Transfer

The invite arrived as a correction to reality: fifteen minutes, mandatory, no agenda.

Anton joined from his desk.

The manager spoke first, reading from a prepared statement. The wording was familiar. The cadence matched earlier messages. A role was being adjusted. Scope had changed. Support would be provided.

A name followed.

Lena.

She sat two rows away from Anton, junior, quiet, competent. She had joined less than a year ago. Anton had reviewed her work twice. Both times, he had softened his comments before sending them.

The meeting ended on time.

No one asked questions.

Anton saw Lena stand after the call and gather her things slowly. She paused at her desk, checked her phone, then sat back down. Her hands rested on the keyboard without moving.

Mira noticed it too.

“They didn’t even give her a chance to respond,” she said quietly.

Anton said nothing.

A message arrived moments later from incident management. It referenced the review Anton had authored. The phrasing matched his. A line he had written appeared verbatim, now used to justify the change.

He recognized it immediately.

Later, Lena approached his desk.

“They said you might have context,” she said. Her voice was steady. “Do you?”

Anton looked at the document open on his screen. He knew where the decision had taken shape. He knew how it had been framed.

“It was positioned as a restructuring,” he said.

She nodded once. “That’s what they told me.”

She hesitated, then added, “I thought my last review went well.”

“It did,” Anton said.

She waited.

Anton felt the space open between them. He could explain the mechanics. He could describe how decisions traveled, how language moved, how outcomes formed without intention.

He chose not to.

“They didn’t raise concerns with your work,” he said.

Lena looked at him for a moment, then smiled faintly. “Okay.”

She thanked him and walked away.

Anton remained at his desk after she left. The floor around him felt quieter than usual. Conversations resumed elsewhere, but not near him.

Later that evening, Hale sent a short message.

Handled cleanly. Appreciate your discretion.

Anton read it once.

The phrasing stayed with him.

As the office emptied, Anton gathered his things without hurry. He passed Lena’s desk. It was already cleared.

On the way out, he caught his reflection in the glass near the elevators. For a moment, he didn’t recognize the expression.

Outside, the air felt heavier than the day before. The city moved as it always did.

Anton walked home knowing exactly where the decision had been made.

And knowing he had helped it arrive.