The Last Supplicant

Marco stared at the vitamin bottle on his desk—D3, 5000 IU, the recommended daily allowance for a man whose life had slowly calcified into spreadsheet cells and quarterly projections. At forty-seven, his doctor had warned him about low bone density, but Marco knew the real deficiency was somewhere deeper, in that marrow of ambition he'd traded for a comfortable pension plan.

The office bull—Dougray, VP of something that sounded important—prowled past his cubicle, bellowing into a headset about synergy and Q4 deliverables. Dougray was the sort of man who took the bull by the horns and then complained about being kicked in the teeth. His testosterone was unearned, inherited along with his corner office and his inability to distinguish between leadership volume and actual leadership.

"Marco, my man!" Dougray loomed over him, too much teeth in his smile. "Got a minute?"

Marco's stomach performed that familiar flinch it did whenever Dougray entered his orbit. He'd been here fourteen years. His daughter was eleven. His wife had stopped asking him about his dreams three years ago, around the time he'd stopped having them worth mentioning.

"I actually have a call in—" Marco began.

"This'll be quick, buddy." Dougray leaned in, conspiratorial. "Word is there's restructuring coming. Fox is bringing in consultants from Chicago."

Fox. The CEO, a woman so sharp she seemed to cut through corporate air without moving, leaving everything else bleeding on the conference table. She'd never learned Marco's name despite his tenure. He was infrastructure, the plumbing beneath her notice.

Marco's hand found the vitamin bottle. He considered swallowing the entire thing—a desperate cascade of artificial sunlight that might finally make him feel something. Instead: "Should I be worried?"

Dougray's smile shifted, calculating. "Between us? I've got your back. But maybe you should think about updating that résumé. Just, you know, be prepared."

The email came three hours later. The restructuring was real. The Chicago consultants were real. Marco's position was being "realigned."

He packed his box with methodical calm—family photo, the plant his daughter had given him for Father's Day, the vitamin bottle. Halfway to the elevator, he paused. Dougray's door was open. Through it, Marco saw the bull himself, on another call, louder this time, selling somebody else's future to buy himself another quarter.

Marco kept walking. The automatic doors parted, and for the first time in fourteen years, he didn't know where he'd be tomorrow morning. His phone buzzed—his wife, asking if he wanted to meet for lunch. He said yes. And outside, the actual vitamin D hit his face, unrestricted by fluorescent lights and corporate policy, and for reasons he couldn't name yet, he started to cry.