Chapter 3: The Hatchet Man

Chapter 3: The Hatchet Man

The next three days passed in a haze of surreal quiet. The vibrant hum of Apex Electronics #734 had been replaced by a funereal pall. The team moved like ghosts through the aisles, performing their duties with mechanical precision but none of their usual passion. Their rebellion was silent but effective. When customers asked for recommendations, the team would list the technical specs with flat, monotone voices, offering no enthusiasm, no expert guidance. Sales, which had once been the lifeblood of the store and a source of immense pride, plummeted. The top-grossing store in the region was suddenly, inexplicably, a dead zone. It was their small, bitter act of defiance, a middle finger scrawled in red ink on the corporate ledger.

They were in the middle of this quiet protest when the automatic doors slid open to admit a man who was so utterly out of place he might as well have beamed down from another planet. He was tall and thin, dressed in a charcoal suit so sharp it looked like it could cut glass. His dark hair was slicked back from his forehead with a level of precision that suggested it wouldn't be disturbed by a hurricane. He held a tablet like a scepter and swept a cold, calculating gaze across the store, his lip curled in a faint, condescending smirk. He wasn't looking at merchandise; he was assessing liabilities.

Arthur, who was standing near the front registers, straightened up. He recognized the species immediately: the corporate hatchet man. The well-dressed vulture sent to pick over the bones.

"Can I help you?" Arthur asked, his tone professionally neutral but laced with ice.

The man’s gaze slid over Arthur’s manager polo and name tag before dismissing him. "I'm looking for the manager. Arthur Pendelton."

"You found him," Arthur said.

"Richard Sterling," the man announced, not offering a hand. "Vice President of Transition." He gestured vaguely at the empty-looking store. "Corporate was concerned about the sudden dip in your store's performance metrics. They sent me to... manage the transition."

The title hung in the air, a grotesque euphemism for what he really was: the undertaker. News of his arrival spread through the store’s headset system in hushed, angry whispers. One by one, the team found reasons to be near the front, stocking shelves that didn't need stocking, cleaning glass that was already spotless.

"We need to have a team meeting," Sterling declared, already striding towards the breakroom as if he owned the place. "Now."

Packed once again into the small room, the team stood with their arms crossed, a silent, unified front of blue shirts. Sterling remained standing, placing his tablet on the small table. He looked them over, his expression one of deep disappointment, like a king surveying a particularly pathetic group of peasants.

"Let's be frank," he began, his voice smooth and utterly devoid of empathy. "I've reviewed your numbers for the past 72 hours. They are, to put it mildly, abysmal. This kind of petulance is precisely why corporate has decided to move forward with the portfolio optimization initiative."

He used the same bloodless phrase Peterson had on the phone. Leo felt a hot surge of anger. They were being blamed for reacting to a betrayal they weren't even supposed to know about yet.

"You call it petulance," Sarah shot back, her voice trembling slightly but firm. "We call it finding out that our years of loyalty are worth less than the garbage we put out back. We know about the LuxeMart deal. We know you're firing us with nothing."

Sterling’s smirk widened. It was a predatory, unpleasant sight. "Ah, yes. The severance issue." He tapped his tablet. "According to the documentation, this store has been officially flagged for 'sustained underperformance'. As per section 11, subsection B of your employment agreements, termination for cause due to underperformance negates any and all severance obligations. I'm afraid your loyalty, as you call it, is irrelevant."

The sheer, breathtaking audacity of the lie silenced the room. He was using their own success against them, twisting their record-breaking history into a fabricated failure to cheat them out of what they were owed.

"We built this store," Dave said, his voice a low growl. He had worked for this company, in its various forms, for thirty-five years. "We poured our lives into this place. We were commended for our performance less than a month ago. We have the plaque right out front!"

Sterling chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. "Plaques are for morale, not for accounting. Recommendations? I can't in good conscience recommend employees from a failing store. It would reflect poorly on the company. And on me." He looked directly at them, his eyes like chips of ice. "Apex Electronics is a business, not a charity. Your employment here is ending. I am here to ensure you don't damage any more company assets on your way out. You will work your shifts, you will meet your sales targets, and you will vacate the premises in ten days. It's that simple."

That was it. The final, sneering confirmation. They weren't just being discarded; they were being insulted, spat on by a man who had never stocked a shelf or dealt with an irate customer in his life. He saw them as nothing more than whining children, disposable assets who had the gall to be upset about being thrown away.

Leo watched Arthur. His manager had been silent throughout Sterling's speech, his face an unreadable mask. He stood perfectly still, his hands at his sides. But Leo, who knew him better than anyone, saw the muscle twitching in his jaw. He saw the cold fire from the other night rekindle in his eyes, now burning with the intensity of a forge. Sterling had just crossed a line. He hadn't just insulted the company's policies; he had insulted Arthur's family.

"Mr. Sterling," Arthur said, his voice quiet but carrying the weight of a breaking dam.

Sterling turned to him, an impatient look on his face. "Pendelton. I trust you'll get your team in line."

"I have a policy question for you," Arthur continued, taking a slow step forward.

"I'm not here to debate policy with you," Sterling sneered.

"Oh, I think you'll want to hear this one," Arthur said, his voice dropping even lower. "It's about store management's right to refuse service. Specifically, my right to remove a condescending, parasitic leech from my store before he further damages the morale of my team."

Sterling's smirk vanished, replaced by a flicker of stunned disbelief. "What did you just say to me?"

"You heard me," Arthur said, now standing directly in front of the taller man. The 'cool boss' was gone, replaced by a fiercely protective patriarch. "You are the VP of Transition. But as long as I am the manager of this store, you are a guest here. And your visit is over."

He didn't shout. He didn't have to. The authority rolling off him was absolute. "Get out of my store."

For a second, Sterling looked as if he was going to argue, to pull rank, to threaten them all. He opened his mouth, but the look in Arthur’s eyes—a promise of absolute, uncompromising rebellion—made him snap it shut. He snatched his tablet off the table, his face a mask of pure fury.

"This will be in my report," he hissed. "You've just destroyed any chance any of you had of ever working in this industry again."

"Good," Arthur replied, his voice flat. "Then we have nothing left to lose."

He followed Sterling out of the breakroom, across the main floor, and right to the front doors. Without a word, he pulled the handle and held the door open. A silent, unceremonious command. Humiliated and seething, Richard Sterling stalked out into the mall, the automatic doors sliding shut behind him.

Arthur turned back to face his crew. They were staring at him, their expressions a mixture of shock, terror, and glorious, unrestrained awe. He had drawn a line in the sand. He had kicked the monster out of their house.

It was them against the world now. The war had officially begun.