Date: February 3, 2025

  The New Hire Competition

  The CEO, a man who radiated I’ve-built-three-startups-and-sold-two energy, walked onto the stage during our morning briefing. For once, the usual mix of polite nodding and secret Slack messages faded as people actually started paying attention.

  “Every year, we challenge our newest hires with something real,” he began. “You’re going to work with a dataset from a former client, analyze it, identify an opportunity, and present your insights. The winning entry will earn a gift card, some company swag”—cue mild, underwhelmed applause—“and a one-on-one coffee chat with me to discuss your future at TechJolt.”

  That got everyone’s attention.

  A chance to sit down with the CEO, even if it was just fifteen minutes over overpriced espresso, meant getting noticed. In a place like this, visibility mattered.

  “And before you ask,” he continued, “yes, this is compulsory. Every new hire is expected to participate.”

  I gripped my notebook a little tighter. The competition wasn’t just about a gift card or some company-branded hoodie. This was about proving I belonged.

  I didn’t come from a traditional computer science background. I switched to data science after deciding journalism wasn’t for me, but the doubt had never fully gone away. Maybe I made the wrong choice. Maybe I wasn’t as sharp as the others. Maybe I was just one bad submission away from people realizing I didn’t deserve to be here.

  I had to win.

  Across the room, Leo leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “Thinking of winning, Spoon Girl?”

  Ethan, sitting a few seats away, remained unreadable, his gaze already distant—like he was running through potential solutions in his head.

  Samantha, on the other hand, had already started outlining ideas in her notebook, scribbling at full speed.

  Game on.

  A brief interlude of real work: The Chaos of Team Meetings

  Outside of the competition, real work still carried on. And my first real team meeting was in one of TechJolt’s glass-walled conference rooms. Hannah had a PowerPoint ready: “2025: Shooting for the Stars.”

  We spent about ten percent of the meeting discussing actual work and ninety percent spiralling into arguments.

  Two slides in, Leo leaned forward. “Are we sticking with Python 3.9, or are we finally upgrading?”

  Ethan barely looked up from his laptop. “We’re not upgrading.”

  Leo scoffed. “You realize every other company is moving forward, right? You planning to run TensorFlow on stone tablets next?”

  Ethan clicked his pen, exhaling. “You like clean code, right? Migrating to 3.11 will break half our pipelines unless you want to rewrite them manually. Be my guest.”

  Leo smirked. “You just don’t like change.”

  “You just don’t like reading patch notes.”

  The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Hannah cleared her throat. “We’re not here to argue about Python versions. Moving on.”

  Leo looked amused. Ethan didn’t bother looking at him at all.

  I glanced at Samantha who shrugged. It seemed like the tension was just accepted and put aside. I wondered briefly if all teams worked like this. But there wasn't much time to do that, because work and the competition was waiting.

  The Betrayal

  For the next few days, I threw myself into the competition, refining my concept—a model that predicted seasonal purchasing behavior.

  I ran my idea by Hannah, Leo, and Ethan. To my surprise, all three of them approved.

  “This is actually smart,” Leo admitted.

  Ethan, arms crossed, gave a small nod. “Solid logic.”

  I spent lunches with Samantha and other new hires, discussing our projects, bouncing ideas back and forth. One of them, Nathan, always had a lot of questions. In hindsight, a little too many.

  “What made you pick seasonal data?” he asked one afternoon.

  “It just made sense,” I said, not thinking much of it. I proceeded to take him through my research, waiting for any feedback in case I'd missed anything.

  As it turned out: I was an idiot.

  At our dress rehearsal presentation, I watched in horror as Nathan stepped up to present his work.

  It was my idea.

  Same logic. Same seasonal purchasing model. Even the slides looked eerily similar, just tweaked enough to pass as different.

  My stomach twisted.

  By the time I had to present, my voice felt tight, my hands clammy. Not only was my idea no longer original, but now I had to figure out a way to fix it—fast. The room was filled with seniors and managers from each of our teams. I barely saw any of them. I barely heard my own voice. I have no idea what I actually said. But I remember the overwhelming nausea, and the tightness in my chest. Idiot, idiot, idiot.

  I made my way back to my seat numbly after the presentation. Nearby, I could sense Hannah's eyes on me, but I avoided meeting them like the plague. Leo, sitting closest, leaned back in his chair, eyes flashing, and said to no one in particular, “Well, that’s interesting.”

  Ethan said nothing, his expression unreadable, but I felt the weight of his gaze on me.

  Samantha, arms crossed, was fuming. “You’re not just leaving it like this, right?”

  No. I wasn’t.

  Late Nights and Unexpected Support

  That night, I stayed late at the office, staring at my screen, trying to figure out how to outmaneuver Nathan’s theft.

  It was past ten when Ethan appeared beside me, setting down a cup of coffee.

  I glanced at him. “What’s this?”

  “Something stronger than the break room stuff.”

  I felt a lump rise in my throat, and squashed it stubbornly with a strong sip of the coffee. Then I blinked at my screen, rubbing my temples. “I don’t even know where to start fixing this.”

  “You don’t need to start over,” Ethan said, sliding into the chair beside me. “Your model was good, but it wasn’t perfect.”

  I turned to him, brow furrowing. “And you didn’t say anything?”

  “You would have figured it out yourself.” He paused. “But given the situation, I’ll make an exception.”

  Then he leaned over and pointed at my screen, highlighting a flaw I hadn’t even noticed. A way to improve my model beyond what Nathan had copied.

  I should have been annoyed. Instead, I found myself nodding. “That… actually makes sense.”

  “Of course it does.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Don’t ruin the moment.”

  Ethan didn’t respond right away. Instead, he studied me for a beat longer than necessary.

  “You didn't do anything wrong,” he finally said.

  That was almost the last straw. I could sense tears threatening to spill and was mortified I was about to cry at work. I not going to be that girl. I tilted my head slightly, trying to hide my face and mumbled, "thanks." If Ethan noticed I was close to crying, he said nothing.

  Then, across the office, a familiar laugh carried through. I looked across to see Leo laughing with Nathan.

  For a second, something twisted in my chest. So much for being in the same team. Then I shook it off. It wasn’t my problem.

  As Ethan got up to leave, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. Leo walking past, a bag of M&Ms dropped onto my desk.

  “You got this, Spoon Girl,” he muttered before heading out. Surprised, I stared at them, at him as he walked out. I barely knew what to make of that.

  A Small Reminder That Not Everyone Sucks

  By the time I left the office, it was past eleven. My body ached, my mind felt wrung out, and my code still wasn’t perfect, but I was getting there.

  At home, I dropped my bag by the door and saw a small package waiting for me.

  Inside was a tiny spoon shaped like a cat, its little paws designed to hook onto the rim of a mug.

  The note read:

  “To Ada: For all your caffeine-fueled battles ahead. - Samantha.”

  I sat down at my desk, staring at the spoon.

  I wasn’t going to lose.

  Not to Nathan. Not to anyone.