces?” I stared at her name tag that read "intern Lin Xiaowei" for two seconds before bursting into laughter—this was exactly what I had asked in that same position three years ago.
That night at the celebration party, the Champagne Tower swayed dangerously, and I stepped into the Fire Escape to smoke. The green emergency exit light illuminated my phone screen in a ghostly white glow; a message from a Headhunter lingered in my chat box: “Tianqi Technology has doubled their offer.” As soon as I flicked my lighter, I heard footsteps echoing down the stairwell—each step perfectly timed at 0.73 seconds, unmistakably belonging to Manager Zhang.
In the bidding meeting, despite the cold air conditioning, I felt like my suit lining was about to soak through with sweat. When their CTO stole a glance at my Encrypted USB Drive for the seventh time, I deliberately let my document bag slip to the floor. Amongst the scattered papers was an expired Employee Cafeteria meal card—its front still printed with my Cancellation Date when my access was revoked.
During overtime, I often found myself staring blankly at the neon lights outside from the twenty-second-floor windows. Those flickering building lights resembled altered data streams; each flicker concealed secrets. One time, Cleaning Auntie suddenly spoke up: “Young man, your keyboard’s W Key is worn out.” I looked down at the faded keycap and remembered that it corresponded perfectly with a "while" loop in my code.
The Microwave in the pantry beeped sharply as I turned with my heated lunch, nearly colliding with Chief Financial Officer, who rushed by clutching files. The cold gleam of his Platinum Lapel Pin, pinned to his suit jacket, caught my eye; it was a commemorative gift from last year’s signing of the Performance Betting Agreement. Suddenly, I recalled that day when I was falsely accused—the scent of cigars mixed with an unfamiliar Men's Fragrance wafting from his office.
As the elevator descended to B2, my phone pinged with an Anonymous Message: “Watch out for blind spots.” I looked up at the camera mounted on top of the elevator and intentionally angled my phone screen toward it while unlocking it with my fingerprint. The lights in the underground parking lot flickered on one by one; each vibration from my tires rolling over speed bumps matched precisely with last week’s surveillance footage from Competitor Company’s garage.
On that Stormy Night, while verifying Safety Protocols, lightning illuminated the window just as I caught sight of a shadow flitting past the Server Room. My hand holding a cup of Hot Coffee remained steady as I slowly accessed my phone’s Remote Control Program—the Backdoor Program planted three months ago during my forced departure was now quietly running in the background.
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