The Corporate Pyramid

Marcus swallowed the **vitamin** with lukewarm coffee—his third of the morning. The supplements promised energy, mental clarity, something he hadn't felt in years. His calico cat, Beans, wound around his ankles, purring like a small engine of genuine affection. The only living thing that still greeted him with enthusiasm.

He stared at the corporate org chart on his monitor. A perfect **pyramid** of diminishing humanity: twelve executives at the top, hundreds of middle managers beneath them, thousands of worker bees like Marcus at the base. He'd spent fifteen years climbing this inverted mountain, and the view only got worse.

"You okay, Marcus?" asked Chen from the next cubicle.

Marcus nodded. He couldn't **bear** to say it aloud: he was hollowed out. Moving through each day like a **zombie** in a polo shirt, checking boxes, attending meetings where nothing happened, sending emails that changed nothing. He'd gone to sleep at twenty-five, woken up at forty, and couldn't remember the dream.

His phone buzzed. His ex-girlfriend. Again. They still talked daily, still loved each other, still couldn't make it work. She wanted children, adventure, a life that meant something. He wanted... what?

Marcus looked at Beans asleep in the sliver of sunlight on his desk. The cat didn't worry about purpose or legacy. Just purred when pet, ate when hungry, slept when tired. Maybe that was enough.

He opened a new email. Subject: Resignation.

His hands shook. Then steadied.

The pyramid dissolved. The zombie awakened. The weight lifted.

Marcus smiled—for real this time—and began to write.