Dead Drift

I didn't realize I'd become a zombie until I caught my own reflection in the glass doors of Meridian Analytics. Three years of seventy-hour weeks, strategic restructuring, and climbing a ladder I'd stopped caring about had left me hollowed out—a walking corpse in designer suits, moving through meetings and presentations on pure autopilot.

The office betting pool had me down as most likely to "have a quiet breakdown" before summer. They were right about the breakdown, wrong about the quiet part.

That Tuesday, I found myself inexplicably appointed to lead the integration team after our acquisition of a smaller competitor. Sarah Chen's company, to be exact. Sarah, who'd been my closest friend during MBA program, who'd ghosted me six months ago without explanation. Now she worked two floors below me, her department slated for "redundancy elimination."

Corporate had sent in a specialist from HQ to help with the transition. Elena, with her perfect teeth and questions that dug just a little too deep. She wanted to know about Sarah's team structure, their proprietary processes, their client relationships. The kind of competitive intelligence that technically violated our non-solicitation agreements.

"Just being thorough," Elena'd said, tapping her pen against my desk. "Though between us, you seem rather... detached from the whole process. Most people in your position would be more protective of their territory."

I should have cared. I should have been protecting my team, my position, my future. Instead, I found myself researching Sarah's new apartment building, checking if she was okay, wondering what had happened between us. Playing spy in my own life.

The breakthrough came at 2 AM, when I accidentally opened the wrong file on the shared server. Internal emails between Elena and HR. They weren't interested in acquiring Sarah's company for its technology. They wanted to bury a patent application that would invalidate one of our flagship products. Sarah had refused to sell. They'd forced the acquisition through board connections instead.

And I'd been helping them do it, drip-feeding Elena everything she needed to dismantle Sarah's life's work.

The office pool bubbled with laughter the next morning when I walked in, still wearing yesterday's clothes, and placed my resignation letter on the CEO's desk. Then I took the elevator down two floors, found Sarah in her cubicle, and told her everything.

"You look like hell," she said, but there was something like relief in her eyes.

"I feel worse," I admitted. "But I think I'm finally waking up."

She passed me a spare key. "My pool has this amazing view of the city. And I've been wanting to show you something for six months."

For the first time in three years, something in my chest actually moved when I smiled.