“Happy…Wednesday?”

This particular day-of-week greeting doesn’t come from one of my colleagues up on the twenty-eighth floor.

First of all, I barely have any colleagues left on the twenty-eighth floor—but that’s beside the point. No, this confusing greeting comes from one of the security guys in the lobby, as Barrister, ten feet in front of me, reluctantly shows his ID.

Some people just don’t like to show ID, I guess. Some—like Barrister apparently—hate it so fucking much that they put in effort into making a show of just how much they hate it—every fucking day for a decade or more.

I’m just assuming this about Barrister, of course. I don’t usually see him in the lobby.

Today, I actively avoid him. After I watch Barrister grumble through security and board the elevator, I start making my own way through.

It’s Wednesday, just like the nervous security guard said. My brain is functioning like it’s been a very long Saturday, because it’s around then that I got my last good night’s sleep.

But it’s fucking Wednesday already. The Switzerland deadline is in two days, and I’m assuming the only thing I’ll need to have prepared is a yes or a no as my answer.

I’m also assuming the competition is happening right now, with Rosen, Barrister, and maybe Phil judging Kallie and me based on whatever fucking metrics they think are important.

If they value years of experience with hedge fund management, a verifiable history of exceptional performance, and an insane fucking work ethic that borders on the pathological, then I probably have this one in the bag.

If they don’t value any of that, then there’s a good chance Kallie has the edge.

There is very little doubt that Kallie has a very significant edge, but I’m not fucking giving up yet.

If they didn’t value me at all, I would’ve been gone by now like almost everyone else.

Although maybe they’re saving the best for last.

I’ve been showing up every day and hanging around in my office for eight hours or so, but—in a routine that’s quite fucking unnatural for me—I haven’t been doing a lick of work.

I haven’t heard from any investors recently, and I don’t remember the last time I spoke to anyone outside the firm about business.

I’m not doing shit with communication or analysis or anything besides showing up and trying in vain to sleep on my loveseat for a bit.

That hasn’t been going great either. That’s part of the reason I’m avoiding Barrister: in my sleep-deprived state, I suspect my communications skills are not in top form. Like I’m bound to start spewing crazy fucking nonsense at any fucking time.

Although that might not be much of a liability at this fucking company.

Riding up the next elevator a few minutes after Barrister, I realize that I’d be fine talking to him or to anyone.

There’s just something about this week. Maybe it’s my fatigue, or maybe it’s the strangeness of suddenly having a nearly empty office, but I’m just not into being verbal at work this week.

I’m showing up for business hours every day, but that’s about it.

That’s how I’m competing in the Switzerland competition. They know I can work, and I can bring in capital and generally kick fucking ass. What the fuck else do I have to prove in the next two fucking days?

The office is a fucking ghost town when I get there, and it’s genuinely fucking eerie.

There’s no furniture in the hallway. They even took out the fucking reception desks.

I wander to my office in a daze. My laptop and tablet are on my desk, and I leave them there. I lie back on the loveseat and close my eyes.

“Barrett!”

I actually fell asleep—it’s a springtime miracle. I’m so relieved that I don’t even care that both Barrister and Rosen are towering over me on the loveseat with their best executive glowers directed at me.

“Barrett!”

“Baaaaarrrrrrrrett!”

“Baaaaaaarrrrrrrrett!”

They’re taking turns fucking yelling at me, and I’m happy to lie here calmly as they do.

“What can I do for you, fellas?”

They do not like my calm response. In fact, they hate it so fucking much that they both stop yelling, and their faces are overcome with shades of furious burgundy.

“Are you enjoying the luxury hotel suite we’ve provided for you?” Rosen growls.

“I believe I’ve been missing out on that. That’s very generous of you, though. Now, where is that located?”

“Enough with the comedy routines, Barrett. We need your answer on the Basel contract.”

“Huh, I thought today was Wednesday. I could’ve sworn it was when I was in the lobby...how long have I been asleep? What year is it?”

“It’s the year of we’ve got no time for your smart mouth.” Rosen’s spitting his words through his teeth. I don’t think I’ve seen him quite this angry about anything.

“They can’t all be winners.”

“You still have until Friday, Barrett,” states Barrister, not showing quite the same degree of anger, but not seeming exactly thrilled with me, either. “And it’s still a competition.”

“So, I’m still in the running?” I stretch out and put my hands behind my head with a bit of cheekiness—despite the fact that that was a serious question.

“Don’t get the wrong idea, Barrett. You’re still very much in the running.” I can’t say Rosen’s tone has softened too much, but he no longer sounds quite as ready to bite my head off.

“In all seriousness, I’m a bit surprised to hear that.” Yeah, that’s probably not the smartest thing to say. But I’m honestly pretty fucking surprised.

“The competition hasn’t started yet, Barrett.”

“Hmm...so, I’d like to be honest here, gentlemen: I don’t even want to begin to speculate what that means, so if you could please enlighten me...”

“Presentation,” says Rosen.

“Presentation?”

“Presentation,” repeats Barrister.

“I’ll ask again. Presentation?”

“Each of you will present a presentation on why you’re the best candidate for this lucrative contract,” explains Barrister. “Nine a.m. on Friday.”

“Who goes first?”

“We’ll flip a coin.” Rosen’s back to spitting through his teeth, but he’s had enough after that and stomps back into the corridor, with Barrister in tow.

“Present a presentation,” I repeat softly to myself.

On one hand, it should be easy to make the case for candidacy. On the other hand, the one place where Kallie has both more experience and more success than I do is with presentations.

I don’t remember the last time I had to give a presentation, if ever.

“Present a presentation.”

I fall back asleep for a few more minutes, only for the ring on my business phone to wake me back up.

So much for not fucking working today. The next two hours are packed with calls from investors and representatives of investors, asking me if the news is true.

I don’t even ask what news they’re talking about. I just say yes, because every-fucking-thing in the world seems to be happening right now.

From these calls, I find out what’s happening my fund—the fund that I’m supposed to be fucking managing.

The fund’s winding down. It’s going to be ending gradually over the next few weeks. I deduce this from what the investors tell me, but I had nothing to do with it.

As the manager, I should be beyond fucking furious that this is happening behind my back, and I had to hear about it from sources outside the company.

Surrounded by the ghost town of what this office once was, I’m not surprised. And frankly? I don’t give a shit, either.