The Corporate Quarterback

Elena smoothed stray hairs behind her ear, the conference room mirror catching her reflection—more silver than brown these days. At forty-five, she'd stopped caring, except on days like today when the 'bull' on LinkedIn kept posting about his Q3 triumphs.

"We need zombie creditors, not dead ones," Richard said, adjusting his suit jacket. He was the bull in every room—charging, territorial, impossible to redirect. Elena's ex-husband had been the same. Maybe she had a type.

She'd grabbed her grandfather's fedora that morning, something she never did. The rain had soaked her commute, and the hat sat on the conference table like a silent witness. Her grandfather had worn it to his own corporate executions, back when layoffs were called 'early retirement.'

"Zombie accounts," Richard continued. "We keep them walking. Feed them minimum payments, keep the revenue streams alive."

Elena watched her team nod. Twenty years ago, she would've spoken up. Now she felt the familiar numbness—the corporate zombie virus spreading through her veins, turning idealism into spreadsheet cells and ethics into quarterly targets.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Mark, the new junior analyst. Hair slicked back when nervous, which was always. He'd found discrepancies in the zombie portfolio. Wanted to meet privately.

The bull was still ranting about market dominance. Elena thought about her father's final months—how he'd become a medical zombie, kept alive by tubes and pills and denial. Some things should be allowed to die.

She picked up her hat.

"I need a moment," she said.

In the hallway, she messaged Mark back. His hair would be wet from the rain when he arrived. She'd tell him everything. The bull could have his zombie empire. Elena was done haunting her own life.