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Lena

T he office doesn’t feel real.

The badge still works. The first sign no one’s onto me, yet. The scanner light flickers, hesitates, like it’s unsure whether I belong here either.

Security’s doubled. Not just the usual guys. These ones look like they were pulled from a different roster—military jawlines, hands near holsters. I keep my head down, eyes focused straight ahead. Pretend not to notice the walkie clipped to the belt of the man who watches me walk past, his gaze trailing me like he’s memorizing my every step.

When I step off the elevator, I know it immediately: this is bad. Worse than I thought.

The floor is a mess. Half-packed boxes, laptops abandoned mid-use. Desks left in chaos, as if the day ended abruptly—and no one came back. The air smells faintly of stale coffee and panic, like a room that’s forgotten its purpose. One woman’s on the phone, crying quietly. Her mascara’s running down her face. Another’s fumbling through a drawer, looking for something that doesn’t exist. IT’s roaming the halls like sharks, ripping cords from monitors without a word.

Stewy’s desk is empty. Not “stepped out” empty. Cleared. Scrubbed. Gone. Like someone deleted him from the system before sunrise.

I make it to my office. Sit. The screen flickers to life, and the first thing that hits me is the silence. There are still voices, still movement. But that corporate rhythm I’ve come to know, the smooth hum of bullshit? It’s gone. Dead.

I open my inbox.

Legal.

Comms.

Crisis Ops.

Names I don’t recognize.

There are 80 emails waiting. In less than five hours.

I don’t read most of them. Doesn’t matter. I know what they say.

But there is one I open.

SUBJECT: CONFIDENTIAL – IMMEDIATE LEGAL ACTION ANTICIPATED – SHERGAR TRIAL DISCLOSURE

The body of the message might as well be blank. Legalese and veiled panic. “Pending regulatory review.”

“Breach of confidentiality.”

“Violation of protocol.”

“Federal investigation initiated.”

Translation: they’re fucked.

I glance up. A few people are packing. Others are just sitting, stunned. HR hasn’t even sent the “all-staff” email yet, but everyone knows. Shergar’s done.

They’ll probably call it a “strategic wind-down” or a “temporary operational pause.”

But let’s be honest. This is a shutdown.

And I started it.

I open the next email.

CONFIDENTIAL TRIAL MORTALITY FILES LEAKED TO PRESS – PUBLICATION LIVE

Same headline. Different sender.

I don’t need to click the link. I already know what it says.

231 confirmed.

Audit logs pulled. Internal charts circulating. The press found the pattern. The one I sent them.

All I did was send it.

But it doesn’t matter.

The story’s out, and someone’s going to pay for it.

And it’s only a matter of time before they figure out it was me.

I try to act normal—open a spreadsheet, shift a column like I’m still working. But my hands are shaking. Sweat sticks to the back of my neck. My stomach twists, tight and angry, like I’m about to vomit. My mouse skitters across the screen like it’s trying to get away from me—like it knows someone’s watching.

Behind me, someone’s escorted out—silent, ghostlike. No scenes, no yelling. Just an HR rep and two security guys, leading a man I don’t recognize toward the elevator. He holds a cardboard box with what little he has left. His mouth’s tight, but there’s no protest. He’s already accepted what’s coming.

I wonder what he did, or what he knows.

Or maybe, like me, he just looked too closely.

A call pops up on my monitor. Unknown number. No name.

I let it go to voicemail.

A moment later, a calendar invite appears.

MANDATORY COMPANY-WIDE ALL-HANDS – 15 MINUTES.

No location listed. Just:

Join from wherever you are.

Jesus.

I sit back in my chair. Try to breathe. The air is thick—stale, heavy. It’s like everything’s closing in around me. I can’t think straight. I can’t even breathe right. I shouldn’t care, but I do.

This isn’t just a scandal; it’s a collapse.

The kind they write case law about, the kind that gets its own Netflix docuseries and Congressional hearings. And I’m sitting here, watching it all burn. Waiting. Wondering who they’ll drag down first.

Because the company is crumbling in real time.

And I’m still badged in.

Still logged on.

Still pretending I’m not the one who lit the match.

But they’ll find out soon enough.

They always do.