From his office on the thirty-second floor, the city below looked like a chessboard: cars moving like pieces, people reduced to tiny dots, lives far removed from his own. The room smelled of leather, polished oak, and cold conditioned air.
At fifty-three, Victor lived by strict rules: discipline, punctuality, and absolutely no tolerance for excuses.
On his desk lay a human resources report opened like a judgment. One name was circled in red, testing his patience: Ana Ramirez, janitorial staff, absent three days in a row without explanation.
“Unacceptable,” he muttered.
It wasn’t anger he felt. It was something closer to offended pride. In his world, if someone couldn’t handle basic responsibility, they didn’t deserve their job.
The decision was already made. He would fire her. Quick and professional. No emotion. Like removing a bad piece from the board.
Victor dialed the number listed in the employee file, already rehearsing the speech: responsibility, consequences, professionalism. The phone rang once. Twice.
On the third ring, someone answered.
“Daddy? Hello? Is that you?” a small, shaky voice asked.
Victor frowned.
It wasn’t a grown woman. It was a child.