They Fired Me, But My Badge Exposed the CEO | Corporate Checkmate

Security will escort you out,” the new CEO said, still focused on her iPad. She delivered the line with the same flat tone someone uses when ordering a latte with oat milk. I didn’t react. I didn’t blink. I just stood there holding a manila folder that weighed almost nothing, yet contained enough information to blow this entire suite off its foundation.

But before I get to what was inside that folder, you need to know how this started. You need to understand who I am and more importantly who they assumed I was. My name is Kelly. For 12 years, I’ve been practically invisible. My official title was senior lead of operational compliance, which is corporate language for the person who keeps us from breaking the law.

I worked for a global logistics company, the kind that moves everything from medical isotopes to cheap gadgets across borders without setting off alarms at customs. Under the old founder, Mr. Henderson, the company was predictable. Predictable is a good thing in logistics. Predictable means your shipments arrive.

Regulators don’t show up with surprise warrants, and investors sleep without checking their phones at night. Mr. Henderson wore the same gray suit for three decades and believed that a clean audit meant more than any trending ad campaign. He respected the rules. He respected me. Then Mr. Henderson passed away. The gap he left wasn’t filled by his experienced deputy, but by the board’s new favorite recruit, Madison.

She was 36, had a polished MBA from a school that cost more than my house, and spoke only in buzzwords. She didn’t care about cargo routes or compliance. She cared about synergy and disrupting narratives. She walked in on day one wearing loud heels that clicked across the marble like a countdown timer, followed by consultants who looked like they were produced in a lab specializing in hair gel and confidence.

The shift was instant and harsh. It wasn’t just a leadership change. It was a cultural wipeout. The calm beige walls became a harsh bright white. The steady productivity of the office was overtaken by constant brainstorming sessions that produced little besides messy whiteboards. I watched from my office in the corner of the 14th floor.

People like Madison don’t see people like me. To her, I was old staff background decor, a leftover from the Henderson era. She probably assumed I was clinging to a pension. What she didn’t realize was that my silence wasn’t obedience. It was observation. In my field, listening matters more than talking.

And you quickly learn that the loudest person usually has the most to hide. Madison was extremely loud. She held town halls about trimming the fat and transforming us into a tech forward brand. We’re a shipping company, Madison. We move trucks and planes. Quick reminder, if you’re enjoying this breakdown of corporate chaos, hit subscribe and drop a like.

It genuinely helps the team and honestly costs you less than the severance package I was preparing to negotiate. Now back to the unraveling. 3 months into her leadership, the firing started. Quiet at first. The VP of North American Ground Transport gone on a Friday. Email shut off by Monday. The head of Customs Brokerage retired early to spend time with a family he openly disliked.

Madison was bringing in her own people. That’s normal in corporate transitions, but these hires were off. I saw it in vendor approval logs. Compliance is supposed to review all new partners. We check sanctions, conflicts, finances. Suddenly, requests skipped my desk. Invoices for firms based in the Cayman’s were approved directly by the CEO’s office.

IT contracts were going to companies created days earlier. I went to Madison’s right-hand man, Tyler, a guy who lived in vests and avoided eye contact. Tyler, I said, holding a print out. This vendor for the fleet GPS upgrade has no Dun’s number, no website. Who are they? He laughed, a dry, dismissive laugh.

Kelly, you’re thinking too small. We’re moving quickly. No time for red tape. Madison, I returned to my office, shut the blinds, logged into my terminal, and did what I do best. I didn’t file it. I documented it. I started a hidden log. Every bypassed protocol, every ignored warning, every override saved with timestamps and signatures.

They thought they were dismantling the company to fund flashy tech dreams. They thought titles meant control. But they forgot one thing. The higher you climb, the shakier your footing becomes when you ignore the foundation. And I was the one with the foundation’s blueprint. I sat there watching the sun reflect off the glass tower Madison treated like her kingdom.

I lit a cigarette. Yes, I know it’s banned indoors, but I also knew exactly which detectors to disable. Another perk of writing half the safety policies. I exhaled and murmured. Okay, Madison, you want modernization? Let’s see how modern a prison sentence looks. I didn’t realize then that the real weapon wasn’t my files.

It was the ID badge on my belt. The one with an old unflattering photo. The one Madison mocked in the elevator because the laminate was peeling. She had no idea what that badge could do. The office atmosphere turned from toxic to instable. Over the next month, Madison wasn’t just unqualified. She was dangerous. Her strategy relied on moving money fast enough that no one noticed it disappearing.

The first real sign something huge was coming wasn’t in a report. It was the coffee machine. For 20 years, we used a local vendor with decent fair trade coffee. Small perk, but appreciated. One Monday, the machines were gone. Replaced by sleek appl dispensers requiring a QR code scan and a 15. It’s about engagement.

The memo said, “Every cup is a connection with leadership.” I watched Madison’s face on a tiny screen talk about paradigm shifts while waiting for caffeine and thought, “She’s out of money. She’s cutting coffee costs to pay consultants.” Back at my desk, I opened the quarterly projections. They were locked behind multiple layers of passwords, but I had master access.

The numbers were bleeding. Our stable logistics division, the one that funded everything, was down 18%. Why? Because she fired skilled dispatchers and replaced them with an algorithm that was routing refrigerated insulin trucks through the Arizona desert in July. Then came the email. Subject line, structural realignment, streamlining compliance. didn’t need.

It’s staying out of prison. Putting us under PR was like giving the fire department to someone who likes watching things burn. They didn’t want us solving problems. They wanted us spinning them. Half an hour later, HR called. The new HR director, Chloe, who looked barely old enough to rent a car, appeared in my doorway without knocking.

Kelly, she chirped. Do you have a moment? We’re collecting all legacy badges for a security update. My heart slowed. My badge works fine, I said while quietly backing up my hard drive to a secure non-co company cloud. Oh, I know, she said. But Madison wants everyone on the new biometric system, face scanning. Very sleek.

We’re recycling old RFID badges. Recycling, I repeated. They didn’t want to recycle anything. They wanted to erase access and evidence. I’ll bring it later. I lied. I’m finishing a federal audit report. Don’t wait too long. Old codes deactivate Friday at 5:00 p.m. She left, leaving behind. I looked at the badge on my desk. To Chloe, it was plastic.

To me, it was the black box of a plane going down. Two years ago, after a small corruption scandal in Chicago, the old board panicked. They approved a secret program called Project Glass House. They wanted a fail safe, a way to document everything if leadership went rogue. They gave me a special badge. Same look as everyone else’s, but with a second encrypted layer.

Every time I badged into certain rooms, the boardroom, server room, executive archive, it didn’t just unlock the door, it recorded metadata, who was present, how long, and digitally notorized any files displayed or shared in that session. It was a silent witness. Madison had no idea it existed. She only knew she wanted me gone and she wanted my access cut.

I checked the time. It was Tuesday. I had until Friday to corner them. The next three days passed in a haze of deliberate actions. I attended every meeting I could slip into. I sat quietly in the back of the strategy session where Tyler talked about shifting liability for lost cargo to our subcontractors. Illegal.

I badged into the records room while staff shredded physical contracts. Highly illegal. I walked the halls, my badge on my hip, absorbing the digital trail of their misconduct like a sensor. By Thursday afternoon, I felt the pressure closing in. My server access kept glitching. Random lockouts. My email password expired twice in a single day.

They were trying to push me out, hoping I’d quit so they could avoid paying severance. They misjudged my determination. Friday morning, a calendar invite appeared. Meeting leadership realignment review host Madison CEO attendees Kelly me compliance Simon general council location boardroom A. Time 2 p.m. This was it. The execution. I spent lunch in a park across the street, eating a sandwich I couldn’t taste. I stared at the building.

From the outside, it looked sleek. Glass and steel catching the clouds. Inside, it was decaying. I went back in at 1:55 p.m. Stopped by the bathroom, washed my hands, met my own reflection. I looked drained. The fluorescent lights exposed the circles under my eyes and the early gray in my hair, but my eyes were clear.

The eyes of someone who had checked the parachute while everyone else toasted in the cockpit. I removed my badge from my belt loop and held it for a moment. Okay, I told my reflection. Let’s go get fired. I walked toward boardroom A. The frosted glass hid the details, but I saw silhouettes. Madison paste.

Simon sat stiffly. I swiped my badge one last time. Beep. Green light. The system logged. I opened the door. The boardroom felt 10° colder. Madison’s preference. She claimed it improved focus, though I suspected she liked watching people shiver. Madison didn’t look up. She tapped aggressively at her tablet, pretending to be deeply occupied.

Simon looked worse, a man who had spent two decades trying to remain invisible. Under Madison, he looked like he was permanently in pain. He wouldn’t look at me, staring instead at the polished table like he hoped it would swallow him. I didn’t sit. A chair was pulled out from me, far from the head of the table, but I stayed standing.

I placed a manila folder on the table. The sound was soft, but in the quiet room, it hit like a crack. Madison stopped swiping. Still didn’t look at me. She looked at Simon. “Go ahead,” she said flatly. She opened a bottle of sparkling water. “Crack!” Simon cleared his throat, the sound rough.

Kelly, thank you for coming in. I work here, Simon. I didn’t come in. I walked down the hallway. My voice was steady. Too steady. He flinched. Right. Well, as you know, the company is undergoing a significant transformation. We’re shifting to a more agile integrated model. During this restructuring, we’ve decided to eliminate the standalone compliance function.

Eliminate compliance? I repeated. You’re removing the brakes from a moving vehicle. We’re integrating it, Madison snapped, finally looking at me. Her eyes were icy and empty. We don’t need people telling us no all day. We need people who enable progress. Frankly, Kelly, your energy is outdated, heavy. It doesn’t match the brand. My energy is outdated, I said.

Is that what we call following SEC regulations? Now, this isn’t a debate, Madison said, waving her hand dismissively. Your role is terminated effective immediately. We’re offering two week severance if you sign an NDA. If not, you get nothing and we’ll contest your unemployment benefits for performance issues. Performance issues? I said, I have 12 years of spotless reviews, Madison.

You’ve been here 4 months. In those four months, you failed to adapt, she said, smiling sharply. You’re obstructive, a bottleneck. You’re finished. She went back to her tablet. In her mind, the meeting was over. I was erased. Simon has the paperwork. Sign it. Leave your laptop. Security will escort you out.

I have a call in 5 minutes. Goodbye, Kelly. The disrespect was stunning. A masterclass in dehumanization. She wanted me to feel small, like a confused middle-aged woman being pushed out because she couldn’t keep up. But I didn’t feel small. I felt like someone watching a countdown. Simon slid the NDA toward me. Thick, the gag order.

I’m not signing that, I said softly. Madison sighed loudly. “Oh my god, Simon, call security. If she wants to leave the hard way, fine.” I unclipped my badge. The sound echoed. “You’re right, Madison,” I said. Security should come, but not for me. I didn’t hand her the badge. I slid it across the table towards Simon.

It spun and stopped in front of him. “What is this?” Madison snapped. “Simon,” I said. “Read the serial number under the barcode.” He flipped it over, adjusted his glasses, read the tiny numbers. Offboard Exec 0001 Alpha. His face drained. He dropped the badge. Oh, he whispered like he was watching his career dissolve. What? Madison barked.

Madison, Simon said, trembling. We need to delay the board meeting and call forensics. Why? Because, I said, that badge isn’t just an ID. It’s an audit device. Silence hit the room like a dropped weight. Madison glared between us. Confusion replaced irritation. She hated confusion. Simon, explain. He didn’t move.

This badge has board level clearance, he said. More importantly, it’s a roving audit unit. Kelly’s eyes met mine. How long has it been active? Since the day Mr. Henderson passed, I said. The audit committee reactivated Project Glass House. They wanted oversight during the transition. I’m that oversight.

Madison laughed nervously. That’s ridiculous. You’re a compliance officer, not some secret agent. Check the metadata, I said. Scan it. Simon’s hands shook as he pulled out a USB scanner. He swiped the badge. His laptop filled with cascading green text. Open the folder labeled current session, I said. He clicked. A window appeared.

Audio trace active. Document notary syncing. NDA termination draft V4. Attendee IDs Madison Simon. Flag retaliatory termination. You’re recording us. Madison yelled. That’s illegal. Actually, I said, leaning back. Check your contract. Section 14, paragraph B. All executive meetings on company property are subject to compliance monitoring.

You waved your privacy when you became CEO. Madison’s face tightened. I am the CEO. I can override that. You can override future policies, Simon said. Not legacy board directives and not the chain of custody on a federal audit device. He looked at me. You didn’t just log this meeting, did you? I logged everything I said for 4 months.

Every illegal locker room conversation, every shady payment, every deleted email, every offshore transfer, all verified and tagged. Her face went ghost white. That folder, I said, pointing, is the index. She opened it. 10 pages. Enough. Unauthorized payments. $4.2 $2 million transcripts documenting illegal firings, logs showing she ordered deletion of subpoenaed emails.

This is, she started evidence, I finished and the upload finished 20 minutes ago. The board’s audit firm in Switzerland already has every file. Madison spun toward Simon. Fix it. Fix it now. I can’t, he said. This is irreversible, she screamed. I’ll fire you, too. You can’t, I said. I triggered whistleblower protections when I handed over the badge.

Fire Simon and he becomes a witness. Phones buzzed. Madison’s screen lit up. Chairman Vance, she declined. You should answer, I said. He hates voicemail. You think this will take me down? She hissed. The stock is up. It’s up because you cut safety costs, I said. short-term gain, long-term disaster. We haven’t done anything illegal, she insisted.

Is reclassifying hazardous chemicals as dry goods standard practice? I have a recording of Tyler proposing it and your approval email. Simon groaned. Please tell me you didn’t approve that. It was a coding mistake. Madison lied. The log show you overrode the warning twice, I said. That’s willful negligence.

Madison paced frantic. “Tyler will take the fall.” “There it is,” I said, throwing him under the bus. “Consultants are expendable,” she shouted. “Then why has he been secretly forwarding your illegal directives to his personal Gmail?” I said, “He’s preparing to flip on you.” Madison froze. “What do you want?” she asked quietly.

“Money, a payout? We can negotiate.” You can’t erase the logs, Simon said. They’re on a distributed ledger. Even if the building burns down, the record survives. I don’t want money, I said. I want my company back. She sneered. Your company? You’re a nobody. I’m the person who ensures drivers get paid, cargo gets inspected, and we don’t accidentally ship something deadly.

You treat companies like brands, not responsibilities. Her phone buzzed again. Simon’s laptop pinged. A high priority email. He read it. Madison, the board has placed you on administrative leave. Your access is revoked. She grabbed her devices. Locked out. They can’t do this. They just did. I said the door opened.

It wasn’t security. It was Tyler holding a box. “HR just terminated me,” he said. “Save it for the deposition,” I told him. Madison looked between all of us, her power gone. “You ruined everything,” she whispered. “We were going to be a unicorn.” “Madison,” I said, picking up the folder. “This is a trucking company. We stay on the road.

You are driving off a cliff.” Footsteps approached the security escort. To understand why I risked my career to bring her down, you need the history. 10 years ago, this company almost collapsed, not from finances, but from corruption. A regional VP ran a kickback scheme. A warehouse roof fell. Two workers died. One was 22. Mr.

Henderson, the founder, was devastated. He was a tough man, but fair. He flew to meet the families, and when he returned, he called me into his office. I was just a compliance analyst back then. I honestly thought I was about to be fired. Kelly, he said while staring out the window at the gray, rainy city. We failed. I failed.

We grew too fast and we stopped paying attention. We can tighten the audit, sir, I offered. Audits are paperwork, he said. Paper can be faked. I need a conscience in this company. Someone who doesn’t care about impressing the executives. Someone who cares more about the truth than the stock price. That was the day Project Glass House began.

It wasn’t just a monitoring program. It was a commitment. The badge wasn’t just tech. It was a responsibility. I became the keeper of that responsibility. The board gave me specific authority to protect the integrity of our operations from any threat inside or outside the company. I treated that oath seriously. When Madison arrived, I genuinely tried to give her a fair start.

But when she began tearing down the safety checks, the same ones we put in place after the city incident, I realized she wasn’t merely ambitious. She was removing the memory of past mistakes. She was preparing the conditions for disaster. Back in the present, the boardroom was getting crowded. Two security guards, the actual security team, the ones who asked about my cat, stood in the doorway.

Miss Madison, the lead guard, Frank, said. His expression was unreadable. We’re instructed to escort you to the lobby. You can’t return to your office. This is insane, Madison shouted. I need my purse. I need my keys. Your personal items will be boxed and mailed to you. Frank said, “Please come with us.” Madison looked at me one last time.

“You’re a dinosaur, Kelly. You’ll rot in this building.” “Maybe,” I replied. “But the building will still be here.” They escorted her out. She didn’t leave quietly. She yelled about lawsuits, discrimination, and conspiracies all the way to the elevator. When the door shut, the room fell silent again.

Simon was still at the table. He looked exhausted, older. So, he said, taking off his glasses. What happens now? Now, I said, we start cleaning up. The board will want a scapegoat, Simon muttered. Madison is gone, but they’ll question legal. They’ll ask why I didn’t stop her. You were intimidated, I said. She made the workplace hostile.

You feared retaliation. That’s the narrative. Stick to it. You’re helping me? He asked, surprised. I don’t care about you personally, Simon. I said, “You’re weak, but not malicious. Madison was the disease. You were just affected by it. Remove her and maybe the company can heal. Besides, you know everything from the last four months.

If you’re fired, that knowledge disappears. I need your help unpacking her files. Unpack? He repeated. She encrypted the Project Phoenix files. The asset liquidation documents, I clarified. You have the key, right? He hesitated, then nodded. I have it. Good. The auditors arrive in I checked my watch. 45 minutes. I want a road map ready for them.

I clicked my badge back onto my belt. It felt heavier than usual. Earned. Come on, Simon. Let’s get to your office. We have work to finish before the vultures show up. We left the boardroom. The office was buzzing with quiet conversations. People had seen Madison escorted out and saw me walking with the general counsel.

The atmosphere had shifted. The queen was gone. Long live, well, not a queen, more like the janitor. I passed the empty receptionist desk, the overpriced modern art Madison bought, and stopped by the coffee station with the broken appcontrolled machine. First order of business, I told Simon, get the old coffee vendor back.

He gave a short, nervous laugh. Consider it done. You’d think being escorted out would end things, but with LinkedIn influencers and online victim culture, being fired for cause is just a rebrand. When I got home that night, after 6 hours of briefing auditors and watching them sweat, Madison had already launched her counterattack.

My niece texted me a link. Aunt Kelly, is this about you? It was a Medium article shared all over LinkedIn titled Silenced by the Old Guard: How Traditionalism Kills Innovation. It was peak manipulation. Madison cast herself as a brave visionary crushed by a patriarchal, outdated corporate immune system.

She didn’t name me, but she described a petty bureaucrat who used administrative tricks to block progress. It was trending. Comments cheering her on. She was winning the narrative. The next morning, the board was panicking. “She’s hurting our stock price,” Chairman Vance yelled over the speakerphone. “The market thinks we fired a visionary because we’re afraid of change. We need a response.

We can’t release the investigation details yet,” Simon said tiredly. It’s tied to litigation. If we leak fraud evidence now, she’ll sue us before we can prove anything. So, we let her destroy us.” Vance snapped. I sat quietly at the end of the table, drinking coffee from the newly returned old machine. It tasted burnt, but it tasted like progress.

“You don’t need to leak the fraud,” I said. The room went still. leak the hypocrisy. What do you mean? Vance asked. She’s selling herself as a champion of the workforce, a modern leader, right? Yes, Simon said cautiously. Well, I said, opening my laptop. My badge recorded some very interesting audio from her private executive lunches, especially her comments about the employees she claims to champion.

I play the recording, crystal clear, silverware clinking, and then Madison’s voice. God, the staff directory looks like a casting call for The Walking Dead. Can we fire everyone over 40 without getting sued for agism? They smell like mothballs and failure. Just cut their benefits. They’ll quit. Silence filled the room.

And here’s another clip. I said from the day she cut the safety budget. Madison again. Who cares if the trucks need new tires? If they crash, insurance pays. Honestly, it’s better financially if some of the old fleet gets totaled. We can write them off. Chairman Vance exhaled sharply.

You have this recorded digitally signed, timestamped, and legally admissible. I said, “Release it.” Vance ordered. Leak it to trade journals. Share it internally. Let employees hear the truth. I already drafted the memo. I said, but there’s one more thing. What now? She’s launching a new startup today and seeking investors.

I said her seed money came from consulting fees funneled through a Cayman Shell company. I traced the trust. It’s under her maiden name. She embezzled. Simon whispered. She didn’t just embezzle. I said she stole from us to fund her new company. That’s grand lararseny. Do it, Vance said, voice cold and firm. End this. We released the audio at noon.

By 200 p.m., her victim’s story had collapsed. The internet flipped instantly. The hashtags turned against her. By 400 p.m., the SEC announced a formal investigation. I watched the news from my actual office, the one she tried to move me out of. They showed Madison avoiding reporters. She looked frightened.

I didn’t feel joy or sadness. I felt clean, like I finally removed a stain that had lingered too long. HR called Kelly. The reinstated rep said, “We have a situation. A strike?” I asked. “No, a gathering. They want you in the lobby.” The lobby was full, not with executives, but with the people who actually made the company run.

Dispatchers, drivers, warehouse staff, junior analysts. They didn’t cheer. They weren’t dramatic. They just stopped talking and nodded. It was better than applause. Dave, head of fleet maintenance, stepped forward. Heard we’re getting the tire budget back. Approved an hour ago, I said. Good, he replied. I wasn’t putting my guys in those trucks another week.

I know, I said. He extended his hand. I shook it. That was the party. The next week was a productive kind of chaos. The board gave me temporary authority to overhaul operations. I fired Tyler. I fired the brand ambassadors. I fired the 24year-old VP of Synergy. I cut the external consulting team.

I walked the office like an executioner. Except my tool was a termination form and a guard named Frank. You can’t do this, the VP of Synergy cried while packing his desk plant. I have a contract. Your contract was with a fraudulent administration, I said. And that plant was charged to a misused corporate card. Leave it.

We removed the trendy white paint. We restored the beige. We rehired the VP of ground transport. He was more than willing to return. The office finally settled. Innovation mania was replaced with the steady rhythm of logistics. Phones, keyboards, actual problem solving. But one issue remained. The board. They were grateful, but they were also uneasy.

I now held the power to expose anyone. I had the badge. Chairman Vance flew in on Friday. He called a private meeting. Kelly, he said, sitting in Madison’s old chair. You’ve done incredible work. You saved the company. I did my job, I replied. You did more. You were an independent oversight mechanism. That was the assignment. Yes, he said slowly.

But now the crisis is over and the board is uncomfortable with a permanent internal watchdog with that level of access. It’s a liability. He slid a check across the table, a very large check. We’d like to offer early retirement, full benefits, double pension, and this bonus in exchange for the badge and deletion of the archives.

It was enough money to change my life. But I saw the intent. He wanted the system dismantled. He wanted freedom from accountability. I picked up the check, looked at it, tore it in half. His smile faded. Kelly, that was a generous offer. It was, I said, “But you misunderstand. I didn’t save this company for you.

I saved it for Dave, for the drivers.” I leaned in. I’m not retiring and I’m not destroying the archives because if I leave, who stops the next Madison? Who stops you if you cut the safety budget to meet your targets? Vance stiffened. Are you threatening the board? No, I said, I’m protecting it. As long as I’m here.

As long as I’m here. As long as the badge stays on my hip. Everyone follows the rules. I stood. I’ll be in my office. The real one. Email me if needed. I walked to the door. Kelly, Vance called, I paused. Security won’t escort you out, he said with a dry smile. They wouldn’t listen to me even if I asked.

Smart man, I replied. 3 months later, everything was quiet again. Wonderfully boring. Beige walls, average coffee, stable stock price, regular dividends. Madison took a plea deal. Federal prosecutors don’t play around when they have HD audio of you admitting to insurance fraud. She got 18 months in minimum security and 5 years of probation.

She’s banned from corporate leadership for life. Last I heard, she’s writing a memoir. It might sell a dozen copies. Tyler cooperated, paid a heavy fine, and now works at a car dealership in New Jersey. As for me, I’m where I’ve always been. 14th floor corner office, but now my title is chief integrity office. A madeup role with real power and a seat at board meetings.

People act differently around me. Rumors say I put cameras in the smoke detectors. I didn’t. Rumors say I read emails in real time. I can, but only when flagged for certain keywords. I’m the office legend now, the 14th floor witch. And that’s fine with me. New hires are warned. Don’t cut corners. Kelly will know. Tonight, I’m the last one in the building.

The cleaners vacuum the hallway, the same hall where Madison once said security would escort me out. I wave. They wave back. I look out the window. The logistics hub glows. Trucks moving. Planes landing. The system running. Steady and honest. I touch the badge on my hip. The red light pulses once. System active. Watchdog engaged.

I turn off the lights. I don’t lock the door. No one would dare enter. I walk to the elevator. Boots clicking on the floor. Sensible boots built for walking through the wreckage and out the other side. I press the lobby button. The doors close. Going down? The elevator asks. No, I say quietly. We’re staying right where we are.

And the system takes me home.