2026-01-15 05:45:49The boardroom was already loud when Ethan Blackwood walked in. Not loud with voices, loud with ego. “I’m telling you, the problem is marketing,”
Richard Hale snapped, slamming his palm on the polished table. “We don’t need another internal review. We need a bigger budget.”
“That’s the third budget increase this quarter,” a woman at the far end said. “Sales are still down.”
“Because you don’t push hard enough,”
Richard shot back. “You wait for permission.”
Ethan paused at the door. Twenty-two years old. Fresh suit. Cheap tie. A graduate degree that meant nothing in this room. No one noticed him. He took the empty seat at the edge of the table, opened his notebook, and listened.
Richard Hale, CEO, founder, self-declared genius, paced like a general who hadn’t realized the war was already lost.
“The numbers will turn,”
Richard said. “They always do.”
“They haven’t,” the CFO replied carefully.
“Production costs are bleeding us. Logistics”
“Temporary,”
Richard cut in. “Everything is temporary if you’re patient.”
Ethan’s pen stopped. No, he thought. Some things are terminal. He flipped to the first page of his notebook. On it were three columns he’d drawn the night before. Waste. Delay. Pride.
He raised his hand. The room went quiet, not because they were listening, but because they were surprised someone like him would interrupt. Richard looked at him as if noticing a stain on the wall. “…Yes?”
Richard said, irritation wrapped in politeness. “You are?”
“Ethan Blackwood,”
he said calmly. “Junior analyst.”
Richard blinked. “Right. And?”
Ethan felt the eyes now, curious, dismissive, bored. He swallowed once. Not from fear. From calculation. “With respect,”
Ethan said, “marketing isn’t the problem.”
A beat. Then laughter. Not loud. Not cruel. Just… indulgent. “Marketing isn’t the problem,”
Richard repeated, amused. “Alright. Enlighten us.”
“The problem is cash flow illusion,”
Ethan said. “You’re profitable on paper and bankrupt in reality.”
The CFO frowned. “What does that mean?”
Ethan leaned forward slightly. “It means you’re celebrating revenue while ignoring leakage. Your supply chain loses money at three points before a product reaches the shelf. You’re discounting to compensate for delays you refuse to admit exist.”
Richard’s smile thinned. “You’re saying we don’t understand our own business?”
“I’m saying you’re looking at it too high-level,”
Ethan replied. “Details matter. Especially when margins are thin.”
Silence pressed down. Richard’s jaw tightened. “How long have you worked here, Mr. Blackwood?”
“Four months.”
“And you think four months qualifies you to challenge decisions made over twenty years?”
Ethan didn’t look away. “Experience doesn’t protect against blind spots.”
The CFO shifted uncomfortably. Someone coughed. Richard chuckled, slow and dangerous. “This is cute. Really. Initiative is good. But confidence without perspective is arrogance.”
Ethan nodded. “That’s true.”
Richard raised an eyebrow. “And perspective without adaptation,”
Ethan added, “is how companies die quietly.”
The room froze. That was the moment. The exact second Ethan felt it, the line crossed.
Richard straightened. “You’re done.”
“With respect,”
Ethan said again, evenly, “if you let me finish”
“No,”
Richard snapped. “You’re not here to lecture my board.”
“I’m here to prevent failure.”
“Failure?”
Richard laughed. “We’re down twelve percent, not bankrupt.”
“You will be,” Ethan said.
The word landed like a dropped glass. “You have six months,”
Ethan continued, voice steady. “Nine if suppliers don’t panic. After that, your debt structure eats you alive.”
The CFO stared at his screen. “…That’s not”
“It is,”
Ethan said. “You’re refinancing losses as growth.”
Richard’s face reddened. “Enough.”
Ethan closed his notebook slowly. “I mapped it out. I have solutions.”
“I don’t care,”
Richard said coldly. “I didn’t ask for solutions from a graduate who still smells like textbooks.”
A few people avoided Ethan’s eyes. He stood. “Let me be clear,”
Richard continued. “You were hired to observe, not to speak. Sit down.”
Ethan remained standing. “This company,”
he said quietly, “is sick. And you’re treating symptoms because admitting the disease would mean admitting you missed it.”
Richard stepped closer. “You’re crossing a line.”
“I crossed it the moment I chose honesty.”
Richard exhaled sharply, then smiled, a smile that meant decisions had already been made. “You know what your problem is, Ethan?”
he said. “You’re smart. And you think that’s enough.”
Ethan nodded once. “It usually is.”
The room inhaled collectively. Richard pointed toward the door. “Get out.”
No shout. No drama. Just dismissal.
Ethan looked around the table, at the people who knew something was wrong, at the ones too afraid to say it. He said nothing. He walked out. Three weeks later, profits spiked. No one thanked Ethan. Six weeks later, operations stabilized.
Richard took credit. Three months later, Ethan was called into HR. “Your position is being… restructured,”
the woman said, not meeting his eyes. “Am I being fired?”
Ethan asked. She hesitated. “You’re being… let go.”
“For performance?”
“For fit.”
Ethan nodded. “Understood.”
He packed his desk in silence. As he left the building for the last time, he looked back at the glass tower rising into the city sky. You won’t survive without me, he thought. Not with anger. With certainty.
Four months after Ethan left, the delays returned. Six months after, suppliers demanded cash. Nine months after, the board called an emergency meeting. Richard Hale stared at the same table, the same chairs.
“This doesn’t make sense,”
he muttered. “We fixed this.”
The CFO swallowed. “No. Someone did.”
Richard looked up slowly. “…What was the name of that analyst?”
The silence answered him. And somewhere across the city, Ethan Blackwood’s phone rang for the first time.
He answered it calmly. “Mr. Blackwood,”
a voice said. “We’ve heard you’re very good at fixing broken companies.”
Ethan looked out at the city. “Yes,” he said. “I am.”
And just like that.
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CHAPTER 13 — MEN AT THE BAR
Friday nights never changed.No matter how the week went, profit or loss, victory or humiliation, Richard Hale always ended his Fridays at the same bar. Same corner booth. Same low lights. Same seven men.They called themselves friends, but they were more like mirrors, men of power, ego, money, and influence. CEOs, investors, contractors, politicians-in-waiting. Men who believed the world bent because they leaned on it.The bar smelled of aged whiskey and polished wood. Jazz hummed softly in the background, just loud enough to drown out conscience.Richard arrived late. That alone drew attention. “Look who finally decided to join civilization,”one of them joked. Richard didn’t smile. He loosened his tie and dropped into the booth, signaling the bartender without a word. “Bad week?”another asked. Richard took the glass handed to him and swallowed deeply before answering. “Bad… realization,”he said. That caught their attention. They leaned in. Richard stared into his drink for a mome
CHAPTER 12 — THE WAITING ROOM OF POWER
The mood was different. That alone unsettled people. For the first time in years, laughter existed inside the walls of Hale Industries’ boardroom, not loud, not careless, but restrained, hopeful.Smiles appeared where fear once lived. Conversations flowed without whispers. People walked in lighter. Chairs were pulled back without hesitation. Coffee cups were filled without shaking hands.Some even joked quietly, careful not to tempt fate. Friday had arrived. And with it, Ethan. Or so they believed. Amara took her seat and looked around the room. She counted faces.Everyone was present, no sick excuses, no sudden errands. Even staff who rarely attended meetings had found reasons to be there.Hope had summoned them. Daniel adjusted his tie for the third time. He hadn’t slept much. The thought that he, of all people, had sparked this moment made his chest tight. “Do you think he’ll come?”someone whispered. “He said yes,”another replied. “People like him don’t break appointments.” Dani
CHAPTER 11 — THE SUMMONING
The meeting ended without resolution. That alone was unusual.Richard Hale stood slowly, straightened his jacket, and said, “Let’s end this meeting here. We’ll reconvene tomorrow morning. I need to make some enquiries.” Nothing more.No explanations. No arguments. No insults. Just that. People exchanged looks as he walked out—measured steps, shoulders squared, face unreadable. The door closed behind him with a soft click, yet it sounded louder than any shout he had ever made.For the first time in years, Richard Hale had asked for time. That night, his office light stayed on longer than usual.He sat alone, files spread across his desk. Reports. Old emails. Projections he had once dismissed without reading past the first page.One name appeared again and again. Ethan Blackwood. Richard leaned back, fingers pressed together.He remembered the boy, quiet, observant, always writing things down. He remembered how easily Ethan had spoken in meetings, how confidently he had predicted outcom
CHAPTER 10 — THE NAME THAT REFUSED TO DIE
The room was silent. Not the awkward kind. The heavy kind.Richard Hale stood at the head of the table again, hands resting on the polished wood, eyes moving slowly from face to face. The words spoken in the last meeting still hung in the air like smoke that refused to clear. He exhaled.Then spoke. “Does anyone else,”he said calmly, “have anything to say?”No anger. No shouting. Just a question. People shifted in their seats. No one raised a hand. Richard nodded once, as if confirming what he already believed. “Good,”he said. “Then”A hand went up. Everyone turned.It was a woman. Mid-thirties. Calm eyes. One of the few senior staff who had survived years without being sacked, mostly because she spoke little. Richard paused. His eyes rested on her hand. She had never raised it before.“What is your name?”he asked. “Amara,”she replied softly. Richard gestured. “Speak.”She stood slowly, smoothing her jacket, gathering herself. “Sir,”she began, respectful but firm, “I don’t intend
CHAPTER 9 — THE LAST MEETING
The meeting room filled slowly that morning. No one rushed. No one joked. People took their seats like mourners attending a funeral they already knew the outcome of. Richard Hale arrived last. He didn’t carry files. Didn’t carry reports. Didn’t even carry anger. He carried finality.He stood at the head of the table, looked at the faces before him, some familiar, some already halfway gone, and cleared his throat. “I won’t waste your time,”he said calmly. “I think this will be our last meeting.”A ripple passed through the room. “This company,”Richard continued, “can no longer sustain itself. I have made up my mind.”He paused, then delivered it cleanly. “We are shutting down.”A sharp inhale. A stifled gasp. A chair scraping backward. No one spoke. Richard nodded, as if confirming a decision already stamped.“I will work with legal and finance to manage the closure. Severance will be discussed where possible.”Where possible. The words tasted cruel. He folded his hands. “That is al
CHAPTER 8 — THE ARGUMENT INSIDE HIS HEAD
The message reached him before he reached his office. Richard Hale stepped out of the elevator, phone pressed to his ear, his jaw tightening with every word.“…Six?”he repeated. “They didn’t resume?”A pause. “Yes, sir. No notice.”Richard stopped walking. Six workers. Gone. Not sick. Not late. Gone. “Terminate them,”he said flatly. “Effective immediately.”The voice on the other end hesitated. “Sir”“Did you hear me?”Richard snapped. “All six. Sack them.”“Yes, sir.”The call ended. Richard stood there for a moment, staring down the hallway. Desks were emptier than they used to be. Conversations stopped when he passed. Eyes dropped.Fear had replaced respect. He entered his office and shut the door harder than necessary. Six more. He loosened his tie and dropped into his chair, staring at the wall without seeing it.Eight months. That number mocked him now. His desk phone sat untouched. His laptop screen glowed with unread reports. didn’t open them.Instead, a voice echoed in his
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