Turn 8 of 11

Wait and see what Imani does with her screenshots

You turn your chair slightly away from your monitor, feigning interest in a spreadsheet, but your eyes keep drifting to Imani. She isn't typing. She’s leaning back in her chair, scrolling through her phone with a focused, neutral expression that you’ve seen her wear during quarterly budget meetings. Every few seconds, she glances at you, then at the screen, then back at her phone. You know exactly what she’s looking at: the timeline. The receipts. The proof that you’re rewriting reality one line item at a time.

At 2:14 PM, she stands up. Your stomach clenches. You expect her to head for the HR department on the third floor, or maybe straight to Ronan’s office to show him the evidence of his own tampered file. But she doesn't. She walks to the kitchenette. You watch her fill a glass of water, check her reflection in the microwave door, and then—completely casually—she takes a detour past your desk.

She drops a sticky note onto your keyboard without breaking stride. It’s bright yellow, and the handwriting is sharp and hurried. 'Ronan asked me to compile the 'pre-review documentation' for your file. He wants me to print out the current job descriptions for everyone in the department to 'get a baseline'. He doesn't know what they used to say. He just knows what they say now. We need to talk. Stairwell B. 5 mins.'

You look up, but she’s already back at her desk, staring innocently at her monitor. The sticky note sits on your F5 key, a tiny yellow bomb. Imani isn't just a passive observer anymore. If she prints the current descriptions, she validates the new reality, cementing your cheerful subordination. If she prints the old ones—or shows Ronan the screenshots—it blows the whole system open. And she’s giving you a chance to sway her before she hits 'Print'.

The 'cheerful demeanor' line pulses in your mind, urging you to smile, to thank her, to assume the best. But the ambition underneath, the real you, is screaming. You peel the note off the keyboard, crumple it into your pocket, and stand up. The stairwell is two turns and a fire door away. You have less than five minutes to convince the only person who knows the truth to either help you bury it or help you dig your way out.