Chapter 3: The Dominoes Fall

Chapter 3: The Dominoes Fall

The next morning, the office air was thick with a strange, electric tension. It wasn't the fearful silence of the previous day, but something new—the charged quiet before a lightning strike. Everyone was at their desks precisely on time, heads down, working with a focus that was almost unnerving. Leo, nursing a black coffee, felt the unified resolve of his team like a physical presence. The plan, forged in the dingy, beer-scented booth of The Anvil, was in motion.

Marcus Sterling arrived at nine-fifteen, late and unapologetic. He strode through the department, his expensive cologne a noxious cloud in his wake. "I trust yesterday's lesson in productivity sunk in," he announced to the room at large, his voice oozing smug superiority. "I don't pay you to cry. I pay you to work."

He had no idea he was a king addressing an army of assassins.

At precisely ten o'clock, David Chen stood up. He walked calmly to Marcus’s glass office, his posture straight for the first time in years. He placed a single white envelope on the gleaming desk.

Marcus looked up from his phone, annoyed. "What's this, Chen? More of Harrison's outdated nonsense?"

"It's my resignation, Mr. Sterling," David said, his voice level and devoid of emotion. "My two weeks' notice."

Marcus blinked, then let out a short, barking laugh. "Resignation? Don't be so dramatic. You've been here since the stone age. Where are you going to go?"

"Home," David replied simply. He turned without another word and walked back to his desk to begin clearing his personal effects.

Marcus watched him, a sneer playing on his lips. He saw it as a victory. The old guard, the loyalists of the previous regime, were weeding themselves out. Good riddance. He was building his own empire now.

An hour and a half later, just as Marcus was barking into his phone at some unfortunate logistics manager, Maria Rossi followed the same path. She placed her own white envelope next to David's.

"You too?" Marcus said, covering the phone's receiver with his hand. "Let me guess, you're 'retiring' as well?"

"I have accepted a position elsewhere," Maria stated, her tone as crisp and efficient as her work. "My notice period is two weeks, as per my contract."

"Fine! See if I care!" Marcus snapped, his voice rising. "I'll hire someone younger and cheaper to do your paperwork. Probably someone who smiles more."

Maria’s expression didn’t flicker. She gave a slight, formal nod and returned to her desk, beginning the process of archiving her files for a handover that would never happen.

Now, a flicker of irritation sparked in Marcus. Losing the old man was one thing, but Maria was the department's operational hub. This was an inconvenience. Still, they were replaceable. Everyone was replaceable.

But then, at one o'clock, two of the junior quality analysts stood up in unison. They walked side-by-side to his office and placed their envelopes down together. They didn't speak. They just looked at him, their expressions unreadable, and walked away.

The smugness on Marcus’s face finally began to curdle into confusion. This wasn't a coincidence anymore. This was a pattern. A coordinated effort. His gaze swept the office, which was now looking noticeably sparser. The quiet hum of productivity had been replaced by the soft, funereal sounds of people packing their belongings into cardboard boxes.

His bewildered gaze fell on Leo, who was typing away, seemingly oblivious to the chaos. But Leo saw everything. He saw the first beads of sweat on Marcus's brow. He saw the way Marcus's knuckles were white as he gripped his phone.

The panic truly began to set in at three o'clock. Four more team members, a full third of his remaining staff, handed in their notices within the same ten-minute window. The envelopes were piling up on his desk like a monument to his failure. The department was beginning to resemble a ghost town. Empty chairs stared blankly at dark monitors. The silence was no longer tense; it was cavernous.

"What the hell is going on?" Marcus finally roared, storming out of his office. He stood in the middle of the emptying room, his expensive suit suddenly looking less like a symbol of power and more like a costume. "Is this some kind of joke?"

No one answered. They just continued packing.

His eyes, now wide with a dawning horror, darted from one departing employee to another. "You can't all just leave! I'm your boss! I order you to stop!"

His commands were met with the scrape of a cardboard box being pushed across the floor. His authority had evaporated. He was a general with no army, a king with no subjects. He was just a man in a room full of people who had utterly and completely rejected him.

Then, he saw Clara.

She had finished packing her small box of belongings: a framed photo, a coffee mug, a few textbooks. She walked towards the exit, her path taking her right past him. Yesterday, she had been a terrified, weeping girl. Today, her eyes were clear and steady. As she passed Leo's desk, she paused for a fraction of a second. Leo looked up, and their eyes met. He gave her the smallest, most reassuring of nods. A flicker of a grateful smile touched her lips before she continued on her way.

She walked past Marcus without a single glance, as if he were nothing more than a piece of office furniture.

That single act of dismissal broke something in him. He was left standing in the ruins of his department, the rhythmic click-clack of a single keyboard echoing in the vast, empty space.

He turned slowly, his face a mask of disbelief and rising fury. His eyes locked onto the source of the sound.

There, in the center of the desolate office, sat Leo Vance. He hadn't moved. He was still working, his expression as calm and composed as it had been at the start of the day. He was the last one left.

The setting sun cast long shadows through the large factory windows, striping the empty desks. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, illuminating the corporate carnage. Marcus Sterling, the CEO's nephew, the self-proclaimed tyrant, was alone. Alone, except for the quiet, unassuming man who had watched the entire demolition without flinching.

The architect of his downfall.

Marcus’s confusion, his panic, and his wounded pride finally coalesced into a single, burning point of rage. He stalked towards Leo, his fists clenched at his sides, the pile of resignation letters a testament to his utter loss of control.

"You," he seethed, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "This was you. You're behind all of this, aren't you?"