Overworked to Death by a Two-Faced Boss

My boss, Steven Swanson, traps me at the office by guilt-tripping me into staying loyal and makes me work my fingers to the bone. From the moment I joined, I knew that the company was on the brink of collapse. When a rival company tries to poach me with an offer of triple my salary, my first thought is that Steven even sold his own home just to ensure we always got our paychecks on time. So, with tears in my eyes, I push away the headhunter's contract, determined to help the company weather the storm. After three months of pulling all-nighters, I have a heart attack and die at my desk. As my consciousness fades, I overhear Steven chatting lightheartedly in the next room with someone else. "That fool was just so easy to exploit. All it took was a little talk about loyalty to keep him working around the clock. He'd probably never guess that I own the rival company, too." Chapter 1 My migraine attacks had become increasingly frequent since the start of this quarter. The painkillers I kept in my desk drawer went from small blister packs to full-sized bottles. My colleague, Bobby Carter, watched me massage my temples as I downed some coffee, muttering, "A project director at my last company had the exact same symptoms—and it turned out to be a brain tumor. But when he came out of surgery, someone else had already taken over his job." I laughed and told him to stop it with the unlucky talk. However, I later found myself typing out "persistent headaches" and "brain tumor" to look up my symptoms. I had been plagued by heart palpitations lately. When I stayed up late working on proposals, my vision sometimes went dark, and my reflection in the mirror often showed a sallow, sickly complexion. I kept telling myself that I was just exhausted and that things would get better once the project launched and I finally got some rest. However, I couldn't help wondering if what Bobby said could possibly be true. So, I secretly booked a medical check-up. When I got my report back, the line saying "Suspected lesion. Further examination recommended" felt like an ice pick driven straight into my eyes. Clutching the report, I returned to my desk in a daze. The director of the company, Steven Swanson, emerged from his private office and clapped his hands to gather everyone's attention. "All hands on deck tonight! We're at a critical juncture now—just one final push before the IPO! Give it everything you've got. Victory is within reach!" He wore a crisp, tailored suit, his cufflinks catching the light with an elegant shimmer. I hurriedly shoved the medical report into the bottom drawer, burying it beneath a thick stack of project proposals. Our complimentary overtime meal soon arrived, but it was just a sad, plain cheeseburger with fries, completely cold and stuck together on the paper packaging. I picked at it, the taste entirely lost on me. A guy from the neighboring team muttered between bites, complaining, "How many of his so-called 'final pushes' have we had now? My wife barely recognizes me anymore." Steven strolled over, coffee in hand, his voice booming, "If you can complain, that just shows that you've got ambition! Every bit of effort you put in now is paving the way to your own financial freedom in the future!" I lowered my head, staring at the greasy food in my hands as the words from the medical report burned in my mind. "Mr. Swanson." I heard myself speak in a dry, hoarse voice, sounding jarringly out of place in the quiet, after-hours office. "If… I mean, hypothetically, if I were to fall seriously ill and require long-term treatment, what would the company do about it?" Steven paused, then flashed that familiar, motivational smile of his at me. "Young man, don't let your imagination run wild and get ahead of you! You're one of our key pillars! If that day ever were to come…" He paused, his tone turning resolute. "The company would never abandon a team player! You will definitely get every bit of the support you're entitled to. Now, focus—let's tackle these challenges hand-in-hand!" His words echoed in my ears as I slowly picked up my burger and took a huge bite of the cold food. My stomach churned, yet a sudden, searing heat welled up in my chest. From the moment I took on this project, I knew it was a matter of life or death for the company. The lights in Steven's office stayed on until late into the night, and his gray hair seemed to multiply before my very eyes. In every meeting, his eyes would redden as he said, "Guys, this is our last stand! The livelihoods of over a hundred people at this company rest on our shoulders!" There wasn't a single game on my PC—just industry reports, competitor analyses, and an endless stream of presentation decks. The rim of my coffee mug was stained with dark brown residue, and the office admin suggested I replace it, but I figured it was still perfectly functional. There was no need to waste company resources at a time like this. Steven often clapped a hand on my shoulder, his voice raspy as he "motivated" me further. "You're the core of this team, William Moore. I have the most faith in you. The company's future is in your hands." I nodded firmly, looking into his weary yet determined eyes. And so, the days rolled by in a blur of data, code, and conference rooms. I had no weekends to myself. My social media feed was filled with my friends traveling and hanging out together, while my own world was consumed by OKRs, KPIs, and emergency meetings at 3:00 am. Chapter 2 My friends often chatted about the latest movie releases and their weekend camping trips—all of them conversations I couldn't join. That kind of life just felt like it belonged to a different, parallel world altogether. I would just lower my head, pretending to reply to an endless stream of work messages. Whenever my stomach flared up, I'd swallow a handful of antacids. Once the medicine kicked in and the burning sensation was forcibly suppressed, I would go right back to sitting in front of my computer. Every time my body sounded an alarm, I never said a word about it and just gritted my teeth, pushing through with sheer willpower. By the third week of pulling all-nighters, my heart began to skip a beat every now and then. I'd splash cold water on my face in the restroom, then head back to the screen to walk through the project logic with perfect ease. During our morning meetings, Steven would often say, "Look at our teammate here! Now that's what you call dedication! That's what 'taking ownership' really looks like!" My stomach would churn every time I heard him say that. There were things I wanted to tell him, too. I wanted to tell him that I'd had a ringing in my right ear for a week straight. That my lower back ached so much I could barely sit. That I hoped, once this project wrapped up, I might be granted some time off during which I wouldn't have to answer a single phone call. But I was afraid. I was afraid that if I admitted I couldn't keep going, I'd betray his trust and become the person who dropped the ball at the most critical moment. I was afraid of seeing the disappointment in his eyes, of hearing him ask me if I just wasn't pushing myself hard enough. I was afraid that my own personal "discomfort" might become the final straw that crushed the team's morale. Later that night, I remained in the empty office building, working overtime again. My medical check-up report lay in my email inbox. The attachment displayed a few lines in bold that stood out, shocking and stark. "Abnormal cardiac enzyme levels, suggesting possible myocardial injury. Signs of severe sleep deprivation and prolonged physiological stress. Abnormal hormone levels consistent with chronic stress. "Immediate cessation of work, adequate rest, and urgent medical evaluation are strongly recommended. Continued overexertion may increase the risk of serious cardiac complications, including sudden cardiac death." As the sky outside began to pale with the first light of dawn, I finally made up my mind. If my body were to truly collapse—if I became a liability to the project, causing everyone's hard work to go to waste—then perhaps leaving voluntarily before that happened would be the most ideal and professional choice. My phone vibrated with a text message from Steven. He said, "I've reviewed the materials, and they're excellent! Get some shut-eye—we've got a meeting at 9:00 am sharp. Let's win this battle together! I know you can do it!" I stared at the final line he wrote on the screen. My fingertips felt ice-cold as I slowly typed back a single-word reply. "Okay." Voices and footsteps began to echo through the office building. A new day and a new battle were just about to begin. I closed the tab containing my medical report and opened a new document, naming it "Resignation Letter and Handover Instructions". After printing it out, I folded the letter and placed it right in the center of my keyboard. I then walked over to my office locker and opened the bottom compartment. Inside, a few personal items lay scattered, and among them was a small pill bottle. I had bought these sleeping pills back when the stress was so intense that I couldn't sleep at all. As I gazed at the white pills in my palm, a memory surfaced in my head. I remembered the team celebrating our last successful round of funding. Everyone's faces were lit and bright with joy back then. A sharp ache rose in my chest just then, and hot tears spilled onto the pills. Suddenly, I felt a flicker of fear and a pang of reluctance. However, I closed my eyes and told myself, "Don't be so selfish." Leaving now was the final bit of support I could offer them. I took a deep breath, shoved all the pills into my mouth, and swallowed them down with a gulp of cold water. They tasted bitter on my tongue, but the sensation vanished almost instantly. Outside the window, the light grew brighter. The birds began to sing and chirp merrily, but I closed my eyes, feeling utterly exhausted and longing for some proper sleep more than anything in the world. I didn't know how much time passed, but some time later, I seemed to have "woken up" from my sleep. My body felt weightless. Looking down, I saw my body still slumped over the workstation with my cheek pressed against the keyboard, just like those brief naps I'd taken during countless nights of overtime. So, I had really just "logged off" like that. But now, I didn't know where to go from here. Suddenly, I thought of Todd Addams, the youngest member on our team, who was always trailing behind me, asking one question after another. Last night, after I finished revising the final version of the presentation deck, he had quietly poured me a mug of hot water. And now, I felt an urge to see him one last time before leaving. No sooner had the thought crossed my mind than the scenery around me shifted instantly. I found myself standing outside a private room in an upscale fine dining restaurant. Through a gap in the sliding door, I saw Todd raising his glass. There was an expression I had never seen on his face before—relaxed and rather sly. Seated around him were not our colleagues, but several individuals in business-casual attire, their wristwatches catching the light with a subtle, understated gleam. My gaze fell upon a briefcase Todd had casually set aside. It was a bespoke piece from a luxury brand, one I had once spotted in Steven's office. He'd claimed it was a gift from an important client. But how could Todd have possibly— Just as I leaned in closer, Todd's phone vibrated. He glanced at the screen and politely excused himself, his smile remaining unchanged as he said, "Sorry, I have to take this call from home." Chapter 3 Todd walked out into the hallway, and I followed. "Mr. Swanson?" he said, speaking into his phone, his tone instantly becoming deferential in a way I knew so well. From the other end of the line came Steven's gravelly voice. "How are things on your end, Todd? How is he? How's he doing today? Is he doing okay?" "Don't worry," Todd replied, lowering his voice. "I've been keeping an eye on him. He's still working frantically on the final materials and hasn't suspected a thing. I even brought him some water last night, and he seemed quite touched." "Good." Steven's tone was one of satisfaction. "Make sure you keep him steady. He's the core, the 'heart' of this project. We can't afford any hitches in these final days. Once the investors' meeting is over tomorrow, everything will finally be set in stone." "Understood," Todd replied, his voice tinged with a subtle, sycophantic edge. "It's all thanks to your brilliant strategy, Mr. Swanson, using his dedication to keep him anchored to his post. But about that position you promised me—" "Don't worry about it," Steven interrupted, his tone firm and decisive. "If the project succeeds, the position of VP of Technology at the new company is yours." He added, "For now, your job is to act as a 'fuse' to ensure that the 'heart' keeps beating until the very last second!" "Got it, Mr. Swanson! I'll keep a close watch on him!" Todd hung up, the look of deference vanishing from his face. He then walked back into the private room, and his laughter rang out once more. It turned out I was the person they were talking about. So, to them, I was nothing more than a disposable component to be used until the very last second. As this cold, sharp anger flickered through my mind, the scene shifted. I was now standing on a rooftop terrace overlooking the entire business district. A gentle evening breeze stirred, and a champagne tower shimmered with an alluring, golden glow. A small celebration was underway, and at the center of the crowd stood the man himself—Steven, the very person who claimed to have "gone gray from the stress of the project". He looked radiant, with his hair meticulously styled and his body dressed in a perfectly tailored suit. He held a champagne glass in his hand, laughing and chatting with ease. There wasn't even a trace of exhaustion to be found. "So, when it comes to managing a team—especially one filled with top-tier technical talent—you can't rely on money alone," he said, his voice resonant and brimming with confidence. "You have to give them a sense of purpose. You have to use phrases like 'The survival of the company depends on you', 'We're all in this together', and 'We are the change the future needs' on them. I swear that they're far more effective than a fat paycheck." Laughter and applause rippled through the room. Someone asked, "Like that key player of yours? The one I heard works himself to the bone every single day?" Steven offered a faint smile. "He's a sharp blade. You just have to keep telling him, 'The company can't survive without you,' or 'Everything rests on your shoulders'—and he'll gladly work himself to death." He swirled his glass, adding, "And the cost? A few cups of coffee and a bit of praise here and there. I'm telling you, it's an incredible return on investment." The group raised their glasses in knowing agreement. The atmosphere was just as lively as ever. "By the way," another person asked casually. "When does this 'last stand' of yours actually come to an end?" Steven remained perfectly composed. "Tomorrow's investor meeting is the final curtain call. Once that's over, this company's mission is complete. "The core assets and the best of the team will be seamlessly folded into our new venture. As for the empty shell and the debts left behind…" So, that "last stand", the one I'd ​​staked my very life for, was nothing more than a meticulously calculated asset transfer. But I'd really died for this. I hovered at the edge of the brightly lit celebration and stared at them, completely stunned. Deep within the heart-like structure formed by streams of data, a faint, residual pulse seemed to twitch. All those sleepless nights, all those impassioned speeches about the company's survival—they had been nothing but a management script, carefully staged by him. In a daze, I recalled a late night when I'd caught a glimpse of Steven's computer screen showing a minimized private email, an invitation to an exclusive club for high-end fund managers. He'd closed it instantly, dismissing it as junk mail. I also remembered the mechanical watch on his wrist. He'd claimed it was a memento from a former boss and worth nothing. I recalled a corner of a villa garden visible behind him in a group photo from a team-building event. When I asked about it, he just waved his hand with a smile, explaining that he'd borrowed the space from a friend just to ensure a better experience for everyone. As it turned out, those moments that had once made me think that life as a director wasn't easy on him either were nothing more than props on his carefully constructed stage. I had been the only one acting like a true martyr in this project, wholly immersed in the mission he had woven, draining every last drop of my own energy. A hint of sorrow at the tragedy of my own life shot through me like an electric current, only to be instantly swallowed by a profound sense of nothingness. Chapter 4 Even if the company covered the astronomical medical bills in the event of a sudden cardiac arrest, it likely wouldn't be enough to revive a body that had completely burned out. In the end, I would only become a burden to the team. At the very least, the project was a success now. The data looked impressive, the funding had come through, and everyone had something impressive to add to their résumés. Steven would remain the same strategic, composed leader who was deeply loyal to his employees. And with that, I had no regrets left. My stream of consciousness seemed to steady once I came to that conclusion. Curious, I began to drift through the banquet hall, a space that stood as a testament to our success. There were exquisite hors d'oeuvres, expensive drinks, and faces glowing with relaxed, genuine smiles. This was the very future I used to imagine back when I was still alive, hunched over my desk and eating a sad, wilted sandwich from the convenience store next door. I then drifted toward a small meeting room off to the side of the banquet hall. The door was left slightly ajar, revealing the remnants of the "war" we had during our last meeting the day prior. My final marks from last night still remained on the whiteboard, along with a complex architectural diagram. Next to it was a sticky note I'd left for myself, saying, "Let's get this!" Then, I spotted an unopened gift box on a storage shelf in the corner. It was beautifully wrapped with a note attached to it. "Dear William, congratulations on reaching this project milestone. Consider this a small token of my appreciation. Looking forward to creating an even greater future with you. "Your comrade, Steven." This gift was meant for me. A gentle warmth stirred within me as I looked at the gift. Though I couldn't physically feel it in my hands, I couldn't help imagining what might be inside. Perhaps it was an exquisite tie or even a pen engraved with my name. I thought it would be the kind of thing I would have hesitated to actually use but would have cherished and kept safe nonetheless. Outside the window, the city's neon lights filtered through the blinds, casting shifting patterns of light and shadow across the whiteboard. And so, I simply sat there, watching. I knew now that this gift, prepared for me under the guise of a token from a "comrade", was one I would never be able to open. Time drifted by amidst the clamor of the celebration outside the door. Suddenly, the screen of the work phone at my former desk lit up even though nobody actually touched it. Then, a rapid succession of notifications popped up. [Warning: Biometric monitoring indicates an anomaly. No movement detected for over 12 hours.] [Attendance System: William Moore has failed to attend any of today's scheduled meetings.] [Slack: William Moore, the last person to update the core module, has been offline for over 10 hours. Please investigate.] These same alerts appeared simultaneously on Steven's personal phone as he chatted and laughed in the banquet hall. The smile on his face faltered for a split second. Offering a quick apology to those around him, he picked up his phone and headed toward the terrace. I drifted along behind him. He quickly dialed a number, his voice instantly shifting into a tone raspy from lack of sleep. "Hey, Bobby from IT, right? It's me. Yeah, I'm still at the celebration, but something's bothering me… I've just received some strange system alerts about William. Has he been offline all day?" On the other end, Bobby replied uncertainly, "I noticed it too, Mr. Swanson. The internal network monitoring at his desk shows absolutely no activity since late last night. But that can't be right. He's never like this." "William!" Steven echoed, lowering his voice. "Could the pressure have gotten to him? Could he be taking some time off? Or maybe… Maybe he's been looking at offers from headhunters?" "I doubt it. He sent me the final version of the document just last night, Mr. Swanson. He seemed really driven," Bobby replied, sounding a little hesitant. "Should I have someone from the admin department check his desk? Or maybe give him a call?" "No, don't," Steven interjected immediately. "What if he's just catching up on some sleep? Tell you what—just wait until I get back. I'll handle it." I floated weightlessly behind him, watching as he joined the investors for yet another round of toasts. He finally excused himself, saying he couldn't drink anymore, and left the event early. Then, he headed straight for the office. As he pushed open the office's glass door, Steven glanced toward the area where my workstation was. He saw a screen still glowing faintly in the dim light and let out a sigh of relief, his tense shoulders finally relaxing. "The lights are still on. Maybe he just stepped away for a moment, or perhaps he was so exhausted he fell asleep right there at his desk," he muttered to himself. He then raised his voice and called out to me. "William? Are you still wrestling with the code? You didn't even show up for the celebration. Everyone's been asking about you!" The office area was deathly silent, save for the low hum of the server cooling fans. "Why is he not answering while he's right here in the office?" Steven grumbled, walking more quietly as he approached my desk. The partition wasn't very high, so he could see me slumped over the desktop, my back turned toward him. "William?" He stopped beside the workstation and called out again, a hint of tension creeping into his voice. "Wake up. You'll catch a cold if you sleep here."