Dismissal[Edited]

Seventeen years had passed since the day her parents died right in front of her face. The memories were as vivid as ever, a haunting echo that never faded. But that was life in Terra II—a constant challenge, a relentless grind that always found new ways to fuck with someone's day. No exceptions, no mercy.

And within such a world was Sera, sitting in a room filled with holograms, charts floating around her in neat, sterile columns. The light from the displays flickered faintly, casting a pale glow over the cold, corporate office. Across from her sat her boss, a man in his mid-fifties, well-dressed and groomed to perfection, his posture immaculate. His name? It didn't matter. He was just another cog in the machine, one of the many she'd seen come and go. This was her fifth boss in nine years with the corporation, a place that valued longevity as much as it valued loyalty—which was to say, not at all.

Today was supposed to be a normal day, a quiet one. But it wasn't.

The man's fingers drummed softly against the polished surface of his desk, the rhythm slow, deliberate. His eyes avoided hers, his voice mechanical, distant. "Sera," he began, his words almost rehearsed, as if he'd said them countless times before, "we've had to make a difficult decision."

The pause that followed was heavy, deliberate, a cruel mockery of compassion. It only heightened the anxiety brewing in her chest. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he looked her in the eye, his expression empty, devoid of empathy. "We can no longer have you on board. You're becoming a liability."

Huh?

The word hit her like a sledgehammer, leaving her stunned. Her stomach dropped, a cold wave of disbelief washing over her. For seventeen years, she had clawed her way through life, trying to build something out of the wreckage her parents' deaths had left behind. She had fought tooth and nail to get where she was now—nine years with this damn company, nine years of grinding through the system. And now, they were throwing her away. Like trash.

The words kept coming, robotic and indifferent. "It's not personal," her boss continued, his tone so detached it felt like a slap to the face. "But your Oripathy... it's dangerous, and the board voted unanimously to sever ties."

Sera's fists clenched, her knuckles turning white. Oripathy. That was the excuse? She knew half the people in this building had it. She slammed her hands down on the desk with a force that made the holographic files flicker and pop open. "Huh? What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Just like that? Bullshit!" Her voice cracked like a whip, filled with raw frustration. "You and I both know that's a lie! Half the people here have Oripathy, and they're still working. So why me?"

Her eyes flicked down, catching sight of something among the files that had opened up. An image. She froze, her heart skipping a beat. There it was, clear as day—Eikþyrnis. The Collapsal she had made a deal with all those years ago. The image was unmistakable. Her pulse quickened, rage boiling beneath her skin. "The fuck… how in Terra did you find this?" she hissed, her voice dangerously low, eyes narrowing as she glared at her boss.

For a moment, his composure faltered. He shifted in his seat, the slightest crack in his cool exterior. But it was enough for Sera to catch. He cleared his throat, forcing himself to regain control. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he said, though his voice lacked the usual confidence. "We're adults here, Sera. Let's be civil about this, yes?"

She could see the nervous glint in his eyes now. He was lying. But why? Why dig into her past? Before she could press him further, he pushed something across the desk toward her. A small chip, its metallic surface glinting in the dim light. "Here. Chip this in. It's not much, but it'll keep you from starving." He followed it up with a piece of paper, sliding it across the smooth desk. His voice was flat, indifferent once again. "Your severance package. Consider it generous."

Generous? Sera stared down at the paper as if it were a death sentence. The cold, clinical detachment of it all made her stomach churn. It wasn't just the money or the fact that she was being let go—it was the way they were doing it. Like she was nothing. Expendable. Replaceable. Her boss's eyes were dull, no flicker of remorse or hesitation.

The room suddenly felt smaller, the air thicker. And then she heard it.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Her heartbeat, loud and relentless, echoed in her ears, drowning out the muffled sounds of the office. It was the same sound, the same visceral feeling she had felt the day her parents died. That awful rhythm. She could hear every hair shift on her skin, every breath she took. The office seemed to close in around her, the walls pushing closer, suffocating her. Her boss shifted uncomfortably, the faint gulp he made barely audible—but Sera heard it, clear as day.

Her eyes locked onto him, her expression hardening. She wanted to tear him apart, to rip through the lies and the bullshit that surrounded everything in this room. But something inside her shifted. She exhaled slowly, stepping back from the desk. Her fists unclenched, though her blood still boiled beneath her skin.

Without another word, she turned on her heel and headed for the door. Each step she took felt heavy, her heart still pounding in her ears. She could feel it—her blood growing colder by the second, the anger settling deep in her bones. The door slid open before her, revealing the cold, sterile hallway beyond.

As she stepped into the corridor, she didn't look back. She couldn't. The past was catching up to her, and she wasn't sure if she could outrun it this time.