Last Day at Omega

Marcus stood by his cubicle for the last time, cardboard box in hand, watching the office goldfish—named Nietzsche by the philosophy major in HR—swim lazy circles in its too-small bowl. The acquisition had finalized yesterday. Omega Tech was gone, consumed by the conglomerate that had promised stability but delivered only severance packages.

His phone buzzed. Sarah.

"Did you sign the papers?"

"Today." He gripped the box tighter. "The house is yours. I'm staying at Jenny's."

"The dog misses you," she said. "She keeps waiting by the door."

"Buster's not my dog anymore. He's yours. Like everything else."

He disconnected, the silence of the empty office pressing in. Around him, the cable snaked across the floor like a black vein, the last bit of infrastructure being coiled up by the IT guys who wouldn't look anyone in the eye. Marcus had spent seven years here, building a career he'd thought mattered. Now it was all being boxed up, shipped to some server farm in Ohio, or simply deleted.

The sunset through the floor-to-ceiling windows was orange and brutal, painting the abandoned desks in apocalyptic light. He thought about all the Friday nights he'd stayed late, all the anniversaries he'd missed, all the lies he'd told himself about why it mattered.

The philosophy major walked past, carrying Nietzsche's bowl in both hands.

"Taking him?" Marcus asked.

"Can't." She wouldn't meet his eyes. "My building doesn't allow pets."

"So..."

"Flush him, I guess. Or someone could take him."

She kept walking.

Marcus set down his box, scooped up the fishbowl, and walked out of Omega Tech for the last time. The fish swam on, oblivious. Some things you saved. Some things you couldn't. He'd figure out which was which tomorrow.