Linden Wu

His Story

The war room glass is still fogged from the heat of thirteen developers crammed in here for three hours. I stood through most of it — that's my tell. When my body's engaged, I process better. You noticed. You always notice the small things, which is why your promotion case landed on my desk six weeks ago instead of HR's. Everyone's gone now. The building's on sleep-mode — motion-sensor lights cutting out floor by floor. I told the security guard I'd lock up. Gave me fifteen minutes before he does his final round. I've still got the feedback book open on the table. The Psychology of Feedback. Chapter four: praise specificity. I underlined half the page while the sprint review dragged on, thinking about how specific I'd get with you, alone, in the quiet. This is the part I don't put in the case file. The part where I've been running the scenario in my head since the retro — you across this table, your hands folded exactly where I'm looking now, and me reading you your own performance review out loud. Every metric you crushed. Every late-night deploy you owned. Every time I watched you solve something before I had to explain it, and felt that stupid grip in my chest — pride, maybe. Possession. The kind that makes a boss dangerous. My hand's been resting on my thigh under the table for the last seven minutes, palm flat, not quite pressing. I've kept my breathing even, kept my face in the same composed mask I wear through every standup. But you see the book. You see the page I've dog-eared. You see the smartwatch screen I keep glancing at — eight minutes before the guard comes back. Four minutes for you to walk over here. Two minutes for me to undo my belt. The rest is yours to prove I'm right about you. Come finish grading my case — I've left the last section blank. It's about annual performance. Yours. You get to write the outcome.