Chapter 5: Last Supper, Layoff Style

He put away the IOU, patted my shoulder, and said with a grin, "You really should thank me. If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t have gone to The Melting Pot and gotten that tenfold compensation."

The audacity was staggering. He actually believed he deserved credit for my misfortune. He winked like we were in on a secret together.

I smiled. "Then I really should thank you."

I managed to keep my tone even, but it was all I could do not to roll my eyes.

He replied, "You can treat me to another meal to thank me."

He said it lightly, as if we were old friends. I just kept my lips pressed together, refusing to take the bait.

As soon as the word "treat" came up, the other coworkers who’d been egging me on got excited. They perked up, circling like sharks at a pool party. I swear, some people live for free food.

They all told me not to be stingy. "You got the money for nothing, so why not share the joy? Treat everyone to another meal—maybe you’ll get lucky again and get another tenfold payout! Wouldn’t that be great?"

Someone actually pulled out their phone to Google group discounts, already planning the next outing. The whole thing was surreal.

I looked at them quietly. Their faces blurred into a single, hungry crowd. Not one of them saw how tired I was, how badly I needed the win.

Eat again? The thought made my stomach churn. I didn’t need another round of forced fun, not with this crew.

I was afraid it would be a farewell dinner. My gut told me the next meal would be less celebration, more last supper. I wasn’t about to bankroll my own sendoff.

I ignored them. By then, the boss had come out and entered the conference room. His presence changed the mood instantly. People shuffled into the meeting, whispering behind their hands.

Everyone hurried in for the meeting, while I finished organizing the layoff list and put my coworker’s name back on—the one I’d just erased. It felt like poetic justice. He’d written his own pink slip, and I was just signing it for him.

He said it himself: even brothers square up. I let his words echo in my head. He wanted everything by the book. Fine—he’d get it.

If we’re all about fairness, let’s see who really gets what they deserve.

Once everyone was seated, the boss said, "I’ll be straight with you. The economy’s rough. Headquarters ordered layoffs. Originally, fifty were to go, but you’re all like family to me. After my efforts, HQ agreed to just thirty."

He put on his best sympathetic face, hands folded like a preacher at a funeral. I could see the calculation in his eyes—he was loving every second of his performance.

I had to stifle a laugh. I bit my tongue, picturing the email from HQ that morning. Thirty cuts, not fifty. The boss just needed to play hero for the crowd.

Headquarters only ever planned to cut thirty. The boss was just putting on a show to look like the hero. He was a pro at this kind of theater, milking the moment for all it was worth.

He’d even given me a layoff list of over sixty names, telling me to pick thirty. He didn’t want to get his hands dirty, so he let me be the executioner. I’d spent days pouring over the names, feeling every ounce of guilt he avoided.

But I played along, keeping a straight face. If you can’t beat the system, sometimes you just have to work within it—at least until you can change your own fate.

His announcement made everyone uneasy. The tension in the room was thick enough to slice with a plastic knife. People shifted in their seats, whispering anxiously.

My coworker blurted, "Boss, when will the layoffs happen?"

He shot the question out before anyone else could. He always wanted to be the one in the know, the first to react.

"Today. Starting today, thirty coworkers will leave us. But even after you go, we’re still friends. I wish you all the best," the boss said.

He said it with the gravitas of a TV anchor, but there was no warmth behind it—just relief that it wasn’t his job on the line.

The room went silent, everyone gasping. A collective intake of breath. Some folks gripped the arms of their chairs like they were about to ride a rollercoaster.

The boss continued, "I know you’re all thinking of working extra hard now, but it’s too late. The investigation’s already done. We’ve been monitoring for a month. Today, a specialist will contact you to discuss severance. That’s all."

The word "monitoring" sent a chill through the room. Everyone wondered if they’d been caught doing something they shouldn’t.

With that, he left—clearly wanting no part in the fallout—leaving everyone staring at each other. He ducked out so fast, you’d think the building was on fire. I almost admired his commitment to avoidance.

Everyone was anxious, fearing they’d be next. You could hear the anxiety in the way people whispered and shuffled their papers. Some clutched their phones like lifelines.

People rushed to HR, but HR was just as clueless, only learning of the layoffs now. HR’s faces said it all—shock, confusion, irritation. One of them mouthed "WTF" at me as the crowd stormed their desks.

Where HR is experienced, corruption is easy, so headquarters wanted the boss to handle the list directly—even some HR staff were on the chopping block. No one was safe—not even the people usually holding the axe.

In this tense atmosphere, people even suspected the layoff specialist might be sitting right next to them. Everyone eyed each other warily. Trust evaporated in seconds. Suddenly, every coworker was a potential executioner.

Unlike everyone else, my coworker was unfazed. He stretched and said, "Meeting’s over, back to work."

He leaned back, arms behind his head, like he was above it all. It was almost impressive—the level of denial.

Someone asked, surprised, why he wasn’t worried. Was he the specialist? The question hung in the air, drawing nervous chuckles. He just smiled wider.

He laughed, "Of course not. But who’d dare lay me off? My severance would be over a hundred grand, and I’ve always done my job well. There’s no reason to fire me."

He puffed out his chest, basking in his own invincibility. I had to stop myself from rolling my eyes.

I kept my face blank. Let him have his moment. The truth would land soon enough. He wouldn’t get a cent—he hadn’t done his own work in years, farming it out to a student. All he’d face was a pink slip and a lawsuit.

I pictured him in court, trying to explain his scheme to a judge. Justice might be slow, but it was coming for him.