Our boss is a tall brutal man who thrives on humiliating people. Once, at a big meeting, he was grilling a shy coworker over a mistake that wasn’t even hers. He raised his voice, pacing like he wanted the whole room to feel just as small as the woman sitting across from him. Most of us looked down at our notes, pretending to review papers we already knew by heart—anything to avoid becoming his next target. But the air felt heavy, charged with the quiet knowledge that we were watching something deeply unfair unfold right in front of us.
As he continued berating her, something shifted in the room. The shy coworker, Mira, had always been the kind of person who apologized for taking up space, who whispered “sorry” when someone else bumped into her. But that day she didn’t crumble—not the way he expected. She took a slow breath, placed both hands calmly on the conference table, and raised her eyes to meet his. For a moment, it seemed like time paused. The boss, clearly expecting tears or panic, leaned forward with a smirk, ready to deliver another blow. Instead, she spoke in a steady voice, one that surprised everyone, including herself.
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