I don’t answer it the first time.
The second knock rattles the door.
When I open it, Alex walks in first. His eyes sweep the room in a way that feels less like concern and more like assessment. Mark follows, carrying a six-pack out of muscle memory, not kindness.
Neither of them asks how I’m doing.
Neither of them says sorry.
Alex drops onto the couch and nods at the TV. “Who’s winning.”
“No idea,” I say.
“Figures.”
Mark sets the beer on the counter but doesn’t sit. His gaze goes from the TV to my phone vibrating on the table and back again.
“They coming for blood yet?” he asks.
“Already here,” I say.
“And they’re not just circling,” Alex adds. “They’re lining up.”
The phone lights again. I silence it.
Mark nods toward it. “Board?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Monday,” I say. “Emergency session.”
Alex lets out a low whistle. “That’s not optics. That’s consequences.”
“They want assurances,” I say. “Process. Judgment. Damage containment.”
“And whether you’re still an asset,” Mark finishes.
That lands harder than anything else so far.
We sit there for a minute. The game plays. Someone scores. None of us reacts.
Then Alex looks around the room again, slower this time.
“Your door was locked,” he says.
I blink.
Mark’s jaw tightens. “Your door is never locked.”
Silence stretches.
“We knocked,” Alex adds. “Twice.”
I look away.
“That’s when we knew something was actually wrong,” Mark says quietly.
