Everyone agreed the holiday gala was "important."

This agreement was not the product of discussion, thought, or belief; it was the result of repetition. Human Resources had written the word important so many times, bolded, underlined, italicized, occasionally capitalized, that it began to acquire the moral weight of a commandment. Attendance strongly encouraged. Leadership will be present. A celebration of our shared success.

No one could recall precisely what that shared success was, but everyone agreed it had been achieved at great personal cost and should therefore be honored with cocktails.

The ballroom of the downtown hotel had been transformed into a shrine erected to the worship of itself. Soft blue and silver lights washed the walls in a way that suggested both wealth and forgiveness. A branded backdrop stood near the bar so executives could pose in front of their own logo, smiling like men who had just discovered they were photogenic all along. A mysteriously covered contraption raised a few eyebrows but was mostly ignored.

The crowd was a careful mixture of charcoal and navy, with just enough daring fabric to suggest individuality without threatening anyone's pension. Shoes gleamed. Watches flashed discreetly. Laughter traveled in polite arcs, landing exactly where it was expected to.

At the center of it all was James.

James always found the center. He did not rush toward it, nor did he claim it outright. He simply behaved as though it already belonged to him, and the room, having learned from experience that resistance was futile and tiresome, made the necessary adjustments.

He wore a suit of such quality that it did not announce itself. It assumed. A silver-blue sharkskin affair, cut tight and confident, catching the light just enough to remind you it was expensive without resorting to vulgarity. The pinstripes were subtle, the tailoring surgical. His cufflinks suggested rarity without pleading for admiration. His hair had been arranged to look accidental, which in James's case required thirty minutes and a mirror he trusted more than most people.

James was laughing at something he had just said.

Those around him laughed too, carefully timed, like men watching fireworks they had been told were impressive.

James was the company's golden boy, a phrase that in corporate life means a man who speaks often of efficiency while somehow becoming richer every year. His title, SVP of Strategic Growth, had been invented one afternoon and never challenged. He spoke in phrases like synergy and value creation, and when he spoke them, budgets mysteriously shifted and departments quietly disappeared.

Tonight, he was radiant.

Tonight, he was also hunting.

Not for love. James regarded love as a charming inefficiency. No, tonight he was hunting for narrative. For optics. For a figure who would stand beside him in photographs and lend him dimension, like a prop in a museum display. Someone polished but unencumbered. Someone who would not ask questions, file complaints, or possess inconvenient relatives.

Across the room, near the edge of the crowd, Sandy adjusted the cuffs of his borrowed jacket.

It wasn't special, just a department-store suit from a clearance rack, but it had been pressed with care and fit well. Sandy worked facilities, mostly nights. He had been encouraged to attend by a supervisor who believed visibility was a thing one could acquire simply by standing in a well-lit room.

Sandy had nearly declined. He did not belong to these gatherings. He knew the smell of offices after midnight, the sound of empty elevators, the way carpets confessed their sins under fluorescent light. But he came anyway. He wore shoes that pinched and a smile that had been practiced in the reflection of a supply closet door.

He did not expect the room to notice him.

But it did.

Not all at once--more like a dimmer switch slowly turned. Conversations softened. Heads tilted. Sandy wasn't glamorous, but he was anomalous. He did not belong to anyone's column. He wasn't attached to a department that mattered. He was loose data.

James noticed him when Sandy laughed.

It was not a loud laugh, nor a performative one. James's head turned.

He assessed Sandy the way a man assesses a purchase. Shoes: plain, but clean. Jacket: serviceable. Posture: unguarded. James smiled.

And moved.

"Good evening," James said, appearing at Sandy's side with the practiced ease of a press release. "I don't believe we've met."

"I don't think so," Sandy replied.

"I'm James."

"I know."

James disliked this more than he had anticipated.

"And you are?"

"Facilities," Sandy said. Then, after a pause, "Third floor. Nights."

James laughed gently, as though indulging a clever child. "Well," he said, gesturing toward the bar, "we should fix that."

They spoke. Or rather, James spoke, and Sandy listened in the way men learn to listen when they have spent years on the margins of authority. Sandy noticed things. How James touched his watch when addressing certain people. How his eyes wandered at the mention of budgets. How he used first names the way others used commas.

Sandy also noticed the mailroom men, Frank and Luis, fall silent when James approached. The tightening of shoulders. The practiced neutrality. He noticed the IT analyst near the punch bowl watching James as one might watch a loose wire.

James asked Sandy to dance.

The music was less a melody than a suggestion. They swayed. James leaned close.

"You have remarkable presence," he said. "You could go far here."

Sandy smiled. "I already go pretty far. I clean the executive wing every night."

James laughed again, louder this time.

Across the room, the compliance officer watched. He wore a gray blazer and shoes that suggested sensible decisions. He had been with the company long enough to understand that being ignored was a form of camouflage.

He had been waiting for this night.

"James," he said, stepping forward with the calm inevitability of a document finally attached.

James stiffened, almost imperceptibly. "Ah. There you are."

"May I borrow the microphone?" the compliance officer asked.

The DJ hesitated. James smiled thinly. "Of course."

The microphone tapped once.

"I'll be brief," the officer said. "Before we toast another year of shared success, I have a question."

The room stirred.

"James," he continued, "could you explain the discrepancy in the Strategic Growth discretionary fund?"

James laughed. "Now? Surely this can wait."

"No," said the officer. "It cannot."

The screens lit up.

Spreadsheets appeared. Arrows. Transfers. Numbers that made the air tighten.

"Over the last three years," the officer said, "approximately four million dollars were routed through shell vendors. Consulting firms that do not exist. Equipment orders that never arrived."

James's smile hardened.

"And where did it go?" asked someone from the back.

The IT analyst stepped forward. "Not to infrastructure. Our servers are held together with faith."

"And not to facilities," Sandy said quietly. "We reuse mop heads."

Frank from the mailroom raised a hand. "They cut overtime."

The officer nodded. "It went to James."

Silence followed.

Then James laughed, a brittle sound. "This is absurd."

The screens changed.

"Your penthouse," said the officer. Click. "Paid for."

"Your car." Click.

"Your offshore account." Click.

"THAT SUIT!"

James took a step back.

The doors closed.

No one noticed who did it.

"You told us there was no money," said the facilities manager. "You told us to do more with less."
Hey, Did anyone else notice that dunk tank under the drop cloth over there?"

There it was.

A charity installation James himself had approved months earlier. Corporate engagement. Team-building. A tank filled with squid ink slurry, meant to be symbolic, educational, and easily avoided.

James was escorted to the bench.

The ink below was not merely black. It gleamed. It smelled of tides and metal and something faintly sweet, like decay wearing a polite smile.

"Each confirmed transaction," the officer said, "triggers a throw."

The first ball struck. The bench shook.

The second ball hit. A click.

The third landed cleanly.

The bench dropped.

The ink accepted him.

He disappeared with a sound like velvet being submerged.

When James resurfaced, the suit no longer existed as a suit. It had become an idea. Ink clung to him, redefined him, erased pinstripes and authority alike. It ran from his hair, streaked his face, filled the seams of his shoes.

He tried to speak. Ink ran into his mouth. He stopped.

Security escorted him out, wrapped in a towel that immediately surrendered.

Black footprints followed him across the marble.

Sandy watched.

James looked up at him, eyes burning.

"You could have been something," James said.

Sandy tilted his head. "I already am."

The doors closed.

The compliance officer took the microphone once more.

"We'll be conducting a full audit," he said. "In the meantime, enjoy the bar."

The music resumed.

The gala went on.

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