The email…
“48 hours.”
…that was all it said.
It glowed on my phone like a countdown strapped to my chest, ticking, pulsing, and waiting to explode. My breath felt sharp, thin, like I was inhaling from a dying balloon.
I didn’t sleep after that.
Couldn’t.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the first message again: Your organization will fall in 72 hours. Now down to forty-eight. A timer no one else seemed to hear, but one that was screaming inside my skull.
By the time morning came, I was dressed, exhausted, and already halfway to the office. The world outside my car window felt distorted – people laughing on sidewalks, couples sipping coffee, a man walking his dog.
How could everyone be living normally when my life was collapsing molecule by molecule?
When I stepped into the con
