"The main point of today's morning assembly is this month's performance stats," Vance announced, standing at the front of the conference room. "And I specifically want to name and shame Old Jerry. Your Group 3 is dead last. Again."


Old Jerry, who was midway through raising a thermos of herbal tea to his lips, froze.


Every pair of eyes in the room—dozens of them—swiveled toward Group 3. The gazes were a cocktail of pity and that specific corporate brand of schadenfreude: Thank god it's not me.


"I need to reiterate something," Vance continued, his voice rising. "As a team leader, you can't just coddle your clients. You need to build your team. For those who are just here to muddle along and waste oxygen... cut them loose. Focus your energy on new blood with actual potential."


Vance scanned the room with a glare that could curdle milk. "This company needs killer instinct, not a flock of gentle sheep. People who can't keep up are just anchors dragging the ship down! If you can't even manage your own people, Jerry, how are we supposed to fight for the Regional Number One spot?"


Old Jerry peered over the rim of his thermos at Vance. The manager was wearing his signature 'dead-person face'—a stiff, joyless mask—and droning on like a buzzsaw.


Jerry frowned. Why the artillery barrage this early in the morning?


He slowly turned his head to look behind him.


And there was Max, offering him a helpless, innocent shrug.


Great, Jerry thought. It's this kid again.




Thirty minutes later, the meeting mercifully ended.


But the pain wasn't over for Old Jerry. Vance dragged him into the office for a private lecture. Even through the glass walls, the team could see Vance's spittle spraying across the desk like a lawn sprinkler.


"Yo. Did you poke the bear again?"


Max was watching the carnage with a frown when a shadow fell over him. It was Marco—a guy with a buzzcut, built like a vending machine, standing a solid six feet tall.


"I heard the speech," Marco smirked. "'Mr. Numero Uno' was technically yelling at Group 3, but reading between the lines? That was all addressed to you, buddy."


Marco was a sales rep in Group 3, same as Max. They called Vance 'Mr. Numero Uno' behind his back because the guy had an ego the size of Texas and couldn't go five minutes without screaming about being Number One.


"Who knows?" Max sighed. "I just choked him out with a one-liner in the elevator. I didn't realize his ego was made of glass. Now he's doing the whole collective punishment thing. Poor Jerry is taking the heat for me."


"I don't know if the guy skipped his meds this morning or what," Max added. "He's biting everyone he sees."


"Heh! Not surprising." Marco leaned in, lowering his voice. "You're new, so you don't know. Mr. Numero Uno has those days every month. PMS—Pre-Managerial Syndrome. Odds are he got beat up at home and came here to find a punching bag."


"Oh? You've got the intel again?" Max raised an eyebrow.


Looking at Marco, you'd think he was a gym rat or a bouncer. But the guy was actually the office's premier 'Gossip Hound.' From upper management affairs to the janitor's love life, if there was tea to be spilled, Marco was drinking it.


"Hehe, you don't know the half of it," Marco whispered. "Mr. Numero Uno's father-in-law is a core exec at Regional HQ. Why do you think a guy his age is sitting in the big chair managing a hundred people? But hey, skipping twenty years of hard work comes with a price..."


Marco gave him a look.


"What? His wife beats him?" Max asked, his eyes lighting up.


"Physically? No. Emotionally? Oh, yeah." Marco held up two fingers and waggled them ominously.


"Yikes." Max sucked in a breath.


He tried to visualize it. Suddenly, Vance's monthly rage-fests made a lot more sense. Hateful people must have pitiable lives, Max thought. Snapping back at him this morning almost felt cruel now. Like kicking a puppy. An ugly, angry puppy.


"So, yeah, you walked right into the firing line," Marco said. "My advice? Lay low. Or you'll be packing up your desk by Friday."


"If I leave, shouldn't you be happy?" Max asked.


"Happy? I'd pop the champagne! Since Jerry stuck me with mentoring you, do you know how many of my commissions you've torpedoed?"


Marco's eye twitched at the memory.


"Just last week! I was talking for two hours, mouth dry as the Sahara. The guy was finally ready to buy the dividend life insurance. Then you walk by and say, 'Actually, after management fees, the interest is lower than a standard savings account.' Boom. Deal dead."


Marco groaned. "And the time before that? The comprehensive medical plan? Good lord, you practically diagnosed the guy's family medical history right there in the lobby. Are you a sales rep or a saint? Do you not know how this works? You pick the shiny parts and talk about those! If they're sick, insure the sickness. If they're healthy, talk about the cashback. That's what people want to hear!"


"But that client was over fifty with no kids," Max argued, his voice turning serious. "If he locked all his cash into that policy, sure, he gets low dividends, but what if he has an emergency? He can't get the money out. If he surrenders the policy early, he loses half the principal. What's he supposed to live on for the rest of his life?"


"And then there's that 'Million-Dollar Medical' plan," Marco said, staring at Max like he'd just swallowed a lemon. "You know those fifty pages of fine print are basically a trap. If the client actually gets sick, getting a payout is a total toss-up. Do you have to tell everyone the truth?"


Marco sighed, looking speechless. "I swear, are you a mole for Eversafe Insurance? Or maybe a double agent for Pacific Bliss Assurance? Are you trying to take down the competition by destroying us from the inside?"


Max stiffened his neck, trying to look dignified. "I have my principles!'"


Marco rolled his eyes.


"Hey! Don't think sales reps are dumb,the core of sales is dealing with people. And everything in this world involving money is about dealing with people. Forget finance bros and IT geniuses; the easiest way to make your first million is still sales. Most diner owners started in sales. Over half the CEOs in the Fortune 500 started in sales. Ray Kroc, Howard Schultz, Mark Cuban—heroes are forged in the fire, my friend."


Max looked at the treasure of a boy in front of him, genuinely shocked. "Let me guess. You're actually a trust fund baby, down here in the trenches just to 'experience life,' right?"


"Yo! You caught me," Marco flashed a blinding smile. "Okay, I'll stop pretending. I wouldn't tell this to just anyone, but I like you. Tell you what, when you're free, hop in my Lamborghini and we'll grab a drink."


"Give me a break," Max scoffed. "Lets be realistic—sign a big contract and buy a second-hand Mini Cooper first."


The two were still bickering when—Click!


The office door swung open. Old Jerry stepped out, his face dark as a thunderhead.


"Max. With me." Old Jerry dropped the command and marched into the conference room reserved for Team Three.


Under Marco's teasing gaze, Max walked in helplessly and closed the door.


He braced himself for a screaming match. But the second Old Jerry sat down, his face transformed. The anger evaporated, replaced by the calm, breezy demeanor of a retired veteran. He picked up his thermos and started sipping herbal tea like he was at a spa.


"Uh... sorry, Uncle Joe," Max mumbled. "I caused trouble for you and the team. Should I go apologize to Manager Vance?"


"Please," Jerry scoffed. "I know exactly how you function. If you went in there, you'd be strangling him within three minutes. Your mission right now is to act like nothing happened. Sit there, shut up, and just look pretty." Jerry rolled his eyes and took another sip.


"So... you aren't going to yell at me?"


"Am I not yelling right now?" Old Jerry slammed his hand on the table—BANG!


Max jumped out of his skin before realizing it was just theater for Vincent Vance outside.


"Thanks, Uncle Joe."


"Hey, blame your dad. He's the one who made me look after you. But honestly? With your personality, you really aren't cut out for sales. With your numbers scraping the bottom of the barrel, you won't last much longer anyway. Listen to your uncle: go back to the family estate. Inherit the pig farm."


"No!" Max crossed his arms. "I'm not rotting away in some small county town. I fought hard to get out here; I'm not going back!"


"Fine. It's good for young people to have drive. I won't stop you. When the world beats you black and blue, remember to say hi to your dad for me."


Clang! Clang! Clang! Old Jerry grabbed his metal thermos and bashed it against the table for good measure.


Max stared at him. "You guys really don't have high hopes for me, do you?"


"Heh. In this line of work, you either need a black heart and ruthless hands, or you need to know the ways of the world without being worldly—to be smooth, yet remain innocent. You can't do the first one. As for the second one... well, you've mastered half of it."


"Really?" Max's eyes lit up. "I knew I was making progress! Which half, Uncle Joe?"


Old Jerry glanced at Max and took a slow, deliberate slurp of his tea.


"The 'not knowing the ways of the world' and the 'innocent' part."


Max rolled his eyes.