The Last Corporate Zombie

The dead don't always stay buried. Sometimes they show up Monday morning in starched collars, eyes glazed over from twelve hours of Sunday scrolling, moving through fluorescent-lit corridors like the walking dead.

I'd become exactly that—a corporate zombie. Three years of mergers and acquisitions had eaten away at whatever passion I'd once possessed for architecture. Now I just signed off on designs that would line pockets I'd never see.

"You're missing it," Sarah said, appearing beside me at the coffee machine. We'd been friends since freshman year of college, before she discovered she could sell her soul for a six-figure salary and sleep like a baby. "The merger announcement is in ten."

"I'm not missing anything."

Her eyes searched my face, and for a moment, I saw something like concern. Or maybe it was just checking for cracks in the façade.

"We're getting drinks after work. You're coming."

It wasn't a question. Sarah never asked; she commanded, assuming I'd eventually comply like I always did.

The announcement came and went. Another acquisition. Another competitor absorbed into our ever-growing beast. I stood at the window, staring out at the Los Angeles skyline—palm trees silhouetted against a bruising purple sunset, their fronds motionless in the stagnant heat.

By 7 PM, most of the floor had cleared. Sarah found me still standing there, still watching those damn palms.

"You've been running every morning," she said, changing tactics. "I see you on Strava. What are you training for?"

"Nothing."

"Bullshit. You're running from something."

The accusation hung between us. She stepped closer, and for the first time in years, I noticed the lines etched around her mouth, the way she held herself like someone constantly bracing for impact.

"You know what happened," I said quietly.

She did. Of course she did. She'd been there when I submitted the designs that would eventually be stolen, patented, and monetized by our firm. She'd watched me sign the NDA that silenced me.

"That was three years ago, Marcus."

"And here we are."

Sarah reached out, took my hand. Her palm was warm against my cold fingers. Water welled in my eyes—unexpected, humiliating tears for a man who'd forgotten how to feel anything at all.

"Quit," she said. "Tomorrow. Just walk away."

I looked at her—really looked at her—and saw my own dead eyes reflected in hers.

"We're both already dead, Sarah."

She didn't deny it. She just squeezed my hand and watched the palm trees fade into darkness.

The dead don't always stay buried. Sometimes they just learn to function among the living, moving through fluorescent-lit corridors, waiting for something—anything—to make them feel alive again.