The Long Winter of Executive Dissolution

Marcus stood before the bathroom mirror at 3 AM, studying a face he no longer recognized. The hollowed cheeks, the eyes that refused to focus — he moved through his days like a zombie, hungering for something he couldn't name. The corporate pyramid had finally claimed him completely. Seventeen years climbing toward a peak that kept receding, and now he was exactly where he'd dreamed of being: hollowed out, preserved, waiting for eternity.

The office betting pool had started as a joke. When would Marcus snap? When would the Vice President of Operations finally break? Ten dollars bought you a square on the calendar. His assistant Stephanie had organized it with the cheerful efficiency of someone planning an office baby shower.

He'd gone running at lunch again, desperate to outrun the static in his head. The winter air had burned his lungs, each breath a reminder that his body still knew how to fight for oxygen even as his mind surrendered. That's when he'd seen it — the black bear emerging from the tree line, its coat matted with winter debris, eyes wild and desperate. They'd stared at each other across the frozen pool in the park, two creatures trapped in worlds they hadn't made.

The bear had turned away. Marcus had kept running.

Now his phone lit up with a message from Eleanor: *I know about the Chicago office. We need to talk.* His wife had been carrying her own burden, bearing witness to his dissolution in silence. Tomorrow he'd resign. Tomorrow he'd end the betting pool. Tomorrow he'd begin whatever came after.

Marcus pressed his palms against the cold mirror, feeling his pulse, slow and steady. The zombie in the glass closed its eyes and for the first time in months, finally slept.