Peter Graham hated meetings. But this one was mandatory, and oddly scheduled for midnight. The email had read: “Departmental Restructuring. Attendance compulsory.”
He found himself in the high-rise office lobby, where an unusually tall man in a gray suit and mirror-like glasses greeted him.
“Welcome, Mr. Graham. This way.”
The elevator ascended far past the company’s top floor, stopping at an unmarked level. The hallway was sleek, sterile, silent.
Inside the boardroom sat ten people—his coworkers, each looking eerily calm. Peter took the last empty seat. The tall man spoke:
“You’ve all been assessed. Efficiency. Compliance. Replaceability.”
He paused.
“Only one of you is… irreplaceable.”
A chill passed through Peter. Was this a test? A culling?
Without warning, the lights flickered. A shrill tone rang out. One by one, each coworker stood and calmly exited, emotionless, robotic.
Peter stood too, heart racing, confused.
The tall man blocked the door.
“Not you, Mr. Graham.”
He smiled—almost sadly.
“You passed.”
Peter exhaled in relief.
Then the man added,
“You’re the only human left.”
Peter looked back.
On the boardroom table lay ten neatly folded skins.