I’ve been coming here almost every day for the last few weeks. Not because I want the job, not because I’m desperate for anything anyone here can offer. It’s because of what he doesn’t know. Because he thinks I’m nothing. A ghost, maybe. An invisible crack in the city floor. I hear his voice behind me, still sneering, but I don’t stop walking.
The office was a small company, something that had once been just a handful of people renting a cramped space in an aging building downtown. It’s hard to say how things shifted. How the money moved quietly behind the scenes, how the company grew without anyone really noticing—or maybe they did and just didn’t care. I used to own a good chunk of this place before I chose to step away, to disappear from the public eye. But there are papers somewhere that prove it. Legal documents, contracts, shares in my name. I hold them all, and no one here thinks twice about it.
Some mornings I come early, pretending to be poor or broken, running errands or checking in on the place. Most of the staff don’t even recognize me. The manager especially. He has the kind of arrogance that comes from always being the one with power, the one who holds court in these halls. He’s calm, collected. Behind his smile is a confidence that he runs everything, that the company is his kingdom. And to him, I’m less than a shadow—someone who belongs outside that kingdom.
The other day, I sent an email from a burner account. Just a quick note addressed to his inbox, nothing fancy, no hints at who I was. The subject line was empty. In it, just a line: “You’re sitting on a mistake.” No response. No change in his behavior. It was better that way. The tension simmered quietly under the surface, the balance of power unchanged but fragile.
At lunch, I sat near the back, watching the way the manager’s assistant shuffled through paperwork. Sometimes I overhear bits of their conversations—nothing about me, mostly about profits, contracts, mergers. It’s the kind of talk that feels distant and sterile, but I try to listen anyway, hoping for a clue or a slip of information that might help me understand what’s happening behind the scenes.
Last week, I found an old ledger in the filing cabinet, something overseen by the finance department before it was archived. The numbers showed me the slow bleed of money, how certain decisions were made without my approval. No one told me the company had been sold off piece by piece, though legally, I still held the largest share. The manager was making moves—quiet and deliberate—to edge me out, assuming I was too invisible, too powerless to stop him.
At home, I scroll through my phone, rereading the documents I’ve been collecting. The emotional weight presses down, but I keep my face neutral. It’s been years since I let anyone see me crack. The apartment is small and sparsely furnished; the only luxury is the quiet. I get a text from an unknown number this morning, another warning disguised in casual language. “You should let this go.”
