Chapter 2: The Manager's Holiday

Chapter 2: The Manager's Holiday

Mark Vance left for his week-long vacation with all the grace of a vulture leaving a carcass. He clapped Ethan on the shoulder, a gesture that was more of a shove, his breath sour with the ghost of last night's cheap whiskey.

“Alright, Thorne. The keys are yours,” he said, his voice oozing condescension. “Try not to burn the place down. And remember what I told you—being too bright just gets you burned. Keep your head down, do the paperwork, and don't try to be a hero.”

The veiled threat, a direct echo of their confrontation, was the last piece of advice he offered before waddling out to his beat-up sedan. The moment the car peeled out of the parking lot, a palpable tension lifted from the workshop. The mechanics, who usually worked with a quiet, sullen resentment, seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief.

“So, what’s the plan, boss?” asked Leo, the head mechanic, wiping his hands on a rag. He called Ethan ‘boss’ without a hint of the sarcasm he always used with Mark.

Ethan felt a surge of quiet energy. This was his chance. A controlled experiment. “The plan,” he said, his voice calm but firm, cutting through the morning noise, “is to do our jobs so well that corporate doesn't even know Mark is gone.”

But Ethan had a very different plan. His goal was to make them know exactly when Mark was gone.

The change was immediate. Ethan didn't hide in the manager's office; he lived on the shop floor. He anticipated bottlenecks, rerouted workflow, and used his encyclopedic knowledge of their inventory to find parts in seconds that Mark would have spent thirty minutes searching for. He approved overtime for a tricky transmission job, something Mark always refused to do, and earned a fierce look of loyalty from the two mechanics who stayed late. Customer complaints evaporated, replaced by glowing five-star online reviews.

The real test came at closing. As the last bay door rolled down, Ethan sat at the front counter, the day's cash drawer in front of him. He felt a familiar knot in his stomach. He methodically sorted the bills and counted the coins, his mind replaying the day’s cash transactions. He ran the totals on the register tape. Then he ran them again.

He leaned back in his chair, a slow, cold satisfaction spreading through him.

The numbers matched. To the penny. There was no thirty-dollar “counting error.” No seventy-five-dollar “rounding issue.” Just a perfect, clean balance.

That night, he opened his encrypted spreadsheet. For weeks, the final column had been a growing list of negative numbers, a testament to Mark’s greed. Tonight, he typed in a new entry. Date: Monday, October 16th. Discrepancy: $0.00.

It was the most beautiful number he had ever seen.

Tuesday was the same story. And Wednesday. By Friday, Ethan hadn't just maintained the store’s performance; he had supercharged it. They broke the single-day sales record from the previous week on Thursday, then broke it again on Friday. The workshop was a model of efficiency, morale was at an all-time high, and every single evening, the cash drawer balanced perfectly. His spreadsheet now showed five consecutive, glorious zeros.

He had the pattern. He had the proof. A month of steady, corrosive theft under Mark's supervision, followed by a week of flawless accounting and record-breaking profits the second he was gone. The data didn't just suggest a conclusion; it screamed it.

Now came the risk. His desire wasn't just to stop the bleeding at Branch 246; it was to prove that competence and integrity were more valuable than seniority and corruption. He could wait for Mark to return, confront him, and get dragged into a messy internal dispute. Or he could end it. Now.

He bypassed the thought of calling the regional manager, a complacent yes-man who was likely a friend of Mark's. No, this required a surgical strike. He had to go to the source.

Sitting in the quiet office after closing on Friday, the scent of rubber and clean-up solvent in the air, Ethan found what he was looking for in the company's corporate directory: an email address for the executive office of the founder and CEO, Alistair Sterling.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard. This was a career-ending move if he was wrong, or if he was perceived as a disgruntled subordinate trying to leapfrog the chain of command. Mark’s threat echoed in his mind. Being too bright gets you burned. He took a deep breath, his MMA training kicking in. You don’t win a fight by being timid. You win by controlling the pace, by choosing your shot.

He began to type. The email was a masterpiece of professional detachment.

Subject: Anomaly Report and Performance Metrics - Branch 246

Mr. Sterling,

My name is Ethan Thorne, Assistant Manager at Branch 246. I am writing to bring a significant financial anomaly to your attention.

For the period of September 15th to October 13th, this branch registered consistent daily cash shortfalls, averaging approximately $70 per day. These were logged as reconciliation errors.

For the past week, from October 16th to October 20th, during which I have been acting as sole manager, the daily cash reconciliation has balanced to the cent each day. I have attached the detailed daily reports for your review.

Furthermore, during this same week, the branch has exceeded its previous all-time single-day sales record twice and increased overall weekly revenue by 22%.

The numbers present a stark contrast that I felt warranted your direct attention.

Respectfully,

Ethan Thorne

He attached the scanned reports, a clean and damning set of figures. He didn't accuse Mark of theft. He didn't have to. The numbers told the entire story. He hit send, his heart hammering against his ribs.

The weekend was agonizing. He expected either a termination notice from HR or, more likely, complete silence.

The reply came on Monday morning, just as he was opening the shop. It wasn't from Alistair Sterling, but from an address labeled ‘Executive Assistant.’ The message was brutally short.

Mr. Thorne,

Mr. Sterling acknowledges your report. An analyst from Corporate will be on-site tomorrow to review branch performance. Please provide them with your full cooperation.

An analyst. The word was cold, impersonal. It could be an ally, or it could be a hatchet man sent to fire the troublemaker who dared to bother the CEO. Ethan felt a target being painted on his back, but it was too late to matter. He had thrown his punch; now he had to brace for the counter.

The next day, just after lunch, a gleaming black Audi sedan, so clean it looked like it had been teleported from a showroom, pulled into the customer parking lot. It was utterly out of place amongst the minivans and work trucks.

The driver’s door opened and a woman emerged. She was in her mid-twenties, dressed in a charcoal-grey pantsuit that probably cost more than his rent for six months. Her posture was ramrod straight, and her sharp, analytical eyes swept across the building, taking in the peeling paint on the sign and the stack of old tires by the side entrance. She missed nothing.

She walked into the shop, her heels clicking on the oil-stained concrete, an alien sound in a world of clanging tools and hissing air hoses. She moved with an unnerving confidence, her gaze landing on Ethan behind the counter.

“You must be Mr. Thorne,” she said. Her voice was as crisp and cool as her attire. She didn't offer a handshake.

“I am,” Ethan replied, his own voice steady.

“I’m Chloe Sterling,” she announced, the name landing with the weight of the entire company behind it. “My father sent me.” She gave the workshop a critical, unimpressed glance before her eyes locked back onto his. “Let’s see your numbers.”