The Palm Reader's Advice

The air conditioning in Marcus's corner office hummed, a cruel counterpoint to the sweat pooling in his **palm** as he gripped the resignation letter. Three years of climbing the corporate ladder, and he'd finally reached the rung where the view revealed nothing but broken rungs below.

"You're **running** from nothing, Marcus," Elena had told him that morning, her fingers tracing the lines on his hand at that ridiculous palm reading shop she'd dragged him to. "Your head line suggests someone who thinks too much, acts too little."

He'd laughed then. Now, staring at the city skyline through floor-to-ceiling glass, the laughter felt hollow.

"**Bull**shit," Peterson had bellowed in the meeting yesterday, slamming his fist on the mahogany table. "These numbers don't lie, and neither do I." The room had gone silent. Marcus had remained quiet, watching condensation drip down his water glass, thinking about how easily lies became truth when spoken with enough confidence.

The door opened. Peterson himself strode in, tie loosened, that predatory smile already spreading across his face. "Second thoughts, Marcus?"

Marcus thought about Elena's prediction: "By week's end, you'll face a choice that changes everything."

"Just thinking about that merger," Marcus said smoothly.

"Good man." Peterson clapped him on the shoulder, his grip heavy, possessive. "Because we're going to need someone to handle the dirtier work. Clean breaks, understand?"

Marcus's thumb brushed against the folded resignation letter in his pocket. He thought about the **running** shoes gathering dust in his closet, the half-marathon he'd abandoned when the promotions started coming faster than his breath.

"Actually," Marcus said, pulling the letter from his pocket, "I was thinking about something else."

Peterson's smile faltered. Outside, the city kept moving, indifferent to the small dramas playing out in glass towers. Marcus felt the sweat in his **palm** go cold, and for the first time in three years, he could breathe.