The Wellness Protocol

Maria placed the amber **vitamin** bottle on her desk, the pills inside rattling like accusations. Three weeks ago, these capsules had been optional—part of the company's new wellness initiative. Now they were mandatory. Two refusals already this month, both noted in personnel files. Three strikes and you're out.

She wasn't supposed to know about the hidden cameras in the ventilation vents. Wasn't supposed to notice the way her emails were delayed, then returned with odd phrasing inserted. Someone was playing **spy** in the cubicle maze, gathering intel on who took their pills and who flushed them.

Outside, **lightning** fractured the sky, illuminating her workstation in brief, violent flashes. The storm matched what churned beneath her skin—the weight of choosing between her mortgage and her autonomy. These weren't vitamins. She'd seen the manifest in the copy room, the one labeled CONFIDENTIAL in bold letters: EXPERIMENTAL ANXIOLYTIC COMPOUND 7-BETA.

The email dinged. Subject: Your Compliance Status. Body: Reminder that participation in the Wellness Protocol is required for continued employment.

Maria stood and walked to the restroom, the bottle in her pocket. Her hands shook as she twisted the cap. The pills looked innocent enough—small, white, coated. She could swallow one. Keep her job. Let the compound smooth her jagged edges until she didn't mind being watched, didn't mind the late nights and the thankless projects and the way her boss looked at her like assessing livestock.

Or she could flush them. Risk everything.

**Water** rushed into the sink as she turned the faucet, drowning out the building's hum. One by one, she dumped the capsules into the swirling drain. They disappeared without resistance.

Back at her desk, she typed her resignation letter. The lightning flashed again, and for the first time in months, she didn't flinch.