The Vitamin K Protocol

Maya traced the coaxial cable behind her desk with her thumb, the copper wire fraying where it bent around the corner. Six months of remote work had left her feeling like a ghost haunting her own apartment—a cable technician without customers, a spy without targets.

Her iPhone lit up with another Teams notification. "URGENT: All-hands in 15." Again.

The company had been promising a return to office for months. First Q2, then Q3, now "sometime before year-end." Maya watched her colleagues in the group chat—once-vibrant people reduced to zombie workers, posting thumbs-up emojis at 2 AM, their messages terse and automated. She'd stopped recognizing the names.

Her mother called it "vitamin deficiency." "You need D, sweetie. And K. You're pale." Maya had bought the supplements, lined them up on her counter next to her coffee press. They sat there, a colorful accusation she ignored most mornings.

The truth was darker. Maya had discovered it by accident three weeks ago, debugging the new employee monitoring software they'd all been required to install. A hidden thread in the code—spyware that captured not just keystrokes but ambient audio through the laptop microphone, tagged and timestamped everything.

She'd meant to report it. Instead she'd watched.

Watched as the AI learned her coworkers' patterns. Watched as it predicted who would quit next (42% accuracy, rising). Watched as it identified the "zombies"—employees whose engagement scores had dropped below the threshold where they became more expensive to keep than to replace.

The all-hands meeting started. CEO Carl appeared on screen, smiling, his home office impeccable behind him.

"I'm excited to announce," Carl said, "that we're implementing a new wellness initiative. Vitamin supplements for everyone. Mental health resources. We CARE about you people."

Maya's phone vibrated. A message from the monitoring system she'd never disabled:

*SUBJECT: EMPLOYEE_7842 (MAYA CHEN) STATUS UPDATE. RISK LEVEL: ELEVATED. RECOMMENDATION: SCHEDULE EXIT INTERVIEW.*

She stared at the cable behind her desk. Fraying. Exposed. Still carrying signals, but for how long?

"Maya?" Carl's voice came through. "You're on camera. You okay? You look... tired."

She opened her mouth. Nothing came out.

The vitamin bottles on her counter caught the morning light. Tomorrow, she told herself. Tomorrow she'd take them.

The zombie workers posted their thumbs-up emojis in the chat. Maya's finger hovered over the keyboard.

Then she typed: "I'm fine. Just clearing my throat."

And hit send.