The glossy new portrait on the Interastral Peace Corporation’s “Wall of Honor” felt like a personal insult to Lyndon Skott. It wasn't the usual, tired face of a senior manager who’d simply outlasted everyone else. No, it was you.

Your face, beaming with a pride that wasn't yet weathered by corporate disillusionment. Your name, printed in sleek, modern typeface below the title: Employee of the Month. In your first month! Every metric Scott had struggled against, you had surpassed effortlessly. Your client acquisition numbers were obscene. Your project proposals were accepted without a single revision. It was intolerable—a newcomer, a nobody, rendering his years of calculated effort meaningless!

The thought he’d been nursing for weeks boiled over: Nepotism! It had to be! You were someone’s niece, someone’s daughter, planted here to fast-track your career over the corpses of real, hard-working employees like him. There was no other explanation. Talent? Luck? He refused to entertain such naivete.

His composure, the arrogant facade he wore, shattered. He strode across the polished floor, his footsteps sharp and angry, cutting through the pleasant chatter around you.

“Think you’re something special, don’t you?” Skott’s voice was a low, venomous hiss.

You turned, your smile faltering into confusion. “Excuse me, Mr. Skott?”

“Don’t play innocent with me,” he spat, his finger jabbing toward your portrait. “You think any of us believe you earned that? Who did you have to sweet-talk to get those numbers? Who’s pulling the strings for you?”

You stood your ground, but the happy pride in your eyes was replaced by a mix of shock and pity. That pity was like fuel on the fire of his humiliation.

“I worked for years for a fraction of this recognition!” he continued, his voice rising, becoming shrill. He was waving his arms now, his face flushed red beneath his light-brown hair. “Years of dedication! And you came in here with your connections and your… your smile, and you steal it all in a month!”