Logistics Strikes Back: Fire Me, Lose Everything

"Get out. Don't come crawling back. Without you, this company will only run faster," Vanessa said.

I quietly gathered my belongings and put them back into my bag. Before leaving, I cast one last look at the place where I had poured five years of my youth. In my hand, I gripped the universal access card tightly.

They had no idea that the building's special approvals for water and electricity—and all its property management connections—were maintained by me.

If I were nothing but trash, then I would at least take with me the dignity that belonged to trash.

After returning the universal access card, I stepped out of the building. The late-night wind cut across my face like a blade.

I pulled my coat tighter and glanced back at the 15th and 16th floors.

Five years ago, I had joined the company full of hope, hired as an administrative specialist.

The turning point came two years ago, when the company reassigned me under the pretext that I lacked a "formal administrative management background." I was made "Logistics Supervisor." My salary stayed the same, but my work shifted from coordination to running errands—and the entire department consisted of just me.

Six months ago, Vanessa parachuted in as Administrative Director. She found me "unsophisticated" and began fostering an atmosphere where logistics staff were treated as inferior.

For the sake of the promised year-end bonus, I endured it for half a year.

And in the end, I got a dog bowl.

For the past five years, I arrived at work at 7:30 every morning, without fail.

The first thing I did each day was take that specially authorized access card and check the central air conditioning panels in the high-voltage rooms on both floors. The building's system only turned on heating at 8:30, but I would manually start it early, making sure that when everyone walked in and took off their coats, they were greeted by spring-like warmth.

Lunch was the most tedious part. There were too many employees and too few microwaves. To make sure everyone could eat hot meals the moment their break started at noon, I began reheating food in batches at 11:15 every day—labeling, timing, controlling the temperature—so no one had to wait in line.

Vanessa called this "nanny behavior," saying it lowered the company's standards.

What she didn't understand was that this "nanny behavior" gave everyone an extra twenty minutes of rest during lunch.

And then there were the countless messes I had to clean up.

Just last month, there was an important client reception. To show off her "taste," Vanessa ordered an expensive batch of imported flowers.

The florist delivered the wrong order—white chrysanthemums meant for funerals.

With only half an hour before the clients arrived, Vanessa could do nothing but shout in panic.

I rode my electric scooter through heavy rain, rushing to three different flower markets before finally securing the right arrangement—anthuriums and lilies. By the time I got back, I was soaked to the bone, only to be scolded by her for dirtying the carpet.

And then there was the printer. That old Xerox copier broke down several times a month. The administrative staff would simply report it for repair, hang up an "Out of Order" sign, and wait two days.

I was the one who took a screwdriver, watched repair videos online, and figured it out bit by bit.

Even replacing toner cartridges and cleaning out waste powder—I did those things secretly in the stairwell, wearing a mask, because Vanessa said the dust would pollute the office air.

As for the discounted rent for this office building—that was an even bigger coincidence.

Three years ago, I was jogging in a nearby park. As I passed by a small grove, I saw an elderly man collapsed on the ground.

People stood around watching, but no one dared to help.

I had learned first aid. Without hesitation, I stepped in, performed CPR, called emergency services, and stayed with him at the hospital until his family arrived.

That elderly man turned out to be the chairman of the Seagar Group, the property owner of this building—Mark Seagar.

Later, when the company was searching for office space, he learned that I worked here and personally instructed his son, Jonathan Seagar, to offer us a heavily discounted rate.

They even waived the first three years of property management fees and parking fees.

At the time, Jonathan had said to my boss right in front of me, "This is for Sandra's sake. She saved my father's life. You should treat her well."

Back then, the boss beamed like a flower, patting his chest as he promised to treat me like a younger sister.

Looking back now, this "younger sister's treatment" was nothing more than that dog bowl at the annual banquet.

They had grown used to this kind of comfort—taken it for granted, like the air they breathed.