The Unplugging

Marcus stared at the vitamin C supplement on his desk, its bright orange promise mocking him. Another Monday, another gesture toward wellness in a job that was systematically dismantling his soul.

Forty-two years old and he felt like a zombie—trudging through fluorescent-lit corridors, responding to emails about synergy and paradigm shifts, nodding in meetings while his mind wandered to debts and dividends. The corporate bull sessions dragged on for hours, his boss Gary pontificating about Q4 targets with religious fervor.

'You're running on fumes, Marcus,' his wife had said that morning, watching him knot his tie with mechanical precision. 'Maybe it's time to—'

'I know,' he'd cut her off, unable to finish the sentence. Unable to admit that his entire adult life had narrowed to this: maintaining the illusion of forward momentum while slowly dying inside.

The ethernet cable snaked across his floor like a lifeline he wasn't sure he wanted anymore. Connection to what? To the endless churn of spreadsheets and status updates? To the gradual erosion of everything that once made him feel alive?

He remembered running track in college—the breath in his lungs, the clarity of purpose, the simple arithmetic of effort and reward. Now his only cardio was sprinting between conference rooms.

Gary's voice droned on about leverage points and low-hanging fruit. Marcus looked at his hands, then at the window where the October sky pressed against the glass, beautiful and indifferent.

The vitamin C dissolved in his palm, useless as everything else.

He stood up. His colleagues glanced up, then away—ziplined to their own screens, their own slow march toward nothing.

Marcus walked to the window, placed his hand against the cold glass. Somewhere beneath him, the city kept running. He could go back to his desk, or he could—

The ethernet cable lay loose on the carpet.

He pulled it.