The Last Supper at Orion Corp

The corporate pyramid of Orion Corp had twelve levels, and Marcus sat on the seventh—exactly middle management, exactly where ambition went to marinate in its own juices. His father had called it the 'bull pen' when Marcus first took the job, referencing the way middle managers were locked in to charge at whatever red flags upper management waved. His father had been full of folksy wisdom like that, right up until the stroke took him.

Marcus peeled his second orange of the day, the spray of citrus misting his glasses. The administrative assistant, Elena, watched him from across the breakroom. She'd cut her hair over the weekend—gone was the long dark curtain, replaced by something sharp and angular that made her look like a different person. Or maybe he was just noticing her now that his marriage was collapsing like a wet cardboard box in the rain.

'They're promoting Peterson to VP,' she said, not looking up from her phone. 'From the eighth level.' Marcus felt something calcified inside him crack. Peterson, who still used Comic Sans in presentations. Peterson, who'd suggested the team-building trust fall that resulted in two workers' comp claims.

'Good,' Marcus heard himself say. 'He's got initiative.' The word tasted like bile.

He returned to his desk, his orange segments in a ceramic bowl his daughter had made in second grade. She was fifteen now and barely spoke to him. His wife wanted to separate, wanted to 'find herself' in yoga classes and artisanal pottery workshops. Marcus suspected 'herself' was actually named David and taught hot yoga on Tuesdays.

The email from HR arrived at 4:47 PM: mandatory restructuring meeting, 9 AM tomorrow. Marcus stared at his screen, the corporate org chart glowing like an ancient pyramid built on the backs of those who'd come before. He thought about his father, about Elena's new haircut, about the way Peterson laughed too loud at the CEO's jokes. He opened his drawer and retrieved the bottle of scotch he'd hidden there for emergencies.

Tomorrow, he decided, he would wear the orange tie. Tomorrow, he would finally say what he'd been thinking for seven years. Tomorrow, the pyramid might not have a place for him, but at least he'd no longer be running with the bulls.