She screencast to the TV, filling it with a graph that made my chest tighten. Neat bars declining in absolute corporate efficiency, each dip representing real people losing real jobs. People with mortgages and kids and dreams who thought they were part of something special.Lives.
“Birdhouse Games,” Kirsty consulted her tablet. “Austin-based mobile game studio. Acquired March 2019, first layoffs November 2020. Cited ‘redundancy elimination’ and ‘operational synergies.’”
I reached for my water glass. “How many people?”
“Started with forty-three employees. Twelve remain, allrelocated to Titan’s Seattle headquarters,” Tabitha’s voice carried the same objective tone she used when reading me negative client feedback. “Meridian Creative followed an identical pattern. Bought September 2020, integrated by December 2022.”
My stomach twisted.Integrated. Such a clean, corporate word for dismantling everything someone had carefully built.
Oliver pulled off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose, leaving red marks where the frames had pressed. “What about the other acquisitions?”
“Studio closure in fourteen cases,” Kirsty scrolled through her tablet. “Operations moved to existing Titan facilities in the remaining three, with what they term ‘right-sized teams.’”
Right-sized teams. My pen found its way into my fingers, clicking once before I forced it still. I could see it all playing out with crystalline clarity. Tabitha’s desk empty by month fifteen, efficiency review determining her position overlapped with corporate admin. Lennon’s HR duties transferred to Seattle. Casey and Jordan offered their choice of relocation or severance.
“The employee retention data,” I pressed forward. “Sherlock tracked individual careers?”
“LinkedIn profiles, mostly. Some SEC employment disclosures,” Tabitha clicked to Sherlock’s research. “Across all seventeen acquisitions, approximately eight hundred total employees were affected. Fifty-six are currently employed by Titan or its subsidiaries.”
Three more than we currently employed. The math was simple and devastating. Seven percent.
My vision narrowed to the numbers on the page, everything else falling away.The systematic dismantling of everything these companies had built. Everything we’d spent seven years cultivating and creating along with fifty-three people would be reduced to statistics in a quarterly report about optimizing legacy assets. Less than four people would keep their job, if they were lucky.
“Alex,” Oliver’s voice came from very far away.
I looked up to find three pairs of eyes watching me with varying degrees of concern. The pen in my hand had snapped in half, blue ink seeping across my fingers.
“We need to get you stronger pens,” Tabitha teased gently.
“Sorry,” I set the broken pieces aside, reaching for the tissue box Kirsty set on the table. “Just processing.”
But I wasn’t processing. I was cataloging. Month ten: Lennon gone, their laugh no longer echoing through the reception area. Month eighteen: Casey’s desk cleared out. Creative sessions replaced with corporate mandates from Seattle. Month twenty-four: silence where there used to be the gentle chaos of people creating something beautiful together.
“If we say yes,” Oliver said quietly, “how long do you think we’d have?”
I wiped ink from my fingers, unable to look at him. “Based on this pattern? Studio operations would be ‘evaluated for synergies’ by fall. Full integration or closure before the end of the following year.”
The words came out clinical, detached. Good. I could handle clinical. Clinical kept the rage tamped down where it belonged, kept my voice steady and my hands from shaking.
“Holy smokes, Alex,” Oliver’s face had gone gray. “If we do this...”
“Now we know,” I aligned the broken pen pieces parallel to each other and glanced up at him, emotionless look fixed on my face, “exactly what saying yes would mean for all of us.”
Tabitha closed her laptop with a soft click. “I’ll forward the complete analysis to your secure folders. Sherlock flagged some additional patterns in their recent SEC filings that might be relevant for future discussions.”
“Thank you,” I gathered the summary pages, tapping them into flawless alignment again. “All of you. For letting me be thorough.”
“You weren’t just being thorough,” Oliver said, his voice cracking slightly around the edges. “You were being protective.”
Chapter 13
Standard Operating Procedures for Workplace Integration
Finn
“—completely obsessed with the vintage Moog synthesizerin his office,” Lennon was saying, gesturing wildly. “Nobody’s allowed to touch it except Casey. Sometimes late at night you can hear him composing these absolutely haunting—”
My attention split as I watched Alex through the glass partition. The transformation was immediate and total—shoulders straightening, chin lifting, every line of her body shifting. Professional armor sliding into place—like she was suiting up for battle.
