Chapter 4

On the day of my discharge, Eve stayed glued to me, repeatedly whispering the same thing in my ear.

"At the company, talk less, say nothing if you can, just shake your head if people ask you anything."

"Yes."

"Just shake your head, don't open your mouth."

"Yes."

"You opened your mouth again."

"...Yes."

She took a deep breath, pulled a face mask from her bag, put it on me, then added another layer on top. "Double mask, no matter how fast your mouth is, nothing will get out."

When I walked into the company wearing a double mask, the receptionist looked at me like I was a hazmat soldier.

Owen was the first to come over to "care" about me.

He walked to my cubicle, patted my shoulder, a perfectly calibrated smile on his face.

"Mason, how's your body? Feeling any better?"

I nodded, not opening my mouth.

"Heard you had a head injury? Want to take a few more days off? I'll keep an eye on your clients for now, no rush."

His tone was sincere, his expression genuine.

But I noticed a nearly imperceptible curve at the corner of his mouth when he said "your clients."

I still nodded, pointing to my throat, indicating that I couldn't speak.

Owen showed an understanding expression. "I get it, I get it, take good care of yourself."

He turned and left.

I opened my computer and found that my client system access had been downgraded.

For my three key clients, the past week's contact logs were all under Owen's name.

He was already poaching my clients.

I wasn't angry.

Because I knew one thing—Owen wasn't just poaching clients.

During last year's annual audit, I'd accidentally seen an expense report where the amount didn't match the actual cost.

The signature on the expense report was Owen's.

At the time, I didn't say anything because it wasn't my business.

But now, it seemed I could make it my business.

At eleven in the morning, the department held a meeting.

Mr. Williamson, the boss, sat at the other end of the long table, speaking for half an hour about quarterly goals, using a PowerPoint presentation.

I wore my mask the entire time, sitting quietly in the corner.

Everything went smoothly—until Mr. Williamson suddenly called my name.

"Mason, are you familiar with the situation of your clients? Owen said the contract with Anderson Group was almost finalized last week, is that right?"

Everyone's eyes turned to me.

Owen sat opposite me, his smile unchanged, but the tip of his pen pressed a small dent into the table.

I instinctively wanted to say "Yes"—because saying "Yes" was the easiest.

But my mouth disagreed.

Because that contract was far from finalized. Before I was hospitalized last week, Mr. Anderson of Anderson Group explicitly told me that Owen's proposal was full of flaws, and they were hesitant about whether to switch suppliers.

I opened my mouth.

"No."

The conference room fell silent.

Owen's smile froze for a moment, but he reacted quickly. "Mason, you just got discharged, you might not be up to date on the latest developments—"

Mr. Williamson raised a hand, interrupting him. "Mason, do you mean the contract isn't finalized?"

"Yes."

Owen's brow furrowed.

Mr. Williamson looked at Owen, then at me. "Owen, didn't your report last week say we'd secured the letter of intent?"

Owen forced a smile. "Mr. Williamson, the situation is a bit complex; Mason might not be aware of the latest progress—"

"Did you falsify the report?"

This question wasn't from Mr. Williamson.

It was from my colleague, Lena.

She sat next to me and had always been at odds with Owen.

Everyone's gaze once again focused on my face.

My mouth moved again.

"Yes."

The conference room erupted.

Owen slammed the table and stood up. "Mason! Are you out of your mind?!"

Mr. Williamson's face darkened. "Owen, sit down."

"Mr. Williamson, he just suffered a head injury; his words aren't reliable—"

Mr. Williamson raised his hand. "I will check the original email records. Sit down."

Owen slowly sat back down, the muscles in his face taut like an iron plate.

He glanced at me.

That look held a murderous intent.

After the meeting, he stopped me in the hallway.

"Mason, what the hell do you mean?"

I pointed to my throat.

"Don't play mute with me, you were speaking perfectly fine in there." He lowered his voice, stepping closer. "You think you can touch me? My uncle is Cameron—the company's VP. You're just a junior employee, you think you can mess with me?"

His spit splattered on my mask.

I stared into his eyes, silent for two seconds.

Then I reached out, pulled out my phone, and showed him a message.

It was a photo I'd taken with my phone during my hospital stay—that expense report from last year with the abnormal amount.

I'd only taken it casually at the time, never expecting it to be useful today.

Owen stared at the phone screen, his face draining of color with each passing second.

I curved my lips into a smile at him—he couldn't see it anyway, the mask was covering it.

Then I typed a message and sent it to him: "Give me back my clients. As for the rest, depends on your performance."

He pushed my phone away and walked off.

His steps were three times faster than when he came.

I leaned against the hallway wall, pulling down my mask to catch my breath.

【Mason, you really are something. Can't speak, but you play your cards pretty well.】

Back at my cubicle, Lena leaned over and whispered, "Was everything you said just now true?"

"Yes."

"Owen really falsified the report?"

"Yes."

"Did he do anything else?"

I saw the gossipy glint in her eyes and my mouth twitched.

"Yes."

Lena's eyes lit up. She pulled her chair next to mine.

"You tell me, I'll ask."

I pulled out my phone and typed: "Not here. Treat me to dinner after work, and I'll tell you everything."

"Deal."

【Owen, your good times are over.】