HARRISON
I can’t stop checking the door.
It’s not because I’m anxious—at least not in the obvious way. It’s more like my body’s learned the habit. Years of waiting for bad news to walk through that frame, for someone to enter a room and quietly decide I’m no longer useful. That’s what happens when you grow up scraping for space in other people’s shadows—you learn to study exits, anticipate tone shifts, sense when the rug is about to be yanked out from under you.
Today, Gavin’s holding the rug.
The boardroom is full. All twelve seats. A few junior partners are standing along the walls, eyes wide, probably wondering why they were asked to observe an unscheduled closed-door meeting with paper folders stacked neatly in front of each nameplate. I’m seated two down from Gavin at the head of
