The elevator felt as silent as a muted conference call.
Julian stood at the back, hands in his suit pockets, eyes resting on the shoulders of the person in front of him. Emma was a step ahead to his left, head down, her expression unreadable. Tomasz stared at the floor display, completely still. No one spoke. No one coughed. Even the mechanical hum of the elevator seemed unusually soft.
Greg was gone.
He left quietly. No announcement. Just a brief line in the CTO's end-of-month memo the week before:
Greg will be relocating to Mauritius to support our Offshore Compliance Coordination Unit.
As if it were a routine reassignment, agreed long ago.
In truth, most people had received an Outlook invite the night before.
Subject: Farewell Drinks for Greg.
Location: the bar downstairs. Time: 18:00. The distribution list covered nearly the entire floor.
Julian didn't go. He saw a photo in the group chat instead: Greg in a blue shirt, standing by the bar, smiling stiffly. Emma was beside him, holding a glass of white wine. People from Ops gathered around like they were listening to a joke. Fried chicken, fries, and a few bottles of sake on the table.
The caption read: One last toast before Mauritius.
No one said "he was removed."
No one said "he was demoted."
Everyone raised a glass, as if they were sending off a colleague on a well-earned transfer.
Now, the elevator reached the 35th floor.
The doors opened. People stepped out. Emma left last, her heels making the faintest sound on the carpet.
Julian didn't move.
He watched the crowd scatter.
He looked at Greg's old office, now empty. The glass door was slightly ajar. The desk cleared. The monitor unplugged.
Then he turned away and walked back to his seat.
No one greeted him. No one stopped him.
As if nothing had happened.
But everyone knew.
Greg was out.
The system had completed its first purge.
Julian logged into the intranet. The system redirected automatically.
A message appeared at the center of the screen:
Title Reinstated
Senior Structured Risk Analyst → Vice President – Structured Products
He showed no reaction.
He clicked copy, pasted it into a new email, and sent it to his personal inbox.
The subject line said only four words:
System corrected.
Emma was called into HR.
She didn't wait long. The person across the table spoke in a steady voice.
"Did Greg explicitly authorize you to modify that record?"
Her mouth opened slightly, but no words came out.
The person gave a small nod and closed their laptop.
"We're suspending your full-time conversion process. A decision will be made after internal reviews are completed."
She walked out of the meeting room with a frozen expression.
Back on the office floor, no one looked at her. She stood still for a few seconds, then walked toward Julian's desk.
He was staring at his screen. He didn't turn around.
Emma stood in front of his desk, pale, her fingers trembling as they clenched tight.
"Why did you do this to me?"
Her voice was hoarse, like she had just cried. Her eyes were red. The makeup was intact, but the corners of her eyes had cracked.
Julian didn't turn. He kept his eyes on the screen, his tone cold, as if he didn't know her.
"I warned you. You picked Greg."
Emma bit her lip.
"That day I just… I was trying to speak up for him. He told me to change it. I thought…"
"You thought no one would really go that far."
He finally looked up, his gaze locking on her face. There was no pity, no anger. Just a clean, sharp stare, like a blade just pulled from the sheath—cold, but not cruel.
Her tears fell instantly.
"Julian, I wasn't trying to hurt you. I thought you… We were friends. I just… if I lose this job, I lose everything. My apartment, my cat… everything's gone."
He watched her cry. His expression didn't change, but his voice dropped slightly.
"I've always treated you as a friend. That's the only reason you're still here. Otherwise, you'd be out today."
Emma's eyes snapped up. Her look was a mixture of shock, resentment, and some strange form of relief.
Julian went on.
"But I'm leaving. I'm joining a new firm."
"If you want, I'll take you with me. Full-time offer. Pick your own projects. We'll call it even."
She stared.
"You'd still take me?"
Julian leaned back in his chair, looked at her, and said calmly:
"You made a mistake. That's your business. I don't owe you. I'm not here to save you. But you helped me. I remember that."
Emma bit her lip again. She didn't want to cry in front of Julian, but her voice cracked.
"You couldn't have told me earlier?"
Julian's voice softened further.
"I did. I told you Greg wasn't stable. You didn't listen."
She finally broke down.
"I'm sorry."
Julian didn't respond. He simply said,
"I already let you off easy."
Emma didn't speak again.
She stood there for a long moment, then said quietly,
"Alright. I'll go with you."
She didn't return to her desk. Didn't pack up. It was like she never truly belonged here.
Before she left, she gave Julian one last look. Her expression was shattered, but proud.
In that one look, she swallowed every ounce of pride and hurt she had.
Julian didn't walk her out.
But the moment she passed through the office gates, he said softly:
"Next time, pick the right side."
At 14:45, the Risk Control team sent out an email.
The subject line was plain. The message was clear.
Subject: Update to Assumption X Pricing Model
Body: Thank you to Julian Watanabe for identifying and proposing improvements to our current risk flagging system. Implementation effective from the next cycle.
No unnecessary pleasantries.
No one was left out of the CC field.
That line sat on everyone's screen like a nail hammered in place.
Two minutes later, the group chats lit up.
The Product Strategy group posted the first meme.
Julian's face was edited with a crown, suit, and cold expression intact. Below him, shredded data and Greg's head were pasted onto a kneeling body.
Caption: The Rabid Dog Purge: Mission Accomplished.
Then came the second image.
An Excel icon engulfed in flames, with a note in the corner:
Have you risk-controlled today?
The emojis flooded in.
No one spoke.
Everyone watched.
Julian sat at his desk, tabs flashing.
He didn't save them. He didn't forward them.
Tomasz sent a message over Lync.
"You're out of your mind, bro."
Julian stared at the message for a few seconds.
Then typed just one word:
Necessary.
The chat went silent.
He closed Lync. Didn't respond to anyone else.
By 10 PM, the office was empty except for the janitors and the emergency lights. Julian hadn't moved.
He'd been waiting for a call all night.
The computer was off.
The desk was bare.
Aside from a water bottle and a cold coffee cup, there were no documents.
He didn't need to prepare.
He hadn't.
He knew the call would come.
He had already given them his answer.
He didn't send a resume. Didn't attach performance reports. No models.
He just showed them one thing: Greg's seat was now his.
That was enough.
After that, his father stepped in.
Made the referral.
No extra procedures were necessary.
He didn't need them.
At 22:38, his phone lit up. A Tokyo number. He picked up.
A clear voice on the other end:
"We accept your conditions. Head of Special Situations Execution, Tokyo rotation starts next quarter. Final package will be sent to your personal email."
Julian said only,
"Got it."
There was a pause.
Then:
"Your father spoke highly of you."
Julian didn't respond.
He hung up and called another number.
It connected quickly. His father.
Julian said,
"Thank you. This is a really good opportunity."
His father's voice came steady and low.
"You are the eldest son of the Watanabe family. Do not embarrass us out there."
Julian answered softly.
"Understood."
Neither of them said anything else.
The call ended.
The screen dimmed.
The room fell quiet again.
He sat still, like he was confirming something. Or like he was ready to leave, for good.