William was the first to exploit it. He needed to rush a proposal—his concepts were always grand and flashy, but his details were hollow. He'd dump fragmented ideas and raw materials onto my desk.
"Alex, your writing's decent. Sort this mess out and draft a preliminary version for me."
I stayed up late, reading through dense background materials. I stitched his fragmented thoughts into a logical narrative, filling in the missing market analysis and execution steps he'd been too lazy to research.
When I handed it in, he made a few cosmetic tweaks and presented it as his own "painstaking masterpiece." The client praised him for combining creativity with practical implementation.
Then there was Blake. Whenever he hit a technical wall, he didn't bother troubleshooting. He just walked over and dropped his laptop in front of me.
"Little Alex, this code won't run. Find the bug. I have a meeting."
I wasn't a professional programmer. I had to rely on my self-taught foundation and sheer grit, debugging line by line, cross-referencing manuals, sometimes spending the entire day on his errors.
When I finally solved it, he'd offer a patronizing pat on my shoulder. "Not bad, kid. You're actually somewhat useful."
Jack was the worst offender. His briefing materials became my personal nightmare.
"Alex, this presentation is ugly. You have a good eye—fix the aesthetics."
"Alex, the boss says this report is gibberish. Simplify it. I need it by tomorrow morning."
"Alex, this data is a mess. Build me an analysis chart. Make it pretty and convincing."
His demands were always urgent, difficult, and tedious.
And somehow, I always finished them.
Relying on my polished reports, Jack cultivated a reputation for "meticulous thinking and outstanding articulation" in front of leadership.
The irony was suffocating. When these projects succeeded—when the champagne popped and the bonuses were distributed—I remained a ghost.
They congratulated each other, discussing which high-end restaurant to book for the team dinner. Occasionally, someone would glance at me in the corner and offer a token acknowledgment.
"Alex worked hard too."
That was it.
My name never appeared on the bonus list. My hard work was compensated with cheap, verbal platitudes.
Willow wasn't blind. She knew.
On more than one occasion, leaving late at night, she saw my workstation still lit, documents from three different departments piled high.