My Founder's Revenge: He Was A Janitor, I Was A Bully — Then The Whole Board Bowed
Previously: Damian Knox, a ruthless VP, brutally assaulted an elderly janitor. He never expected the 'disposable trash' to be the company's hidden founder, about to expose his cruelty to the world.
The Founder's Gambit
The violent blow had stunned the showroom into an even deeper silence, broken only by the distant rain. Damian Knox, reveling in his act of petty tyranny, expected the old janitor to cower, to apologize, to crumble. But something shifted. Arthur Vance, the stooped figure who had endured the assault with quiet dignity, slowly began to straighten his spine. The hunched posture fell away, revealing a man who stood a commanding six-foot-two, his presence suddenly regal, imposing.
Just as this transformation began, the showroom’s massive 120-inch curved wall monitor blared an emergency alert chime. The screen, previously displaying ambient showroom visuals, flared alive. A global livestream materialized, the title stark and authoritative: 'GLOBAL BOARD OF DIRECTORS: EMERGENCY FOUNDER CONVOCATION'.
Damian’s cruel smirk faltered, freezing mid-expression. His eyes, moments before filled with sadistic glee, now widened in a mixture of disbelief and dawning horror. His pupils dilated, his arrogant posture visibly stumbling backward as if struck by an invisible force. He had expected a broken old man; he was facing something far more significant.
Arthur Vance spoke, his voice, previously quiet, now resonating with a calm, chilling composure that cut through the ambient noise. “Look at the screen, Damian.”
Damian could only stare, paralyzed. On the towering display, dozens of senior international board members, titans of industry and finance, were rising from their seats in synchronized deference. They were bowing, their heads lowered in respect toward the live security feed that now dominated the screen. Damian’s hand instinctively went to his gold signet ring, and he felt it tremble uncontrollably. His smartphone began buzzing in his pocket, a frantic series of termination notices flooding his inbox.
His voice, when it came, was a choked, stammering whisper. “Arthur Vance?! No… the founder died ten years ago!” His face was ashen, the color draining away as the impossible reality began to set in. Arthur, the frail janitor, remained silent, deliberately raising a calloused hand to dab a bead of blood from his split lip with a quiet, dignified serenity. The act was not one of pain, but of deliberate, powerful symbolism.
”The act was not one of pain, but of deliberate, powerful symbolism.