Chapter Fifteen: The Overachiever's Regret

Yang Luo lay on the hospital bed, his eyes dull and lifeless as he stared at the snow-white ceiling. The patient gown clung to his body, and the pungent smell of disinfectant filled his nostrils, dragging his mood ever closer to the freezing point.

This was a ward in the Sixth People's Hospital of Qingxia City. Ten days earlier, after Shengyi collapsed in a coma, the company had sent him here.

Though a sum had been advanced for his hospitalization, not a shred of gratitude stirred in Yang Luo’s heart toward the company. On the contrary—there was only a burning hatred.

And somewhere, deep in the recesses of his mind, there lingered a stubborn disbelief, a refusal to accept the reality.

“…How did it come to this?

“How did I end up like this?”

His gaze shifted to the clivia on the windowsill beside his bed. His mind was foggy. Hours earlier, he’d taken painkillers and pazopanib; the pain in his chest was dulled, less insistent. Yet with each passing day, he could feel more clearly how his body was deteriorating at an accelerating pace.

If he didn’t have surgery soon, he feared he’d slip away altogether. But even with surgery… he would not have many years left.

Yang Luo forced a bitter smile and looked at the phone resting by his pillow. The screen displayed a message from his team leader, sent a few days ago.

A voice message—he had already listened to it.

“Our conditions still apply. Five.”

Vague, ambiguous. But Yang Luo understood well: it was a deliberate avoidance of leaving written evidence.

He and the other party both knew exactly what was being said.

After so many days, Yang Luo had figured it out. All along, the company had simply treated him as a beast of burden, someone to toil without complaint. The team leader was one such person; HR Huang Cheng was another. Their actions merely reflected the company’s intentions. Perhaps only people like them could thrive in Shengyi, could swim so easily in its waters.

As for himself… he was nothing but a self-important clown.

Over the past ten days, he recalled the scene in the meeting room, finally grasping the intention behind HR Huang Cheng’s gesture with the pen. At that moment, Huang Cheng was actually asking the team leader whether he’d secretly brought a recorder, and the savvy team leader had responded by shaking his head: impossible.

“Heh… heh, heh…”

A mocking smile twisted Yang Luo’s lips, ridiculing himself, his ignorance, his naivety.

He had been treated as a burden by the company, swiftly cast aside. Only then did Yang Luo realize that the so-called “family” and “family members” were nothing more than his own wishful fantasies.

In this world, aside from his distant hometown thousands of kilometers away, was there anywhere that would never treat him as a burden, no matter what?

Mocking his own innocence, Yang Luo’s eyes grew dim.

But at that moment, his phone screen lit up. A familiar call came through.

—His mother.

Yang Luo gripped the phone, stared at the caller ID for a long time, adjusted his expression to something a little brighter, and finally answered.

“Hello, Mom…

“No, I was just working, yes…

“I’ll take care of myself, you and Dad must do the same…

“I’m fine, really, nothing’s wrong… I’ll make sure you and Dad have good days ahead, mm… no need to talk to Dad, I’m too busy with work.”

The call ended.

Yang Luo’s eyes dimmed again.

He still hadn’t dared to tell his parents the truth, unwilling to shatter their years of hope—or let them, in their fifties, worry and labor for him.

He knew that if he told them, they would surely sell the newly purchased house in the county town, bring their life’s savings, and come to care for him, pay for his treatment. But even if the operation succeeded, he’d only gain a year or two at most.

If he died, leaving them penniless and bereaved—what would become of them?

“…My illness is incurable, but at the very least, I must leave some money for my parents, so they can enjoy their later years after I’m gone.”

Clutching his phone, Yang Luo made up his mind.

At least for now, he couldn’t afford to be so defeated.

…

In the days that followed, Yang Luo began to take action.

Though bedridden, the internet was everywhere; even across oceans, people could connect. He decided to use online public opinion to counterattack the company, forcing them to pay a greater price to compensate him.

He started by posting on the internal network, hoping to stir resonance among his colleagues—but his corporate WeChat account had been completely blocked, and he no longer had access to the intranet. Clearly, Shengyi had anticipated this move and prepared in advance.

Yang Luo did not lose heart. Next, he contacted the few colleagues with whom he’d maintained some personal interaction outside of work, hoping they would speak up for him on the internal forum.

Those colleagues responded with lukewarm sympathy, but all shrugged off his request.

Frustrated, Yang Luo pressed them, only to find himself promptly blocked. Only one colleague, a little kinder, explained the reason:

“Yang Luo, you used to be a real overachiever in the company, working overtime till three or four every night. Every year, management used you as a benchmark to squeeze everyone else’s performance. Now that you’re terminally ill, plenty of people in the project feel you’ve brought it on yourself.

“Besides, the company monitors the internal network—everyone knows whose account is whose. Helping you post on the intranet brings no benefit, and might even get us fired. Why bother?”

Enlightened, Yang Luo looked back on his past and felt no resentment toward the colleague’s attitude. He thanked him for his candor, and the connection was severed.

Reflecting on his eight years of work, Yang Luo couldn’t help but sigh.

Yes, the overachiever… the company stooge… When he saw such comments online in the past, he’d felt indignant. He’d worked hard for his own happiness—why should others mock him?

But now, faced with a terminal illness, with everything before him, Yang Luo finally understood. No wonder people saw him that way; all his striving only worsened the work environment.

Memories flickered through his mind. He suddenly recalled that in the very month he joined the project’s server team, an older colleague had been dismissed.

That man was thirty-six, skilled enough, but unable to work overtime, and his efficiency was only eighty percent of the team average. After Yang Luo joined, the team’s productivity increased further.

One day, he saw the older colleague leave the meeting room with HR, quietly packing up and departing.

He remembered the look in that man’s eyes as he left.

Before leaving, the man had glanced at Yang Luo, his gaze full of hatred and anger.

But at the time, Yang Luo hadn’t cared, hadn’t felt any guilt. Instead, he’d been uncomfortable—

Your efficiency isn’t high enough, you got fired—why look at me like that?

—You just didn’t work hard enough!

Thinking scornfully, Yang Luo threw himself back into his work.

It had seemed a trivial incident, something he believed he’d forgotten.

But now, lying on his sickbed, that gaze replayed in his mind, shocking him.

He sat in silence, regret swelling in his heart.

If only he could go back—back to when he first switched teams, no, back to when he first joined Shengyi—he would surely…

Yang Luo shook his head with a bitter smile. At this point, there was no medicine for regret.

All he could do now was look forward, strive to leave behind something that would help his parents enjoy their old age.

So, casting regret aside, Yang Luo began a new round of action.