MK parked outside the house and sat there longer than necessary.
The engine ticked softly as it cooled, the sound grounding her. This place had always been her anchor —
She took a breath, squared her shoulders, and stepped out.
The door opened before she could knock.
"There you are," her mother said, already pulling her into a hug. "You've lost weight."
"I'm offended you noticed," MK replied, grinning as she hugged her back.
Inside, everything smelled like home — warm food, detergent, and something faintly sweet that always reminded MK of childhood. Her nephew drifted in and out of the room, stealing snacks, throwing comments over his shoulders.
"So," her nephew said, leaning against the counter, "are you finally rich enough to buy me an electric bike?"
MK laughed. "I just lost my job. Lower your expectations."
Her mother shot her a look. "You didn't lose it. You left."
MK raised an eyebrow. "That's one way to rewrite history."
They laughed. It was easy. Too easy.
They talked about neighbors, about a cousin who'd gotten engaged for the third time, about the price of groceries. MK joked, teased, exaggerated her boredom. She was careful — painfully careful — never to let the conversation drift too close to anything real.
No one asked about work beyond polite curiosity.
No one asked why she was home on a weekday.
And no one — not once — mentioned her having a girlfriend.
MK noticed.
She watched their faces closely, waiting for hesitation, judgment, something.
Nothing came.
By the time dessert was cleared, she had reached a conclusion that both relieved and unsettled her.
They don't know.
Maybe someone at work hadn't leaked it yet. Maybe the rumor mill hadn't reached this far. Or maybe they did know and were choosing silence.
Either way, MK let it be.
She wasn't ready for that conversation. Not today.
When she hugged her mother goodbye, the woman squeezed her a little tighter than usual.
"Come around more," she said softly.
"I will," MK promised.
And she meant it.
---
Across the city, Shriya was stripping a company down to its bones.
Not loudly.
Not recklessly.
Piece by piece.
The first call went out just after noon.
"Freeze the secondary accounts," Shriya said calmly, pacing the private room. "Not the main ones. I want confusion before panic."
Keys clicked. Screens refreshed.
"Done."
"Good. Now leak the internal audit report — anonymously. Highlight inconsistencies. Nothing dramatic. Let them think it's a mistake."
A pause.
"Sent."
Shriya stopped pacing and leaned her hands on the table.
"Next," she continued, "contact the investors. Quietly. One by one. I want them asking questions before the board even knows there's a problem."
A woman across from her smirked. "What if they pull out?"
"They won't," Shriya replied. "Not yet. Fear works better when it's slow."
Minutes turned into hours.
The board members' emails flooded in — confusion layered with irritation. Financial officers demanded explanations they didn't yet have. Meetings were scheduled, canceled, rescheduled again.
By late afternoon, the company's internal chat channels were on fire.
Why are payments delayed?
Who authorized this audit?
Why weren't we informed?
Shriya watched it all unfold on a massive screen.
"Now," she said softly, "we remind them of their own rules."
Files appeared — policies buried deep in contracts, clauses never meant to be tested. Discrimination language. Morality codes twisted and outdated. Internal communications where board members had used those same clauses selectively, conveniently.
"Draft a legal notice," Shriya instructed. "Not aggressive. Polite. Professional. Let them know someone is watching."
Someone laughed quietly. "You're enjoying this."
"No," Shriya said, eyes never leaving the screen. "I'm correcting a mistake."
---
Few days later, the company's stock had dipped just enough to be noticed.
Not enough to cause alarm.
Enough to cause phone calls.
One board member called another.
Another called legal.
Legal called external consultants.
No one slept well at night.
And none of them knew why.
---
Shriya finally sat down, exhaustion settling into her shoulders. She pulled out her phone, rereading MK's earlier messages — the casual tone, the warmth, the way she trusted without knowing.
"I'll give it back to you," Shriya whispered to herself.
Not just the job.
The dignity.
The safety.
The certainty that loving someone would never cost her everything again.
Outside, the city carried on — unaware that a company was quietly collapsing under the weight of its own choices.
And this was only the beginning.