In my previous life, unpaid overtime, endless promises of rewards, and coworkers constantly shifting blame onto me drove me to die of a sudden heart attack at my desk.
In my final second with my eyes closed, I was still revising the eighteenth version of a proposal. My boss didn’t even say, “You’ve worked hard.”
When I opened my eyes again, I was reborn three hours before my death from overwork.
Night had fallen outside, the office was brightly lit, and my boss was making empty promises again:
“Young people need to put in a few late nights. You’ve got a bright future.”
This time, I’m done pretending.
Put up with it? Hell no.
Overtime? I’m leaving on time.
Blame me? I’ll lose it right there.
Empty promises? I’ll call you out to your face.
Psychological manipulation? I can go crazier than you.
My coworkers whispered their admiration: “She’s crazy in all the right ways.”
My boss trembled with rage. “You dare rebel?”
I smiled.
I’ve already died once. Why should I be afraid of your lousy job?
From then on, the company had a reborn, unhinged wage slave.
No more self-torment, no more swallowing my grievances, no more groveling.
By going crazy, I became the voice of every wage slave online.
