The Aquarium Exit Interview

Marcus stood before his boss's desk, watching a lightning storm fracture the sky through floor-to-ceiling windows. Forty-two years old, taking vitamin D supplements because he never saw daylight anymore, and suddenly realizing he'd become the kind of man who collected participation trophies in the form of performance reviews.

'You're throwing away a career,' Stevenson said, the same bull who'd promised Marcus partnership three years running. 'Over what? Principles?' The word hung like stale smoke.

Marcus glanced at the goldfish bowl on Stevenson's desk—three fish swimming in endless circles, forgetting their surroundings every seven seconds. That was them. That was everyone in this building. Eating, shitting, swimming, forgetting.

His phone buzzed. Sarah: *Ben's been asking about you. The dog won't eat.*

Sarah had left six months ago, tired of Marcus coming home smelling of other people's panic and overnight takeout. She'd said he was working like a dog for people who'd replace him before his obituary was published.

'I'm not throwing anything away,' Marcus said. 'I'm just done drowning.' He placed his badge on the desk. Stevenson's face twisted—recognition, perhaps, that the same lightning could strike anyone. That the man who'd built his life on the backs of others' exhaustion was, in the end, just another fish in a slightly larger bowl.

Outside, the rain began. Marcus stepped into it, feeling something like freedom.