Turn 5 of 11

Edit Ronan's description to make him chair your review on Friday

You pull up Ronan's profile again, the pencil icon beckoning like a lit fuse. His Responsibilities section is shorter now—most of his authority has already been redistributed, scattered across the org chart in ways that probably make no sense to anyone but the system. You find a line near the bottom: 'Attends quarterly departmental reviews as a participant.' You highlight it, delete it, and type: 'Chairs Cassidy Byrne's annual performance review on Friday, with full authority to determine her rating and compensation.' The words settle into place, and the autosave spins.

The org chart flickers. Ronan's title updates again, something about 'Review Authority' now appended to his name. You feel the offset building before it arrives, a pressure behind your eyes, a sense of the system recalibrating. Your own Responsibilities section refreshes, and a new line appears: 'Accepts review outcomes without dispute and expresses sincere gratitude regardless of result.' The words are almost polite, almost kind, and that's what makes them terrifying.

You close the portal and turn to find Ronan already walking toward you, a manila folder in his hand. 'Cassidy,' he says, his voice bright with that new deference, 'I just realized I'm chairing your review on Friday. I want you to know—I'm going to make sure you get the rating you deserve.' He sets the folder on your desk. Inside, you can see a printed copy of your job description, already updated, the cheerful demeanor line and the gratitude clause both visible in crisp black text.

Imani leans over the partition between your desks, her eyes sharp. 'You're editing again,' she says. It's not a question. She holds up her phone, showing you a screenshot timeline—three images, each showing a different version of your job description from the last twenty minutes. 'I'm keeping these. In case anyone asks questions on Friday.' She doesn't smile. She's not angry either. She's just watching, documenting, the way she documents everything.

You look at the folder on your desk, at Ronan's retreating back, at Imani's phone. The system is balancing, always balancing, and every edit you make pushes the needle further. Friday is two days away, and your job description now reads like a document written by someone who wants you to succeed but also wants you to smile while you're being dismantled. The cursor on your monitor blinks, patient and ready, and you feel the pull of it again, the same pull that started all of this.