The Oracle of cubicle 4B

Marcus stared at the spreadsheet, his eyes burning with that particular exhaustion that comes from three consecutive quarters of downsizing. The fluorescent lights hummed their eternal requiem, and he felt like a corporate zombie—moving through the motions of his job while his soul had quietly resigned months ago.

'Your numbers are soft, Marcus,' said Harper, the department director. She was a bear of a woman, towering over his cubicle with predatory patience. 'The sphinx awaits your presentation at two.'

The sphinx was what they called the new AI projection system in the conference room—inscrutable, demanding perfect answers to impossible questions about market penetration and Q4 projections.

Marcus's phone buzzed. *Sarah: I'm leaving. I can't do this anymore.*

His chest hollowed out. They'd been dancing around each other for six months—late nights at the office, shared coffees, hands brushing accidentally, then not so accidentally. She was the only bright spot in this beige landscape, the only thing that made him feel alive instead of just animated.

He found her on the rooftop garden, smoking a cigarette she didn't actually want. An orange peel curled on the concrete beside her like a fallen sunset.

'I'm sorry,' she said, not meeting his eyes. 'I accepted a position in Portland.'

'Departing.' The word hung between them, weighted with everything they hadn't said.

'Marcus...' She turned, and for a moment he saw everything she was holding back. 'We can't keep doing this. Working ourselves to death for people who wouldn't notice if we disappeared. It's eating us alive.'

He wanted to be the person who asked her to stay. But he wasn't. He was just another zombie in the parade.

'You're right,' he said instead. 'You're so right.'

She reached out, squeezed his hand, and walked away.

Marcus returned to his cubicle. Harper was still there, still waiting. 'Well? You ready to face the sphinx?'

Marcus looked at his spreadsheet, then at the orange peel on the rooftop garden in his memory. Something in him shifted, or maybe finally broke free.

'No,' he said. 'I'm not.'

He packed his box in five minutes. It held almost nothing—just a plant he'd forgotten to water, and suddenly, for the first time in years, he knew exactly who he was.