The Final Spreadsheet

When is she going to quit?

The voice from the breakroom wasn't loud, but every word was crystal clear.

I stood at the doorway, cup in hand, motionless.

Should be soon. It's been three months.

I bet she's gone by the end of this week. A round of hot pot on it.

You're on.

I turned and walked back to my desk.

My desk was next to the restrooms, a place with a permanent, 24/7 odor.

I sat down, opened my laptop, and continued working on my spreadsheet.

No one knew what I had been documenting for the past three months.

And no one knew just how long the list I was going to read at the annual meeting would be.

1.

My name is Anya, and Im 32 years old.

Three months ago, I was transferred to this branch office with the title of "Specialist."

No specific duties, no clear reporting line, not even an official ID badge.

The HR managers explanation was: "It's a transitional period. Just get acclimated for now."

I didn't ask what "transitional period" meant, nor did I ask what I was supposed to be getting acclimated to.

I just swiped in on time every day, sat at my desk, and created spreadsheets that nobody wanted.

In the first week, people still said hello.

By the second week, the greetings became sparse.

By the third week, out of more than twenty people in the department, not a single one looked my way.

When I walked over, they scattered.

When I sat down, they lowered their voices.

When I went to the breakroom, it fell silent.

Im not an idiot. I knew what was happening.

But I said nothing.

I just came on time, left on time, and did what needed to be done in between.

On Monday morning, I discovered my desk had been moved.

It used to be by the window. Now, it was next to the restrooms.

"Anya," the young woman from administration said with a sweet smile, "it's quieter over there. Better for you."

I glanced at her but didn't say a word.

Fine. So be it.

I carried my laptop over, arranged my files, and got back to work.

The restroom door swung open and closed, releasing waves of unpleasant smells.

Someone walked by, covering their nose and snickering.

I pretended not to see.

At noon, the department went out for a team lunch.

I was the last to find out.

Or more accurately, I didn't "find out," I "discovered." At 12:30, the entire office was empty.

I went to the breakroom for some water and heard laughter echoing from the elevator.

Back at my desk, I opened my phone. There was a group photo in the department chat.

"Mr. Peterson is treating! Cheers, everyone!"

The picture showed a table laden with food, with over twenty people raising their glasses, all smiles.

I scrolled through the chat history. No one had tagged me. No one had asked, "Anya, are you coming?"

It was as if I didn't exist.

At two in the afternoon, they returned.

Veronica, the manager, led the way, her face flushed from the wine.

She paused as she passed my desk.

"Oh, Anya, you didn't go to lunch?"

I looked up at her.

"No one told me."

She froze for a second, then laughed.

"Oh, dear. We forgot. Next time, then."

And with that, she walked away.

I lowered my head and continued typing.

A colleague nearby whispered, "What an act. Still waiting for a personal invitation."

Another one chuckled. "She's got thick skin. Let her wait."

I didn't turn around.

But I did open a new document. In the first line, I wrote:

December 3rd. Department lunch. I was not informed. Participants: Veronica, Mark, Tina...

I wrote down every name.

Then I saved the document and closed it.

And went back to my spreadsheets.

At four o'clock, I finished a market analysis report.

It was a task I had assigned myself. No one had asked for it, and no one wanted it.

But I did it anyway, and I did it meticulously.

I sent the report to Veronica, and CC'd the general manager, Mr. Peterson.

"Veronica, here is the Q4 market data I compiled, for your reference."

Five minutes later, Veronica replied.

"Got it."

Two words. That was it.

The next day, I saw my report featured on Mr. Peterson's social media.

His caption read: "Veronica's team is killing it! This report is incredibly professional!"

Below were dozens of likes and comments.

"Veronica is a rockstar!"

"Stick with Veronica and you'll go far!"

"The data analysis is so detailed. Great work, Veronica!"

I scrolled to the cover page of the report.

In the author field, my name was gone.

It had been replaced with "Veronica's Team."

I stared at those two words for a long time.

Then I opened my document and wrote on a new line:

December 4th. My market analysis report was credited to "Veronica's Team." Author: Veronica.

I saved it and closed it.

In the following days, similar incidents piled up.

The PowerPoint I made became Tina's.

The data I compiled became Mark's.

The proposal I wrote became the "department's collective effort."

Every single time, I recorded it.

Date, content, people involved.

Entry by entry, crystal clear.

On Friday afternoon, Veronica called me into her office.

"Anya," she said, sitting back in her chair with her legs crossed. "How long have you been with the company?"

"Three weeks."

"And how do you find it?"

"It's fine."

She smiled, but the smile didn't reach her eyes.

"Fine? You think your performance is 'fine'?"

I remained silent.

"Anya, let me be blunt," she leaned forward. "You're not a good fit for our department."

"Oh."

"Look at you. You don't socialize, you're not proactive. You just sit there every day like a block of wood."

"Mm-hmm."

"Don't you have anything to say for yourself?"

I looked at her and said calmly, "Veronica, what would you like me to say?"

She was taken aback for a moment, then sneered.

"I'd like you to have some self-awareness. If you know what's good for you, you'll write your resignation letter. The company will give you a severance package."

"And if I don't?"

"If you don't?" She leaned back again. "Then don't blame me for playing rough."

I stood up.

"Okay, I understand."

"Understand what?"

"I understand you're going to play rough."

I turned, walked out, and gently closed the door behind me.

Back at my desk, I opened my document and wrote:

December 8th. Meeting with Veronica. She suggested I resign and threatened to 'play rough' if I refused.

Saved. Closed.

I glanced at the calendar.

Three months to go.

That was plenty of time.

2.

Starting the fourth week, the isolation escalated.

Before, it was just not inviting me to lunch or talking to me.

Now, it was

Not notifying me of meetings.

My expense reports getting "accidentally" lost.

The printer always breaking down the moment I needed to use it.

My requests for office supplies were never approved.

The stapler I used, I bought myself. The pens, I bought myself. Even the A4 paper, I brought from home.

Once, I went to administration to get a notebook.

The young woman smiled. "Anya, your request isn't in the system."

I said, "I submitted it last week."

She shrugged. "Must be a system glitch. Can you submit it again?"

I submitted it again.

A week later, still no approval.

I stopped submitting requests.

I went to the convenience store downstairs, bought a pack of notebooks, and used my own.

On Wednesday afternoon, I overheard the bet in the breakroom.

"I bet she resigns this week."

"I'll take next week."

"What's the wager?"

"A hot pot dinner, how about it?"

"You're on!"

I stood at the doorway, cup in hand, completely still.

The people inside hadn't noticed me.

"Seriously, why doesn't she just leave? She's so thick-skinned."

"Probably holding out for a payout."

"A payout? Who does she think she is, demanding a payout?"

"Exactly. She brought this on herself by not taking the hint."

Their laughter drifted out, grating on my ears.

I turned and walked back, my steps light.

At my desk, I opened my document:

December 11th. Breakroom conversation overheard. Tina, Mark, and Jenna made a bet on when I would resign. Wager: a hot pot dinner.

Saved.

I looked at the screen and suddenly smiled.

Hot pot, huh?

Sounds good.

I'll treat you all later.

In the afternoon, Veronica struck again.

This time, it was a meeting.

The department's monthly meeting, the kind everyone had to attend.

Ten minutes before it started, I saw everyone packing up their things.

I asked Jenna, who sat next to me, "What meeting is it?"

She glanced at me, said nothing, and walked away with her notebook.

I caught up to Mark. "What time is the meeting? Which conference room?"

Mark didn't even turn his head. "I don't know."

I stood there, watching them disappear one by one down the hall.

The office was empty.

I was the only one left.

I checked my email. No meeting invitation.

I checked the department chat. Nothing there either.

I sat back down at my desk and opened my document:

December 13th. Department monthly meeting. I was not notified.

After writing that, I thought for a moment and added another line:

[Meeting content to be investigated.]

Half an hour later, they returned.

Veronica was at the front, looking displeased.

She paused by my desk.

"Anya, why weren't you at the meeting?"

I looked up. "No one notified me."

"We did," she frowned. "It was posted in the group chat."

"I checked. It wasn't."

"Well, maybe you just missed it," she said, a hint of mockery in her voice.

I didn't reply.

She said nothing more and walked away.

I took out my phone and screenshotted the entire group chat history for the day.

There was indeed no meeting notice.

Not a single one.

I saved the screenshot to my folder.

Evidence +1.

Friday was my birthday.

No one knew, and no one asked.

I sat alone at my desk, eating a rice ball from the convenience store, looking out the window.

Outside, the sky was a dreary gray, filled with one office building after another.

I was 32.

Ten years ago, I was a fresh graduate, full of ambition.

Five years ago, I was promoted to management, convinced the future was bright.

One year ago, I was transferred to this branch, to start all over again.

Now, I was sitting next to a restroom, eating a rice ball on my birthday.

My phone buzzed.

It was an email.

Sender: HR.

Subject: [Notice of Termination Discussion]

I clicked it open.

"Ms. Anya Shen, please report to the HR department at 3:00 PM on December 15th for a termination discussion."

I stared at the email for a long time.

A termination discussion.

They didn't even bother to speak to me first, just sent an email.

I didn't reply.

I just opened my document and wrote:

December 13th. My birthday. Received email notice for a termination discussion.

After writing, I closed my laptop.

I stood up, grabbed my bag, and left.

The elevator was empty.

I looked at my reflection in the mirror and suddenly smiled.

Three weeks.

They had no idea who I was.

They had no idea why I was here.

And they certainly had no idea what was going to happen at the annual meeting in three months.

I pressed the button for the ground floor.

No rush.

Let's take this nice and slow.

3.

On the day of the termination discussion, I arrived on time.

The HR managers name was Collins. He was in his early thirties, wore glasses, and looked perfectly professional.

But his first words told me exactly what kind of person he was.

"Anya Shen, right? Have a seat."

I sat.

He shuffled some papers and looked up at me.

"You've been with the company for almost a month now."

"Yes."

"How are you finding it?"

"It's fine."

He smiled, a practiced, corporate smile.

"Anya, I'll be direct. The company is not satisfied with your performance."

"In what way?"

"Across the board, really." He shrugged. "You're not a team player, not proactive, and your work output is low"

I cut him off. "My market analysis report, the one Mr. Peterson praised on his social media? I wrote that."

He blinked.

"That wasn't that from Veronica's team?"

"It was credited to Veronica's team, but I am the original author."

He frowned. "Do you have proof?"

I smiled.

"Mr. Collins, I'm here today to listen to what you have to say, not to argue with you. Please, continue."

He was momentarily flustered but recovered quickly.

"In any case, the company's position is that we hope you will resign voluntarily. As compensation, we can offer you the standard severance package."

"And if I don't leave?"

"If you don't leave?" He took off his glasses and wiped them. "Well, that would be more complicated. You know how it is in the corporate world"

He didn't finish, but the message was clear.

Don't leave, and the harassment will continue.

I stood up.

"Okay, I understand."

"Think about it and give me your answer tomorrow."

"No need to think about it."

"Oh?"

"I'm not leaving."

He stared at me, stunned.

I looked him in the eye and said calmly, "Mr. Collins, I will not be resigning voluntarily. If the company wishes to terminate my employment, please follow the proper procedure. Labor laws require written notice stating the grounds for dismissal."

"You"

"And I'd also like to remind you," I paused, "that I have records of every instance my work has been credited to someone else, and every time I have been deliberately isolated. If the company wants to take this to court, I'm ready."

His face changed.

I said nothing more, turned, and walked out.

Leaving the HR department, I took a deep breath.

Round one was over.

Not a win, but definitely not a loss.

When I returned to my desk, the atmosphere had shifted.

Before, it was like I was invisible. Now, it was

Hostility.

Naked, undisguised hostility.

The door to Veronica's office was open. She stood in the doorway, staring at me.

Her gaze was like a knife.

I pretended not to notice, sat down, and opened my laptop.

Five minutes later, she marched over.

"Anya."

I looked up.

"What did you say to HR just now?"

"Nothing much."

"Nothing much?" She sneered. "Did you threaten him?"

"I just told him I have evidence."

The look in her eyes changed.

"What evidence?"

I looked at her and said slowly, "Veronica, for the report you put your name on, I have the original draft. For the meetings you didn't notify me about, I have screenshots. For my desk being moved next to the restroom, I have photos."

I paused.

"Would you like to see?"

Her face went white.

But only for a second.

She quickly regained her haughty composure.

"Anya, who do you think you are? You think you can fight me?"

"I don't want to fight you."

"Then what do you want?"

I smiled faintly.

"I just want to do my job properly."

She stared at me for a few seconds, then snorted and stalked away.

I lowered my head and went back to work.

But I knew, from this day forward, everything was different.

She would get crazier.

She would become more reckless.

She would use every trick in the book to get me fired.

I wasn't afraid.

This was exactly what I was waiting for.

The bigger the scene she made, the more evidence I would have.

And the more evidence I had, the longer the list I would read at the annual meeting.

I opened my document. It was already several pages long.

Date, incident, people involved, source of evidence.

Every entry was clear and precise.

I scrolled down and saw the very first entry.

The one I wrote on my first day.

I knew back then what would happen.

Because before I even arrived, I had done my homework.

This branch had been at the bottom for performance for three years straight.

This department had had issues with expense reimbursements for two consecutive years.

This manager, Veronica, had a salary of over a million dollars, but her performance was practically zero.

Headquarters had wanted to make a move for a long time.

They just didn't have the proof.

So they sent me.

Ostensibly as a "Specialist."

In reality

I am the Head of the Corporate Audit Team.

I didn't come here to be fired.

I came here to fire them.