Simon's Pitch

Pity is a cold, clinical emotion when it comes from the man who designed your execution. I stood in the center of Simon Kress’s glass corner office, my back to the federal agents guarding the door, and watched my mentor—my corporate father—crumble in high-definition. He wasn't the VP of Operations anymore; he was a redundant asset waiting for the final wipe.

Simon leaned against his mahogany desk, the one he’d always kept clear of clutter to maintain his "Radical Candor" aesthetic. He was sweating, a dark patch spreading across the collar of his charcoal cashmere sweater, and his slate-grey Allbirds were scuffed from the trench. He looked like a hot mess, a line of code that had encountered a logic reversal it couldn't optimize away.

"Clara," he whispered, his voice a fragmented mess of desperation. "I understood the assignment. Honestly, I did. I wasn’t trying to erase you; I was trying to save the bridge. Marcus Thorne... he's the one who wanted the physical DNA. He’s the one who Added you to the liquidation list."

I didn't amble. I stood my ground, my hands curled into fists in the pockets of my grey hoodie. The revulsion was a 10, a physical thickness in my throat that made the scent of his sandalwood cologne smell like a grave.

"You forged my signature, Simon," I said, my voice a lethal, quiet resonance. "You resurrected a version of me that had been dead for five years just to authorize the dark money transfers. You didn't save me. You used my bit-rate to fund a campaign for a man who views people as bio-waste."

Simon lunged toward me, not with violence, but with a frantic, clutching need. The marshals stepped forward, their hands on their holsters, but Simon stopped three feet away. He looked wrecked, his Travis Kelce swagger replaced by the 13th reason of a man who has run out of servers to host his ego.

"I can give you Thorne!" Simon hissed, leaning into my personal space. "The Shadow Archive... it has a backdoor. I planted it. A second vault that contains the wet-ink manifests Sarah Jenkins hid in George Town. If you testify that I was acting under duress, that I was protecting the company—protecting *you*—I can give you the CEO's head on a silver platter."

The audacity was astronomical. He still thought I was his protege. He still thought I was the "Model Employee" who would cause a spreadsheet error just to spare him the embarrassment of being human.

"Duress?" I mocked, a jagged laugh escaping my throat. "Very 'I can fix him' behavior, Simon, but look where that got me. I spent seventy-two hours in a holding cell because you chose violence against the only person who actually understood the bit-rate of your crimes."

"Clara, listen to me," he pleaded, his eyes glowing a violent, rhythmic red in the strobe light of the emergency vehicles outside. "Transitions are hard. But AgriCorp is still the only server in town. Thorne is gone, but the infrastructure remains. If you help me reconcile the ledger, if you become the state's lead validator... you won't just have your job back. You'll be the architect. You'll be Added to a Project that actually matters."

Realization is a 10. It’s the sound of the floor falling away while you're still sitting in the chair.

I looked at Simon—really looked at him—and I didn't see a father figure. I didn't even see a villain. I saw a component. A high-resolution render of a man who had optimized his own soul until there was nothing left but a series of routing instructions.

"手 (Te) in the name, Simon," I whispered, the latest viral expression feeling like a victory lap. "You missed the most important detail. You didn't train me to be an analyst. You trained me to be a virus. And a virus doesn't negotiate with the hardware."

I turned my back on him and amled toward the door. I didn't need his pitch. I didn't need his "graceful exit." I had the Shadow Archive, and the news was already breaking on every monitor in the Fishbowl.

*Breaking News: GreenSprout-AgriCorp Merger Collapses. Federal Indictments Issued for Simon Kress and Sarah Jenkins.*

"Clara!" Simon screamed behind me. "The loop isn't closed! Do you really think Version 1.0 is going to let you live her life? Look at the mirror! Tell me you're real without telling me you're guilty!"

I stopped at the threshold of the office. I pulled the small mirror—the one I’d found on my empty desk—from my pocket.

I looked at my reflection.

My face was solid. My hair was a hot mess, but it was *my* mess. The barcode in my iris was gone, replaced by the raw, expressive clarity of a woman who had finally reclaimed her design.

But then I saw it. Tucked into the frame of the mirror.

A small, white square. An AirTag.

And as the lights in the office turned a solid, bruised purple, I heard the sound of a BeReal notification popping up on every phone on the fourth floor.

*⚠️ Time to BeReal! ⚠️*

I didn't take a photo. I just looked at the screen.

The photo showed the Hub's lobby. In the foreground, a pair of sustainable Allbirds.

In the background, visible through the revolving door, was a woman stepping out into the sunlight.

She was thirty-two. She had my hair. My ojos.

She was holding a flute of champagne, and she was smiling at Tom.

But it wasn't the champagne that made my heart heart-stoppingly stop.

It was the man standing next to her, holding the camera.

He was eighty-four years old. He had my hair.

And he was holding a needle.

"手 (Te) in the name, Asset 8492," Simon’s voice crackled through my AirPods. "But you missed the most important detail. If she's the one walking out... then who just signed the final handover for your father's estate?"

I looked at the signature line on the tablet in Simon's hand.

It wasn't a digital render. It was physical paper.

And the signature was written in the reedy hand of the 2004 archive.

*Clara T. Vane.*

The middle initial. The version marker.

Every Tuesday transfer I’d validated... it hadn't been for a campaign.

It had been the bribe to keep my father in the foundation for one more year.

Simon smiled. It was the same smile he gave me when he hired me—the one that promised stability, validation, and a life that couldn't be deleted.

"Nice catch on the T, honey," Simon whispered, leaning into the intercom. "But you missed the most important detail. Look at the date on the wedding ring again."

I pulled the ring from my pocket.

The engraving didn't say Property of AgriCorp.

It showed a photograph of the sub-basement trench.

And lying at the bottom, partially covered in concrete, wasn't my mother. It wasn't my father.

It was Sarah Jenkins.

And she was holding a needle.

The handle of the office door clicked shut, and through the cracks in the render, I saw the final piece of contradictory evidence.

It was an envelope. Addressed to: *The Ghost in My Chair.*

Inside was a photograph of the Dayton backyard.

My father was at the grill. My mother was on the swing.

And sitting on the porch, holding a camera, was me.

Exactly as I look now.

But I was holding a shovel.

And the girl on the swing was screaming.

The steps stopped outside the door, and the handle began to turn.