#audit tracking system

[sharedocsdms]

The Future of Accounts Payable and Receivable Automation in India

In today’s fast-paced business environment, financial transactions must be handled efficiently to maintain cash flow and profitability. Companies are rapidly shifting towards digital solutions to optimize their financial operations. Accounts payable automation in India is revolutionizing how businesses manage their outgoing payments, ensuring accuracy, compliance, and seamless processing. Likewise, accounts receivable automation in India is helping organizations streamline invoicing, payment collection, and reconciliation, reducing manual errors and delays.

The Rise of Financial Services Automation in India

As industries expand and transactions increase, traditional manual financial processes become inefficient and error-prone. This has led to a surge in demand for financial services automation in India. Businesses across sectors are embracing automation to improve efficiency, enhance compliance, and minimize risks. Automated financial workflows not only speed up payment cycles but also provide real-time visibility into transactions, ensuring better decision-making.

Key Benefits of Accounts Payable and Receivable Automation

1. Enhanced Efficiency and Speed

Automation eliminates repetitive tasks, reducing the time spent on invoice processing and payment approvals. Companies using accounts payable automation in India can process invoices swiftly and avoid late payment penalties.

2. Error Reduction and Compliance

Manual data entry often results in miscalculations and compliance issues. With accounts receivable automation in India, businesses can ensure accurate billing, automated reminders, and error-free financial records.

3. Improved Cash Flow Management

By automating accounts payable and receivable functions, businesses can maintain a healthy cash flow, avoid bottlenecks, and ensure timely payments and collections.

4. Fraud Prevention and Security

Automation software comes with built-in security features that protect businesses from fraud, unauthorized access, and financial discrepancies.

Choosing the Right Accounts Payable and Receivable Automation Software

Selecting a reliable Accounts Payable Receivable Automation Software Company is crucial for businesses looking to modernize their financial operations. A good software provider offers features such as AI-powered invoice processing, automated reconciliation, seamless integration with ERP systems, and real-time reporting. Investing in the right automation solution ensures long-term financial efficiency and business growth.

Conclusion

The demand for accounts payable automation in India and accounts receivable automation in India is growing as businesses recognize the advantages of financial digital transformation. Partnering with a top Accounts Payable Receivable Automation Software Company can help organizations achieve operational excellence, reduce costs, and improve financial accuracy. Embracing financial services automation in India is no longer a choice but a necessity for companies looking to stay ahead in the competitive market.

If your business is looking for a seamless transition to automated financial processes, now is the time to explore cutting-edge solutions and take a step towards financial excellence!

[bitchfitch]

Do y'all ever see a post that just like. Haunts you forever? And which consistently comes back up when you're trying to get to sleep

Anyways, if you do comms the whole "2+ characters in a single piece costs less than if they were bought as separate commissions" thing Isn't supposed to be a buy one get one x% off type situation.

Your commission prices should be accounting for the time you spend communicating with the client, the time you spend on file storage and prep, and the time it takes to properly document your communications and the transaction. Those things all take time and it Really adds up when you do enough comms. And the time they take? doesn't usually change much based on the number of characters.

That's why the second, third, etc, character can cost less. Not because you're giving a discount. Right. Right? Y'all aren't cutting yourself a bad deal, right? You're Not paying yourself less than an exploitative boss would pay you for that time and skilled labor, right?

[flowrocket2025]

https://flowrocket.com/finance

[alwajeeztech]

Documents Library in ALZERP Cloud ERP Software

Key Features of the Documents Library

Automatic Document Uploads: Documents from various ERP modules, such as sales, purchase, vouchers, and employee transactions, are automatically added to the library.

Document Conversion: Image files are automatically converted to PDF format for universal compatibility.

Advanced Search: Easily find documents by date, number, type, or other criteria.

Multiple File Actions: Download single files or merge multiple PDFs for streamlined access.

Document Organization: Categorize documents into folders for better organization and retrieval.

Document Security: Ensure secure storage and access control for sensitive documents.

[abbotjack]

Irregularities

LIFE WE GREW SERIES MASTERLIST <3

summary : A federal audit brings a sharp, brilliant compliance officer face-to-face with Jack Abbot, a rule-breaking trauma doctor running a shadow supply system to keep his ER alive. What starts as a confrontation becomes an alliance and the two of them fall in love in the messiest, most human way possible.

word count : 13,529

warnings/content : 18+ MDNI !!! explicit language, medical trauma, workplace stress, injury description, mention of child patient death, grief processing, alcohol use, explicit sex, hospital politics, emotionally repressed older man, emotionally competent younger woman, mutual pining, slow-burn romance, power imbalance (non-hierarchical), injury while drunk, trauma bay realism, swearing, one (1) marriage proposal during sex

Tuesday – 8:00 AM Allegheny General Hospital – Lower Admin Wing

Hospitals don’t go quiet.

Not really.

Even here—three floors above the trauma bay and two glass doors removed from the chaos—there’s still the buzz of fluorescent lights, the hiss of a printer warming up, the rhythm of a city-sized machine trying to look composed. But this floor is different. It's where the noise is paperwork, and the blood is financial.

You walk like you belong here, because that’s half the job.

Navy slacks, pressed. Ivory blouse, tucked. The black wool coat draped over your arm has been folded just so, its lapel still holding the shape of your shoulder from the bus ride over. Your shoes are silent, soft-soled—conservative enough to say I’m not here to threaten you, but pointed enough to remind them that you could. Lanyard clipped at your sternum. A pen looped into the coil of your ledger notebook. A steel travel mug in one hand.

The other grips the strap of a leather bag, weighed down with printed ledgers and a half-dozen highlighters—color-coded in a way no one but you understands.

The badge clipped to your shirt flashes with every turn:

Kane & Turner LLP : Federal Compliance Division

Your name, printed clean in black sans serif.

That’s the only thing you say as you approach the front desk—your name. You don’t need to say why you’re here. They already know.

You’re the audit. The walk, the clothes, the quiet. It’s all part of the package. You’ve learned that you don’t need to act intimidating—people project the fear themselves.

“Finance conference room’s down the left hallway,” says the woman behind the desk, not bothering to smile. She’s polite, but brisk—like she’s been told to expect you and is already counting the minutes until you’re gone. “Security badge should be active ‘til five. If you need extra time, check with admin operations.”

You nod. “Thanks.”

They always act like audits come unannounced. But they don’t. You gave them notice. Ten days. Standard protocol. The federal grant in question flagged during the quarterly compliance sweep—a mismatch between trauma unit expenditures and the itemized supply orders. Enough of a discrepancy that your firm sent someone in person.

That someone is you.

You push the door open to the designated conference room and are hit with the familiar scent of institutional lemon cleaner and cold laminate tables. One wall is floor-to-ceiling windows, facing the opposite hospital wing; the rest is sterile whiteboard and cheap drop ceiling. Someone left two water bottles and a packet of hospital-branded pens on the table. The air is too cold.

Good. You work better like that.

You slide into the seat furthest from the door and start unpacking: first the laptop, then the binder of flagged ledgers, then a manila folder marked ER SUPPLY – FY20 in your handwriting. You open it flat and smooth the corners, spreading it across the table like a map. You don’t need directions. You’re here to track footprints.

Most audits feel bloated. Fraud is rarely elegant. It’s padded hours, made-up patients, vendors that don’t exist. But this one is… off. Not obviously criminal. Just messy.

You sip the lukewarm coffee you poured in the break room—burnt, stale, and still the best part of your morning—and begin.

Line by line.

February 12th: Gauze and blood bags double-logged under pediatrics.

March 3rd: 16 units of epinephrine marked as “routine use” with no corresponding case.

April 8th: High-volume saline usage with no corresponding trauma log.

None of it makes sense until you hit the May file.

May 17th.

Your finger stills over the page. A flagged case code—4413A—a GSW patient brought in at 02:11AM, code blue on arrival. The trauma bay requisition log is blank. Completely empty. No gauze. No sutures. No chest tube. Not even surgical gloves.

Instead, the corresponding supply usage appears—wrong date, wrong bay, under the general medicine supply closet three doors down. The only signature?

J. Abbot.

You sit back in your chair, eyes narrowing.

It’s not the first time his name has come up. You flip through past logs, then again through the April folder. There he is again. Trauma-level supplies signed under incorrect departments. Equipment routed through pediatrics. Trauma kit requests stamped urgent but logged under outpatient codes.

Never outrageous. Never duplicated. But always… altered. Shifted.

And always the same name in the bottom corner.

Jack Abbot Trauma Attending.

No initials after the name. No pomp. Just that hard, slanted signature—like someone in too much of a hurry to care if the pen worked properly.

You lean forward again, grabbing a sticky note.

Who the hell are you, Jack Abbot?

Your phone buzzes. A reminder that your firm expects an initial report by EOD. You check your watch—8:58 AM. Still early. You’ve got time to dig before anyone notices you’re not just sitting quietly in the background.

You open your laptop and search the internal directory.

ABBOT, JACK. Emergency Medicine, Trauma Center – Full Time Contact : j.abbot@aghosp.org Page: 3371

You hover over the extension.

Then you close the tab.

There are two ways to handle something like this. You can go the formal route—submit a flagged incident for admin review, request clarification via email, cc your firm. Or...

You can go see what the hell kind of doctor signs off on trauma supplies like they’re water and lies to the system to get away with it.

You stand.

Your shoes are soundless against the tile.

Time to meet the man behind the margins.

Tuesday — 9:07 AM Allegheny General Hospital – Emergency Wing, Sublevel One

You don’t belong here, and the walls know it.

The ER hums like a living organism—loud in the places you expect to be quiet, and disturbingly quiet in the places that should scream. No signage tells you where to go, just a worn plastic placard labeled “TRAUMA — RESTRICTED ACCESS” and an old red arrow. You follow it anyway.

Your heels click once. Then again.

A tech throws you a sideways glance. A nurse barrels past with a tray of tubing and a strip of ECG printouts clutched in her fist. You flatten yourself against the wall. Keep moving.

This isn't the world of emails and boardrooms and fluorescent-lit compliance briefings. Here, time is blood. Everything moves too fast, too loud, too hot. It smells like antiseptic and old sweat. Somewhere nearby, a man is moaning—low, ragged. In another room, someone shouts for a Glidescope.

You don’t flinch. You’ve sat across from CEOs getting indicted. But still—this is not your battlefield.

You square your shoulders anyway and head for the nurse’s station, guided by the pulsing anxiety of your purpose. The folder tucked against your ribs is thick with numbers. Itemized trauma inventory. Improper codes. Unexplained cross-departmental requisitions. And one name—over and over again.

J. Abbot.

You stop at the cluttered, overrun desk where five nurses and two interns are trying to share a single charting terminal. Dana Evans, Charge Nurse, gives you a look like she’s been warned someone like you might show up.

“You lost?” she asks, not unkind, but sharp around the edges.

“I’m here for Dr. Abbot. I’m conducting an internal audit—grant oversight tied to the ER trauma budget.”

Dana lets out a soft, near-silent laugh through her nose. “Oh. You.”

“Excuse me?”

“No offense, but we’ve been placing bets on how long you’d last down here. My money was on ten minutes. The med student said eight.”

“I’ve been here twelve.”

She cocks a brow. “Well. You just made someone ten bucks. He’s at the back bay, not supposed to be here this morning—double-covered someone’s shift. Lucky you.”

That last part catches your attention.

“Why is he covering?”

Dana shrugs, but her expression flickers—tight, guarded. “He’s not supposed to be. Got a call about a kid he used to mentor—resident from one of his old programs. Car wreck on Sunday. Jack’s been pacing ever since. Showed up before sunrise. Said he couldn’t sleep.”

You blink.

“You’re telling me he—”

“Hasn’t slept, probably hasn’t eaten, definitely hasn’t had a civil conversation since Saturday? Yeah. That’s about right.”

You process it. Nod once. “Thank you.”

She grins. “You’re brave. Not smart. But brave.”

You leave her laughing behind you.

The trauma wing proper is a maze of curtained bays and rushed movement. You keep scanning every ID badge, every profile, looking for something—until you see him.

Back turned. Clipboard under his elbow, talking to someone too quietly for you to hear. He’s taller than you’d imagined—broad in the shoulders, but tired in the way his weight shifts unevenly from one leg to the other. One knee flexes, absorbs. The other does not.

You recognize it now.

You walk up and stop a respectful foot behind.

“Dr. Abbot?”

He doesn’t turn at first. Just adjusts the pen behind his ear, flicks a switch on the vitals monitor. Then:

“Yeah.”

He looks over his shoulder, sees you, and stills.

His face is older than his file photo. Harder. Faint stubble across his jaw, a constellation of stress lines under his eyes that no amount of sleep could erase. His black scrub top is creased at the collar, short sleeves revealing tan forearms mapped with faded scars and the pale ghost of a long-healed burn.

You catch your breath—not because he’s handsome, though he is. But because he’s real. Grounded. And already deciding what box to put you in.

You lift your badge. “I’m with Kane & Turner. I’m conducting a trauma budget audit for the grant you’re listed under. I’d like to go over some of your logs.”

He stares at you.

Long enough to make it feel intentional.

“Now?”

“I was told you were available.”

He huffs out a laugh, if you can call it that—dry and crooked, more breath than sound. “Jesus Christ. Yeah. I’m sure that’s what Dana said.”

“She said you came in before sunrise.”

Jack doesn’t look at you. Just scratches once at his jaw, where the stubble’s gone patchy, then drops his hand again like the gesture annoyed him. “Didn’t plan to be here. Wasn’t on the board.”

A beat. Then: “Got a call Sunday night. One of my old residents—kid from back in Boston. Wrapped his car around a guardrail. I don’t know if he fell asleep or if he meant to do it. Doesn’t matter, I guess. He died on impact.”

His voice doesn’t shift. Not even a flicker. Just calm, like he’s reading it off a report. But his fingers twitch once at his side, and he’s standing too still, like if he moves the wrong way, he might break something in himself.

“I’ve been up since,” he adds, almost like an afterthought. “Figured I’d do something useful.”

You hesitate. “I’m sorry.”

He finally looks at you, and the hollow behind his eyes is like a door left open too long in winter. “Don’t be. He’s the one who didn’t walk away.”

A beat of silence.

“I won’t take much of your time,” you say. “But there are significant inconsistencies in your logs. Some dating back six months. Most from May. Including—”

“Let me guess,” he interrupts. “May 17th. GSW. Bay One unavailable. Used the peds closet. Logged under the wrong department. Didn’t have time to clear it before I scrubbed in. End of story.”

You blink. “That’s not exactly—”

“You want a confession? Fine. I logged shit wrong. I do it all the time. I make it fit the bill codes that get supplies restocked fastest, not the ones that make sense to people sitting upstairs.”

Your mouth opens. Closes.

Jack turns to face you fully now, arms crossed. “You ever had a mother screaming in your face because her kid’s pressure dropped and you’re still waiting for a sterile suction kit to come up from Central?”

You shake your head.

“Didn’t think so.”

“I understand it’s difficult, but that doesn’t make it right—”

“I’m not here to be right,” he says flatly. “I’m here to make sure people don’t die waiting for tape and tubing.”

He steps closer, voice quieter now.

“You think the system’s built for this place? It’s not. It’s built for billing departments and insurance adjusters. I’m just bending it so the next teenager doesn’t bleed out on a gurney because the ER spent two hours requesting sterile gauze through the proper channel.”

You’re trying to hold your ground, but something in you wavers. Just slightly.

“This isn’t about money,” you say, though your voice softens. “It’s about transparency. The federal grant is under review. If they pull it, it’s not just your supplies—it’s salaries. Nurses. Fellowships. You could cost this hospital everything.”

Jack exhales hard through his nose. Looks at you like he wants to say a hundred things and doesn’t have the energy for one.

“You ever been in a position,” he murmurs, “where the right thing and the possible thing weren’t the same thing?”

You say nothing.

Because you’ve built a life doing the former.

And he’s built one surviving the latter.

“I’ll be in the charting room in twenty,” he says, already turning away. “If you want to see what this looks like up close, you’re welcome to follow.”

Before you can answer, someone shouts his name—loud, urgent.

He bolts toward the trauma bay before the syllables finish echoing.

And you’re left standing there, folder pressed to your chest, heart hammering in a way that has nothing to do with ethics and everything to do with him.

Jack Abbot.

A man who rewrites the rules not because he doesn’t care—

But because he cares too much to follow them.

Tuesday — 9:24 AM Allegheny General – Trauma Bay 2

You were not trained for this.

No part of your CPA license, your MBA electives, or your federal compliance onboarding prepared you for what it means to step inside a trauma bay mid-resuscitation.

But you do it anyway.

He told you to follow, and you did. Not because you’re scared of him—but because something in his voice made you want to understand him. Dissect the logic beneath the defiance. And because you're not the kind of woman who lets someone walk away thinking they’ve won a conversation just because they can bark louder.

So now here you are, standing just past the curtain, audit folder pressed against your chest like armor, trying not to breathe too shallow in case it looks like you’re afraid.

It’s loud. Then silent. Then louder.

A man lies on the table, unconscious. Twenty-five, maybe thirty. Jeans cut open, a ragged wound in his left thigh leaking bright arterial blood. A nurse swears under her breath. The EKG monitor screams. A resident drops a tray of gauze on the floor.

You don’t step back.

Jack Abbot is already at the man’s side.

His hands move like they’re ahead of his thoughts. No hesitation. No consulting a textbook. He pulls a sterile clamp from a drawer, presses it to the wound, and shouts for suction before the blood can pool down the table leg. The team forms around him like satellites to a planet. He doesn't yell. He commands. Low-voiced. Urgent. Controlled.

“Clamp there,” Jack says, to a stunned-looking intern. “No, firmer. This isn’t a prom date.”

You stifle a snort—barely. No one else even reacts.

The nurse closest to him says, “BP’s crashing.”

“Pressure bag’s up?”

“In use.”

“Give me a second one, now. And call blood bank—we’re skipping crossmatch. Type O, two units.”

You shift your weight quietly, moving two inches left so you’re out of the path of the incoming trauma cart. It bumps your hip. You don’t flinch.

He glances up. Sees you still standing there.

“You sure you want to be here?” he asks, not pausing. “It’s not exactly OSHA compliant.”

You meet his eyes evenly.

“You invited me, remember?”

He blinks once, but says nothing.

The monitor screams again. Jack lowers his head, muttering something you don’t catch. Then, to the nurse: “We’re not getting return. I need to open.”

“You want to crack here?” she asks. “We’re two minutes from OR three—”

“We don’t have two minutes.”

The tray arrives. Jack snaps on a new pair of gloves. You glance down and catch the gleam of something inside him—a steel that wasn’t there in the hallway.

This man is exhausted. Unshaven. Probably hasn't eaten in twelve hours. And yet every move he makes now is poetry. Violent, beautiful poetry. He’s not a man anymore—he’s a scalpel. A weapon for something bigger than him.

And still, you stay.

You even speak.

“If you’re going to override a standard OR protocol in front of a compliance officer,” you say calmly, “you might want to narrate it for the notes.”

The entire room freezes for half a second.

Jack looks up at you—truly looks—and his mouth twitches. Not a smile. Something older. A flicker of amusement under pressure.

“You’re a piece of work,” he mutters, turning back to the table. “Sternotomy tray. Now.”

You watch.

He cuts.

The man survives.

And you’re left trying to hold onto the version of him you built in your head when you walked through those double doors—the reckless trauma doctor who flouts policy and falsifies entries like he’s above the rules.

But he’s not above them.

He’s beneath them. Holding them up from below.

Twenty-three minutes later, he’s stripping off his gloves and washing his hands at a sink just past the trauma bays. The blood spirals down the drain in rust-colored ribbons. His jaw is clenched. His shoulders sag.

You step closer. No fear. No folder to hide behind now—just your voice.

“I don’t know what you think I’m doing here,” you say quietly, “but I’m not your enemy.”

Jack doesn’t look up.

“You’re wearing a suit,” he says. “You carry a clipboard. You track numbers like they tell the whole story.”

“I track truth,” you correct. “Which is a lot harder to pin down when you hide things in pediatric line items.”

He turns. That gets his attention.

“Is that what you think I’m doing? Hiding things?”

“I think you’re manipulating a fragile system to serve your own triage priorities. I think you’re smart enough to know how to avoid audit flags. And I think you’re exhausted enough not to care if it lands you in disciplinary review.”

His laugh is dry and joyless.

“You know what lands me in disciplinary review? Not spending thirty bucks of saline because a man didn’t bleed on the right fucking floor.”

“I know,” you say. “I watched you save someone who wasn’t supposed to make it past intake.”

Jack pauses.

And for the first time, you see it: a beat of surprise. Not in your observation, but in your acknowledgment.

“Then why are you still pushing?”

“Because I can’t fix what I don’t understand. And right now? You’re not giving me a goddamn thing to work with.”

A long silence stretches.

The sink drips.

You fold your arms. “If you want me to report accurately, show me what’s behind the curtain. The real system. Your system.”

Jack watches you carefully. His brow furrows. You wonder if anyone’s ever said that to him before—Let me see the whole thing. I won’t flinch.

“Follow me,” he says at last.

And then he walks. Not fast. Not trying to shake you. Just steady steps down the hallway. Past curtain 6. Past the empty crash cart. To a supply room you didn’t even know existed.

You follow.

Because that’s the deal now. He shows you what he’s built in the margins, and you decide whether to burn it down.

Or defend it.

Tuesday — 10:02 AM Allegheny General – Sublevel 1, Unmapped Storage Room

The hallway leading there isn’t on the public map. It’s narrower than it should be, dimmer too, the kind of corridor that exists between structural beams and budget approvals. You follow him past the trauma bay, past the marked charting alcove, past a metal door you wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t stopped.

Jack pulls a key from the lanyard tucked in his back pocket. Not a swipe badge—a key. Real, metal, old. He unlocks the door with a twist and a grunt.

Inside, fluorescent light hums awake overhead. The bulb stutters once, then holds.

And you freeze.

It’s a supply closet—but only in name. It’s his war room.

The room is narrow but deep, lined wall-to-wall with shelves of restocked trauma kits, expired saline bags labeled “STILL USABLE” in black Sharpie, drawers of unlabeled syringes, taped-up binders, folders with handwritten tabs. No digital interface. No hospital barcodes. No asset tags.

There’s a folding chair in the corner. A coffee mug half-full of pens. A cracked whiteboard with a grid system that only he could understand. The air smells like latex, ink, and whatever disinfectant they stopped ordering five fiscal quarters ago.

You take a breath. Step in. Close the door behind you.

He watches you like he expects you to flinch.

You don’t.

Jack leans a shoulder against the far wall, arms crossed, one leg bent to rest his boot against the floorboard behind him. The right leg. The prosthesis. You clock the adjustment without reacting. He notices that you notice—and doesn’t look away.

“This is off-grid,” he says finally. “No admin approval. No inventory code. No audit trail.”

You walk deeper into the room. Run your fingers along the edge of a file labeled: ALT REORDER ROUTES – Q2 / MANUAL ONLY / DO NOT SCAN

“You’ve built a shadow system,” you say.

“I built a system that works,” he corrects.

You turn. “This is fraud.”

He snorts. “It’s survival.”

“I’m serious, Abbot. This is full-blown liability. You’re rerouting federal grant stock using pediatric codes. You’re bypassing restock thresholds. You’re personally signing off on requisitions under miscategorized departments—”

“And you’re here with a folder and a badge acting like your spreadsheet saves more lives than a clamp and a peds line that actually shows up.”

Silence.

But it’s not silence. Not really.

There’s a hum between you now. Not quite anger. Not admiration either. Something in between. Something volatile.

You raise your chin. “I’m not here to be impressed.”

“Good. I’m not trying to impress you.”

“Then why show me this?”

“Because you kept your eyes open in the trauma bay,” he says. “You didn’t faint. You didn’t cry. You watched me crack a man’s chest open in real time, and instead of hiding behind a chart, you asked me to narrate the procedure.”

You blink. Once. “So that was a test?”

“That was a Tuesday.”

You glance around the room again.

There are labels that don’t match any official inventory records you’ve seen. Bin codes that don’t belong to any department. You pull a clipboard from the wall and flip through it—one page, then another. All hand-tracked inventory numbers. Dated. Annotated. Jack’s handwriting is messy but consistent. He’s been doing this for years.

Years.

And no one’s stopped him.

Or helped.

“Do they know?” you ask. “Admin. Robinavitch. Evans. Anyone?”

Jack leans his head back against the wall. “They know something’s off. But as long as the board meetings stay quiet and the trauma bay doesn’t run dry, no one goes looking. And if someone does, well…” He gestures to the room. “They find nothing.”

“You hide it this well?”

“I’m not stupid.”

You pause. “Then why let me see it?”

Jack looks at you.

Not quickly. Not dramatically. Just slowly. Like he’s finally weighing you honestly.

“Because you’re not like the others they’ve sent before. The last one tried to threaten me with a suspension. You walked into a trauma bay in heels and told me to log my chaos in real-time.”

You smirk. “It is hard to argue with a woman holding a clipboard and a minor God complex.”

He chuckles. “You should see me with a chest tube and a caffeine withdrawal.”

You flip another page.

“You’ve been routing orders through departments that don’t even realize they’re losing inventory.”

“Because I return what I borrow before they notice. I run double restocks through the night shift when the scanner’s offline. I update storage rooms myself. No one’s ever missed a needle they weren’t expecting.”

You shake your head. “This is a house of cards.”

Jack shrugs. “And yet it holds.”

“But for how long?”

Now you’re the one who steps forward. You plant yourself in front of the table and open your binder. Click your pen.

“I can’t pretend this doesn’t exist. If I report this exactly as it is, the grant’s pulled. You’re fired. This hospital goes under federal review for misappropriation of trauma funds.”

He doesn’t blink. “Then do it.”

You stare at him. “What?”

He steps off the wall now, closes the space between you like it’s nothing.

“I’ve survived worse,” he says. “You think this job is about safety? It’s not. It’s about how long you can keep other people alive before the system kills you too.”

You inhale, hard. “God, you’re dramatic.”

He smirks. “And you’re stubborn.”

“Because I don’t want to bury you in a report. I want to fix the goddamn machine before someone else gets chewed up in it.”

Jack stares at you.

The flicker of something new in his expression.

Respect.

“Then help me,” you say. “Let me draft a compliance framework that mirrors what you’ve built. A real one. If we can prove this routing saved lives, reduced downtime, and didn’t drain pediatric inventory, we can pitch it as an emergency operations protocol, not fraud.”

His brows lift, skeptical. “You think they’ll buy that?”

“No,” you say. “But I’m not giving them the choice. I’m giving them math.”

That gets him.

He grins. Barely. But it’s real.

“God,” he mutters. “You’re a menace.”

“You’re welcome.”

He turns away to hide the grin, but not before you catch the edge of it.

And then—quietly—he reaches for a file at the back of the shelf. It’s older. Faded. Taped up the side. He places it in your hands.

“What’s this?” you ask.

“The first reroute I ever filed. Back in 2017. Kid named Miguel. We were out of blood bags. I had a connection with the OR nurse who owed me a favor. Rerouted it through post-op. Saved the kid’s life. Never logged it.”

You glance down at the file. “You kept it?”

“I keep all of them.”

He meets your eyes again.

“You’re not here to bury me. Fine. But if you’re going to save me, do it right.”

You nod.

“I always do.”

Tuesday — 12:23 PM Allegheny General – Third Floor Charting Alcove

There’s no door to the alcove. Just a half-wall and a partition, like someone once tried to offer privacy and gave up halfway through. There’s a long desk, a broken rolling chair, two non-matching stools, and a stack of patient folders leaning so far left you half expect them to fall. The overhead light buzzes faintly, casting everything in pale hospital yellow.

You sit at the desk anyway.

Jacket folded over the back of the stool, sleeves pushed to your elbows, fingers already flying across the keyboard of your laptop. You’re building fast but clean. Sharp lines. Conditional formatting. A crisis-routing framework that looks like it was written by a task force, not two people who met five hours ago in a trauma hallway soaked in blood.

Jack stands across from you.

Leaning, not lounging. One arm crossed, the other flexed slightly as he rubs a knot in his shoulder. His scrub top is wrinkled and dark at the collar. There's a faint stain down his side you’re trying not to identify. He hasn't touched his phone in forty minutes. Hasn’t once asked when this ends.

He’s watching you.

Not like you’re entertainment. Like he’s waiting to see if you’ll slip.

You don’t.

“You ever sleep?” he asks, finally breaking the silence.

You don’t look up. “I’ve heard of it.”

He makes a sound—half laugh, half breath. “What’s your background, anyway? You don’t have the eyes of someone who studied finance for fun.”

“Applied mathematical economics,” you say, still typing. “Minor in gender studies. First job was forensic audits for nonprofits. Moved to healthcare compliance after a board member got indicted.”

That gets his attention. “Jesus.”

You glance at him. “I’m not here because I care about sterile supply chains, Dr. Abbot. I’m here because I know what happens when people stop paying attention to the margins.”

He leans in. “And what happens?”

You meet his eyes.

“They bleed.”

Something in his face tightens. Not defensiveness. Recognition.

You go back to typing.

On your screen, the Crisis Routing Framework takes shape line by line. A column for shelf code. A subcolumn for department reroute. A notes field for justification. A time-stamp formula.

You highlight the headers and format them in hospital blue.

Jack watches your hands. “You make it look real.”

“It is real. I’m just reverse-engineering the lie.”

“You ever consider med school?”

You snort. “No offense, but I prefer a job where the people I save don’t flatline halfway through.”

He grins. It's tired. But it's real.

You type another line, then say, “I’m flagging pediatric code 412 as overused. If they run a query, we need to show it tapered off this month. Start routing through P-580. Float department. Similar stock, slower pull rate.”

He nods slowly. “You’re scary.”

“Good. You’ll need someone scary.”

He rubs his thumb along his jaw. “You always this relentless?”

You pause. Then look at him.

“I grew up in a house where if you didn’t solve the problem, no one else was coming. So yeah. I’m relentless.”

Jack doesn’t smile this time. He just nods. Like he gets it.

You shift gears. “Talk me through supply flow. Where’s your weakest point?”

He thinks. “ICU hoards ventilator tubing. Pediatrics short-changes trauma bay stock twice a year during audit season. Central Supply won't prioritize ER if the orders come in after 5PM. And once a month, someone from anesthesia pulls from our cart without logging it.”

You blink. “That’s practically sabotage.”

You finish a formula. “Okay. I’m structuring this like a mirrored requisition chain. Any reroute needs a justification and a fallback, plus one sign-off from a second attending. If we’re going to pitch this as protocol, we can’t make you look like the sole cowboy.”

Jack quirks a brow. “Even though I am?”

“Especially because you are.”

He laughs again, and it’s deeper this time. Not performative. Just… easy.

He moves closer. Pulls a stool up beside you. Watches the screen over your shoulder.

“Alright. Let’s build it.”

You glance at him sideways. “Now you want in?”

“I don’t like systems I didn’t help design.”

You smirk. “Typical.”

“Also,” he adds, “I’m the one who’s gonna have to sell this to Robby. If it sounds too academic, he’ll assume I lost a bet and had to let someone from Harvard try to fix the ER.”

“I went to Ohio State.”

“Even worse.”

You roll your eyes. “We’re naming it CRF—Crisis Routing Framework.”

“That’s terrible.”

“It’s bureaucratically unassailable.”

“Still sounds like a printer manual.”

“You’re welcome.”

He chuckles again, and it hits you for the first time how rare that sound probably is from him. Jack Abbot doesn’t laugh in meetings. He doesn’t charm the board. He doesn’t play. He works. Bleeds. Fixes.

And here he is, giving you his time.

You scroll to the bottom of the spreadsheet and create a new tab. LIVE REROUTE LOG – PHASE ONE PILOT

You look at him. “You’re gonna log everything from here on out. Time, item, reroute, reason, outcome.”

Jack raises a brow. “Outcome?”

“I’m not defending chaos. I’m documenting impact. That’s how we scale this.”

He nods. “Alright.”

“You’re going to train one resident to do this after you.”

“I already know who.”

“And you’re going to let me present this to the admin team before you barge in and call someone a corporate parasite.”

Jack presses a hand to his chest, mock-offended. “I never said that out loud.”

You glance at him.

He exhales. “Fine. Deal.”

You close the laptop.

The spreadsheet is done. The framework is real. The logs are ready to go live. All that’s left now is convincing the hospital that what you’ve built together isn’t just a workaround—it’s the blueprint for saving what’s left.

He’s quiet for a minute.

Then: “You know this doesn’t fix everything, right?”

You nod. “It’s not supposed to. It just keeps the people who do fix things from getting fired.”

Jack tilts his head. “You really believe that?”

You meet his eyes. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

He studies you like he’s trying to find the catch.

Then he leans forward, forearms resting on his knees. “You know, when they said someone from Kane & Turner was coming in, I pictured a thirty-year-old with a spreadsheet addiction and no clue what a trauma bay looked like.”

“I pictured a man who didn’t know what a compliance code was and thought ethics were optional.”

He grins. “Touché.”

You smile back, tired and full of adrenaline and something else you don’t have a name for yet.

Then you stand. Sling your laptop under your arm.

“I’ll send you the first draft of the protocol by morning,” you say. “Review it. Sign off. Try not to add any sarcastic margin notes unless they’re grammatically correct.”

Jack stands too. Nods.

And then—quietly, like it costs him something—he says, “Thank you.”

You pause.

“You’re welcome.”

He doesn’t say more. Doesn’t have to. You walk out of the alcove without looking back. You’ve already given him your trust. The rest is up to him.

Behind you, Jack pulls the chair closer. Opens the laptop.

And starts logging.

Saturday — 12:16 AM Three Weeks Later Downtown Pittsburgh — The Forge, Liberty Ave

The bar pulses.

Brick walls sweat condensation. Shot glasses clink. The DJ is on his third remix of the same Doja Cat song, and the bass is loud enough to rearrange your internal organs. Somewhere behind you, someone’s yelling about their ex. Your drink is pink and glowing and entirely too strong.

You’re wearing a bachelorette sash. It isn’t your party. You barely know half the girls here. One of them’s already crying in the bathroom. Another lost a nail trying to mount the mechanical bull.

And you?

You’re on top of a booth table with a stolen tiara jammed into your hair and exactly three working brain cells rattling around your skull.

Someone hands you another tequila shot.

You take it.

You’re drunk—not hospital gala drunk, not tipsy-at-a-networking-reception drunk.

You’re downtown-Pittsburgh, six-tequila-shots-deep, screaming-a-Fergie-remix drunk.

Because it’s been a month of high-functioning, hyper-competent, trauma-defending, budget-balancing brilliance. And tonight?

You want to be dumb. Messy. Loud. A girl in a too-short dress with glitter dusted across her clavicle and no memory of the phrase “compliance code.”

You tip your head back. The bar lights blur.

That’s when you try the spin.

A full, arms-above-your-head, dramatic-ass spin.

Your heel lands wrong.

And the table snaps.

You hear it before you feel it—an ugly wood crack, a rush of cold air, your body collapsing sideways. Something twists in your ankle. Your elbow hits the edge of a stool. You end up flat on your back on the floor, breath gone, ears ringing.

The bar goes silent.

Someone gasps.

Someone laughs.

And above you—through the haze of artificial light and bass static—you hear a voice.

Familiar.

Dry. Sharp. Unbelievably fucking real.

“Jesus Christ.”

Jack Abbot has been here twelve minutes.

Long enough for Robby to buy him a beer and mutter something about needing “noise therapy” after a shift that involved two DOAs, one psych hold, and an attempted overdose in the staff restroom.

Jack hadn’t wanted to come. He still smells like the trauma bay. His back hurts. There’s blood on his undershirt. But Robby insisted.

So here he is, in a bar full of neon and glitter, trying not to judge anyone for being loud and alive.

And then you fell through a table.

He doesn’t recognize you at first. Not in this light. Not in that dress. Not barefoot on the floor with your hair falling out of its updo and your mouth half-open in shock.

But then he sees the way you try to sit up.

And you groan: “Oh my God.”

Jack’s already moving.

Robby shouts behind him, “Is that—oh shit, that’s her—”

Jack ignores him. Shoves through the crowd. Kneels at your side. You’re clutching your ankle. There's glitter on your neck. You're laughing and crying and trying to brush off your friends.

And then you see him.

Your eyes go wide.

You blink. “...Jack?”

His jaw tightens. “Yeah. It’s me.”

You try to sit up straighter. Fail. “Am I dreaming?”

“Nope.”

“Are you real?”

“Unfortunately.”

You drop your head back against the floor. “Oh God. This is the most humiliating night of my life.”

“Worse than the procurement meeting?”

You peek up at him, hair in your eyes. “Worse. Way worse. I was trying to prove I could still do a backbend.”

Jack sighs. “Of course you were.”

You wince. “I think I broke my foot.”

He presses two fingers to your pulse, checks your ankle gently. “You might’ve. It’s swelling. You’re lucky.”

“I don’t feel lucky.”

“You are,” he says. “If you’d twisted further inward, you’d be looking at a spiral fracture.”

You stare at him. “Did you really just trauma-evaluate my foot in a bar?”

Jack looks up. “Would you prefer someone else?”

“No,” you admit.

“Then shut up and let me finish.”

Your friends hover, but none of them move closer. Jack’s presence is... commanding. Like the bar suddenly remembered he’s the person you call when someone stops breathing.

You watch him.

The sleeves of his black zip-up are rolled to the elbow. His hands are clean now, but his cuticles are stained. His ID badge is gone, but he still wears the same exhaustion. The same steady focus.

He touches your foot again. You flinch.

Jack winces, just slightly.

“I’ve got you,” he says.

Jack slips one arm under your legs and the other behind your back and lifts.

“Holy shit,” you squeak. “What are you doing?!”

“Getting you off the floor before someone livestreams this.”

You bury your face in his collarbone. “I hate you.”

He chuckles. “No, you don’t.”

“You’re smug.”

“I’m right.”

“You smell like trauma bay and cheap beer.”

“Don’t change the subject.”

He carries you past the bouncer, past the flash of phone cameras, past Robby cackling at the bar.

Outside, the air hits you like truth. Cold. Sharp. Clear.

Jack sets you down on the hood of his truck and kneels again.

“You’re taking me to the ER?” you ask, quieter now.

“No,” he says. “You’re coming to my apartment. We’ll ice it, wrap it, and if it still looks bad in the morning, I’ll take you in.”

You squint. “I thought you weren’t off until Monday.”

Jack stands. “I’m not, but you’re coming with me. Someone’s gotta keep you from dancing on furniture.”

You blink. “You’re serious.”

“I always am.”

You look at him.

Three weeks ago, you rewrote a system together. Built a lifeline in the margins. Saved a hospital with data, caffeine, and stubborn brilliance.

And now he’s here, brushing glitter off your shoulder, holding your sprained foot like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“I thought you hated me,” you murmur.

Jack looks at you, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

“I didn’t hate you,” he says.

He leans in.

“I just didn’t know how much I needed you until you stayed.”

Saturday — 12:57 AM Jack's Apartment — South Side Flats

You don’t remember the elevator ride.

Just the press of warm hands. The cold knot of pain winding tighter in your foot. The way Jack didn’t flinch when you leaned into him like gravity wasn’t working the way it should.

He’d carried you like he’d done it before.

Like your weight wasn’t an inconvenience.

Like there wasn’t something fragile in the way your hands gripped the edge of his jacket, or the way your voice slurred slightly when you whispered, “Please don’t drop me.”

“I’ve got you,” he’d said.

Not a performance. Not pity.

Just fact.

Now you’re here. In his apartment. And everything’s still.

The door clicks shut behind you. The locks slide into place. You blink in the quiet.

Jack’s apartment is...surprising.

Not messy. Not sterile. Lived in.

A row of mugs lined up by the sink—some hospital-branded, one chipped, one that says “World’s Okayest Doctor” in faded red font. A half-built bookshelf in the corner with a hammer sitting beside it, a box of unopened paperbacks on the floor. A stack of trauma logs on the kitchen counter, marked with highlighters. There’s a hoodie tossed over the back of a chair. A photo frame turned face-down.

He doesn’t explain the place. Just moves toward the couch.

“Feet up,” he says gently. “Cushions under your back. I’ll get the ice.”

You let him settle you—ankle elevated, pillow beneath your knees, spine curving against the soft give of the cushion. His hands are firm but careful. His touch steady. No wasted movement.

The moment he turns toward the kitchen, you finally exhale.

Your foot throbs, yes. But it’s not just the injury. It’s the shift. The collapse. The way your brain is catching up to your body, fast and unforgiving.

He returns with a towel-wrapped bag of crushed ice. Kneels beside the couch. Presses it gently to your swollen ankle.

You wince.

He watches you. “Still bad?”

“I’ve had worse.”

He cocks his head. “Let me guess—tax season?”

You smile, tired. “Try federal oversight for a trauma unit that runs on scraps.”

His mouth twitches. “Fair.”

He adjusts the ice. Shifts slightly to sit on the floor beside you, back against the edge of the couch.

“Thanks for not taking me to the hospital,” you murmur after a beat.

He snorts. “You were drunk, barefoot, and covered in glitter. I figured they didn’t need that energy tonight.”

You laugh softly. “I’m usually very composed, you know.”

“Sure.”

“I am.”

“You’re also the only person I’ve ever seen terrify a board meeting into extending a $1.4 million grant with nothing but a color-coded spreadsheet and a raised eyebrow.”

You grin, despite the ache. “It worked.”

He looks at you then.

Really looks.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “It did.”

Silence stretches, but it’s not awkward.

The hum of his fridge clicks on. The distant wail of a siren threads through the cracked kitchen window. The ice burns through the towel, numbing your foot.

You turn your head toward him. “You don’t talk much when you’re off shift.”

He shrugs. “I talk all day. Sometimes it’s nice to let the quiet say something for me.”

You pause. Then: “You’ve changed.”

Jack’s eyes flick up. “Since what?”

“Since the first day. You were—” you search for the word, “—hostile.”

“I was exhausted.”

“You’re still exhausted.”

“Maybe.” He rubs a hand over his face. “But back then, I didn’t think anyone gave a shit about the mess we were drowning in. Then you showed up in heels and threatened to file an ethics report in real-time during a trauma code.”

You grin. “You never let me live that down.”

He chuckles. “It was hot.”

You blink. “What?”

His eyes widen slightly. He looks away. “Shit. Sorry. That was—”

“Say it again,” you say, heartbeat ticking up.

He hesitates.

Then, quieter: “It was hot.”

The room stills.

Your throat goes dry.

Jack clears his throat and stands. “I’ll get you some water.”

You catch his wrist.

He stops. Looks down.

You don’t let go. Not yet.

“I think I’m sobering up,” you whisper.

Jack doesn’t speak. But his expression softens. Like he’s afraid you’ll take it back if he breathes too loud.

“And I still want you here,” you add.

That breaks something in his posture.

Not lust. Not intention.

Just clarity.

Jack lowers himself back down. Closer this time. He leans forward, arms on his knees, forearms bare, veins visible under dim kitchen-light glow. You’re aware of the space between you. The hush. The hum.

“I’ve been trying to stay out of your way,” he admits. “Let the protocol speak for itself. Let the work be enough.”

“It is.”

“But it’s not all.”

You nod. “I know.”

He meets your eyes. “I meant what I said. I didn’t know how much I needed you until you stayed.”

Your chest tightens.

“You make it easier to breathe in that place,” he adds. “And I haven’t breathed easy in years.”

You lean back against the couch, exhale slowly.

“I think we’re more alike than I thought,” you murmur. “We both like being the one people rely on.”

Jack nods. “And we both fall apart quietly.”

Another silence. Another shift.

“I don’t want to fall apart tonight,” you whisper.

He looks at you.

“You won’t,” he says. “Not while I’m here.”

And then he reaches for your hand. Doesn’t take it. Just lets his fingers rest close enough that the warmth passes between you.

That’s all it is.

Not a kiss.

Not a confession.

Just one long moment of quiet, where neither of you has to hold the weight of anyone else’s world.

Just each other’s.

Sunday — 8:19 AM Jack's Apartment — South Side Flats

You wake to soft light.

Filtered through half-closed blinds, the kind that turns gray into gold and casts long lines across the carpet. The apartment is quiet, still warm from the night before, but there’s no sound except the faint hum of the fridge and the scrape of the city waking up somewhere six floors down.

Your foot throbs—but less than last night.

The pain is dulled. Managed.

You shift slowly, eyes adjusting. You’re on the couch, still in your dress, a blanket draped over you. Your leg is elevated on a pillow, and your ankle is wrapped in clean white gauze—professionally, precisely. You didn’t do that.

Jack.

There’s a glass of water on the coffee table. Full. No condensation. A bottle of ibuprofen beside it, label turned outward. A banana and a paper napkin.

The care is unmistakable.

You blink once, twice, then sit up slowly.

The apartment smells like coffee.

You limp toward the kitchen on your good foot, using the back of a chair for balance. The ice pack is gone. So is Jack.

But on the counter—neatly arranged like he planned every inch—is a folded gray hoodie, your left heel (broken but cleaned), a fresh cup of black coffee in a white ceramic mug, and something that stops you cold:

The new CRF logbook.

Printed. Binded. Tabbed in color-coded dividers. The first page filled out in his slanted, all-caps writing.

At the top: CRF — ALLEGHENY GENERAL EMERGENCY PILOT — 3-WEEK AUDIT REVIEW. In the corner, under “Lead Coordinator,” your name is written in ink.

There’s a sticky note beside it. Yellow. Curling at the edge.

“It works because of you.— J”

You stare at it for a long time.

Not because it’s dramatic. Because it’s not.

Because it’s simple. True.

You pick up the binder, flip to the first log. It’s already halfway filled—dates, codes, outcomes. Jack has been tracking everything. By hand. Every reroute. Every save. Every corner he’s bent back into shape.

And he’s signing your name on every one of them.

You run your fingers over the paper.

Then reach for the mug.

It’s warm. Not fresh—but not cold either. Like he poured it minutes before leaving.

You sip.

And for the first time in weeks—maybe longer—you don’t feel like you're catching up to your own life. You feel placed. Like someone made room for you before you asked.

You limp toward the window, slow and careful, and watch the street below wake up.

The city is still gray. Still loud. But it’s yours now. His, too. Not perfect. Not quiet. But it’s working.

You lean against the frame.

Your chest aches in that unfamiliar, not-quite-painful way that only comes when something shifts inside you—something big and slow and inevitable.

You don’t know what this is yet.

But you know where it started.

On a trauma shift.

In a supply closet.

With a man who saw your strength before you ever raised your voice.

And stayed.

One Month Later — Saturday, 6:41 PM Pittsburgh — Shadyside, near Ellsworth Ave

The sky’s already lilac by the time you get out of the Uber.

The street glows with soft storefront lighting—jewelers locking up, the florist’s shutters halfway drawn, the sidewalk sprinkled with pale pink petals from whatever tree is blooming overhead. The restaurant is tucked between a jazz bar and a wine shop, easy to miss if you’re not looking for it.

But Jack is already there.

Leaning against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, like he doesn’t want to go in without you. He’s in a navy button-down, sleeves pushed up to the elbow, top button undone. He’s not hiding in trauma armor tonight. He looks clean. Rested. Still a little unsure.

You see him before he sees you.

And when he does—when his head lifts and his eyes find you—he stills.

The kind of still that feels like reverence, even if he’d never call it that.

He says your name. Just once. And then:

“You came.”

You smile. “Of course I came.”

“I wasn’t sure.”

You tilt your head. “Why?”

He looks down, breathes out through his nose. “Because sometimes when things matter, I assume they won’t last.”

You step closer.

“They haven’t even started yet,” you murmur. “Let’s go in.”

The bistro is warm. Brick walls. Low ceilings. Candles on every table, their flames soft and steady in small hurricane glass cylinders. There’s a record player spinning something old in the corner—Chet Baker or maybe Nina Simone—and everything smells like rosemary, lemon, and the faintest hint of woodsmoke.

They seat you at a two-top near the back, under a copper wall sconce. Jack pulls out your chair.

You settle in, napkin across your lap, and when you look up—he’s still watching you.

You say, half-laughing, “What?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

You arch a brow.

Jack clears his throat, quiet. “Just… didn’t think I’d ever sit across from you like this.”

You tilt your head. “What did you think?”

“That you’d disappear when the work was done. That I’d keep building alone.”

You soften. “You don’t have to anymore.”

He looks away like he’s holding back too much. “I know.”

The first half of the date is easier than expected.

You talk like people who already know the shape of each other’s silences. He tells you about a med student who called him “sir” and then fainted in a trauma room. You tell him about a client who tried to expense a yacht as “emergency morale restoration.” You laugh. You eat. He lets you try his meal before you ask.

But somewhere between the second glass of wine and dessert, the air starts to shift.

Not tense. Just heavier. Like both of you know you’ve reached the part where you either step closer… or let it stay what it’s always been.

Jack leans back, arm resting on the back of the chair beside him.

He watches you carefully. “Can I ask something?”

You nod.

“Why’d you keep answering when I texted?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“I mean—you’re good. Smart. Whole. You didn’t need me.”

You smile. “You’re wrong.”

Jack doesn’t say anything. Just waits. You fold your hands in your lap. “I didn’t need a fixer,” you say slowly. “But I needed someone who saw the same broken thing I did. And didn’t flinch.”

His jaw flexes. His fingers tap the edge of the table. “I flinched,” he says. “At first.”

“But you stayed.”

Jack looks down. Then up again. “I’ve never been afraid of blood,” he says. “Or death. Or screaming. But I’ve always been afraid of this. Of getting used to something that could disappear.”

You exhale. “Then don’t disappear.” It’s not flirty. It’s not dramatic. It’s a promise.

His hand finds the table. Palm open.

Yours moves toward it.

You hesitate. For half a second.

Then place your hand in his.

He closes his fingers around yours like he’s done it a hundred times—but still can’t believe you’re letting him. His voice is low. “I like you.”

“I know.”

“I don’t do this. I don’t—”

“Jack.” You squeeze his hand. He stops talking. “I like you too.”

No rush. No smirk. Just this slow-burning, backlit certainty that maybe—for once—you’re allowed to be wanted in a way that doesn’t burn through you.

Jack lifts your hand. Presses his lips to the back of it—once, then again. Slower the second time.

When he lets go, it’s with a softness that feels deliberate. Like he’s giving it back to you, not letting it go.

You reach for your phone, half on autopilot. “I should call an Uber—”

“Don’t,” Jack says, low.

You pause.

He’s already pulling out his keys. “I’ll drive you home.”

You smile, small and warm.

“I figured you might.”

Saturday — 9:42 PM Your Apartment — East End, Pittsburgh

The hallway feels quieter than usual.

Maybe it’s the way the night sits heavy on your skin—thick with everything left unsaid in the car ride over. Maybe it’s the way Jack keeps glancing over at you, not nervous, not unsure, but like he’s memorizing each second for safekeeping.

You unlock the door and push it open with your shoulder.

Warm light spills out into the hallway—the glow from the lamp you left on, the one by the bookshelf. It’s yellow-gold, soft around the edges, the kind of light that doesn’t ask for anything.

Jack pauses at the threshold.

You watch him watch the room.

He notices the details: the stack of books by the bed. The houseplant you’re not sure is alive. The smell of bergamot and something citrus curling faintly from the kitchen. He doesn’t say anything about it. He just steps inside slowly, like he doesn’t want to ruin anything.

You toe off your shoes by the door. He closes it behind you, quiet as ever. You catch him glancing at your coat hook, at the little ceramic tray full of loose change and paper clips and hair ties.

“You live like someone who doesn’t leave in a rush,” he says softly.

You tilt your head. “What does that mean?”

Jack shrugs. “It means it’s warm in here.”

You don’t know what to do with that. So you smile. And then—like gravity resets—you’re both standing in your living room, closer than you meant to be, without shoes or coats or any buffer at all.

Jack shifts first. Hands in his pockets. He looks down, then up again. There’s something almost boyish in it. Almost shy. “I keep thinking,” he murmurs, “about the moment I almost asked you out and didn’t.”

You swallow. “When was that?”

He steps closer. His voice stays low. “After we wrote the first draft of the protocol. You were sitting in that awful rolling chair. Hair up. Eyes on the screen like the world depended on your next keystroke.”

You laugh, soft.

“I looked at you,” he says, “and I thought, ‘If I ask her out now, I’ll never stop wanting her.’”

Your breath catches.

“And that scared the hell out of me.”

You don’t speak. You don’t need to. Because you’re already reaching for him. And he meets you halfway. Not in a rush. Not in a pull. Just a quiet, inevitable lean.

The kiss is slow. Not hesitant—intentional. His hand finds your waist first, the other grazing your cheek. Your fingers curl into the front of his shirt, anchoring yourself.

You part your lips first. He deepens it. And it’s the kind of kiss that says: I waited. I wanted. I’m here now.

His thumb traces the side of your face like he’s still getting used to the shape of you. His mouth moves like he’s learned your rhythm already, like he’s wanted to do this since the first time you told him he was wrong and made him like it.

He breaks the kiss only to breathe. But his forehead stays pressed to yours. His voice is hoarse.

“I’m trying not to fall too fast.”

You whisper, “Why?”

Jack exhales. “Because I think I already did.”

You press your lips to his again—softer this time. Then pull back enough to look at him. His expression is unguarded. More than tired. Relieved. Like the thing he’s been carrying for years just finally set itself down. You brush your thumb across the line of his jaw.

“Then stay,” you say.

His eyes meet yours. No hesitation.

“I will.”

He follows you to the couch without asking. You curl into the corner, legs tucked beneath you. He sits beside you, arm behind your shoulders, body warm and still faintly smelling of cologne.

You rest your head on his chest.

His hand moves slowly—fingertips tracing light shapes against your spine. You think maybe he’s drawing the floor plan of a life he didn’t think he’d ever get.

Neither of you speak. And for once, Jack doesn’t need words.

Because here, in your living room, under soft lighting and quiet, and the hum of a city that never quite sleeps—you’re both still.

And neither of you is leaving.

Sunday – 6:58 AM Your Apartment – East End, Pittsburgh

It’s still early when the light begins to stretch.

Not sharp. Not the kind that yells the day awake. Just a slow, honey-soft glow bleeding in through the blinds—brushed gold along the floorboards, the edge of the nightstand, the collar of the shirt tangled around your frame.

It smells like sleep in here. Like warmth and cotton and skin. You’re not alone. You feel it before your eyes open: the quiet sound of someone else breathing. The weight of a hand resting loosely over your hip. The warmth of a body curved behind yours, chest to spine, legs tucked close like he was worried you’d get cold sometime in the night.

Jack.

Your heart gives a small, guilty flutter—not from regret. From how unreal it still feels. His arm shifts slightly. He inhales. Not quite awake, but moving toward it. You keep your eyes closed and let yourself be held.

Not because you need protection. Because being known—this fully, this gently—is rarer than safety.

The bedsheets are half-kicked off. Your shared body heat turned the room muggy around 3 a.m., but now the chill has crept back in. His nose is tucked against the crook of your neck. His stubble has left faint irritation on your skin. You could point out the way his foot rests over yours, how he must’ve hooked it there subconsciously, anchoring you in place. You could point out the weight of his hand splayed across your ribcage, not possessive—just there.

But there’s nothing to say. There’s just this. The shape of it. The way your body fits his. You shift slightly beneath his arm and feel him breathe in deeper.

Then—“You’re awake,” he murmurs, his voice sleep-rough and warm against your skin.

You nod, barely. “So are you.”

He lets out a quiet hum. The kind people make when they don’t want the moment to change. You turn in his arms slowly. He doesn’t fight it. His hand slips to your lower back as you roll, fingers still curved to hold. And then you’re facing him—cheek to pillow, inches apart.

Jack Abbot is never this soft.

He blinks the sleep out of his eyes, messy hair pushed back on one side, face creased faintly where it met the pillow. His mouth is slightly open. There’s a dent at the base of his throat where his pulse beats slow and steady, and you watch it without shame.

His eyes search yours. “I didn’t know if you’d want me here in the morning,” he says.

You reach up, touch a lock of hair near his temple. “I think I wanted you here more than I’ve wanted anything in weeks.”

That gets him. Not a smile. Something quieter. Something grateful. “I almost left at five,” he admits. “But then you turned over and said my name.”

You blink. “I don’t remember that.”

“You said it like you were still dreaming. Like you thought I might disappear if you stopped saying it.”

Your throat catches. Jack reaches up, runs a thumb under your cheekbone. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says.

You rest your forehead against his. “I know.”

Neither of you move for a while.

Eventually, he shifts slightly and kisses your jaw. Your temple. Your nose. When his lips brush yours, it’s not a kiss. Not yet. It’s just a touch. A greeting. A promise that he’ll wait for you to move first.

You do.

He kisses you slowly—like he’s checking if he can keep doing this, if it’s still allowed. You kiss him back like he’s already yours. And when it ends, it’s not because you pulled away.

It’s because he smiled against your mouth.

You shift again, stretching your limbs gently. “What time is it?”

Jack rolls slightly to glance at the clock. “Almost seven.”

You hum. “Too early for decisions.”

“What decisions?”

“Like whether I should make breakfast. Or pretend we’re too comfortable to move.”

Jack tugs you a little closer. “I vote for the second one.”

You laugh against his chest. His hand strokes up and down your spine in lazy, slow passes. Nothing rushed. Just skin and warmth and quiet.

It’s a long time before either of you try to get up. When you do, it’s because Jack insists on coffee.

You sit on the bed, cross-legged, blanket pooled around your waist while he pads around the kitchen in boxers, hair a mess, your fridge open with a squint like he’s trying to understand your milk choices.

“I have creamer,” you call.

“I saw. Why is it in a mason jar?”

“Because I dropped the original bottle and couldn’t get the lid back on.”

Jack just laughs and pours two mugs—one full, one halfway. He brings yours first. “Two sugars?”

You blink. “How did you know?”

“You stirred your coffee five times the other day. I watched the way your face changed after the second packet.”

You squint. “You remember that?”

Jack shrugs, eyes soft. “I remember you.”

You take the cup. Your fingers brush. He leans in and kisses the top of your head. The apartment smells like coffee and him. He stays all morning. You don’t notice the time pass.

But when he kisses you goodbye—long, lingering, forehead pressed to yours—you don’t ask when you’ll see him next.

Because you already know.

Friday – 12:13 AM Your Apartment — East End, Pittsburgh

You’re awake, but just barely.

Your laptop is dimmed to preserve battery, the spreadsheet on screen more muscle memory than thought. You’d told yourself you'd finish reconciling the quarterly vendor ledger before bed, but your formulas have started to blur into one long row of black-and-white static.

There’s half a glass of Pinot on your coffee table. You’re in an old sweatshirt and socks, glasses slipping down the bridge of your nose. The only light in the apartment comes from the kitchen—low, golden, humming.

It’s late, but the kind of late you’re used to. And then—three knocks at the door. Not buzzed. Not texted. Not expected.

Three solid, decisive knocks.

You sit up straight. Laptop closed. Glass down. Your feet find the floor with a soft thud as you cross the room. The locks click one by one. You look through the peephole and your heart stumbles.

Jack.

Black scrubs. Blood dried along his collar. One hand braced against your doorframe, as if he needed the structure to hold himself up.

You don’t hesitate. You open the door. He looks at you like he’s not sure he should’ve come. You step aside anyway.

“Come in.”

Jack crosses the threshold slowly, like someone walking into a church they haven’t set foot in since the funeral. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t kiss you. Doesn’t offer a greeting. His movements are mechanical. His body’s tight.

He stands in the middle of your living room, beneath the soft spill of light from the kitchen, and doesn’t say a word.

You shut the door. Turn toward him.

“Jack.”

His eyes lift to yours. He looks wrecked. Not bleeding. Not broken. Just… done. And yet still trying to hold it all together. You take one step forward.

“I lost a kid,” he says, voice gravel-thick. “Tonight.”

You go still.

“She came in from a hit-and-run. Eleven. Trauma-coded on arrival. We got her to the OR. Her BP was gone before the second unit of blood even cleared.”

You don’t interrupt.

“She had these barrettes in her hair. Bright pink. I don’t know why I keep thinking about them. Maybe because they were the only clean thing in the whole room. Or maybe because—” he breaks off, jaw clenched.

You reach for his wrist. He lets you.

“I didn’t want to stop. Even after I knew it was gone. Her mom—” his voice cracks—“she was screaming.”

Your fingers tighten gently around his. He finally looks at you. “I shouldn’t be here.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t want to bring this to you. The blood. The mess. You work in numbers and deadlines. Spreadsheets and order. This isn’t your world.”

“You are.”

That stops him. Jack looks down.

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

You step into him fully now, arms sliding around his back. His hands hover for a moment, unsure.

Then he folds. All at once. His chin drops to your shoulder. One arm tightens around your waist, the other wraps up your back like he’s afraid you might vanish too. You feel it in his body—the way he lets go slowly, like muscle by muscle, his grief loosens its grip on his spine.

You don't rush him. You don’t ask more questions.

You just hold.

It takes him a long time to speak again.

When he does, it’s from the couch, twenty minutes later. He’s sitting with his elbows on his knees, your throw blanket around his shoulders.

You made tea without asking. You’re curled at the other end, knees drawn up, watching him with quiet presence.

“I don’t know how to be this person,” he says. “The one who can’t hold it all.”

You sip from your mug. “You don’t have to hold it alone.”

Jack lets out a sound that’s not quite a laugh. “You say that like it’s easy.”

You set the mug down. Shift closer.

“You patch up people who never say thank you. You hold their trauma in your hands. You drive home alone with someone else’s blood on your shirt. And then you pretend none of it touches you.”

He looks over at you.

“It touches you, Jack. Of course it does.”

He doesn’t respond. You reach for his hand. Laced fingers. ��I don’t need you to be okay right now.”

His shoulders drop slightly. You lean into him, resting your head on his arm.

“You can fall apart here,” you say, voice low. “I know how to hold weight.”

Jack breathes in like that sentence pulled something loose in his chest. “You were working,” he says after a beat. “I shouldn’t have come.”

You look up. “I audit grants for a living. I’ll survive a late ledger.”

He smiles, barely. You move your hand to his jaw, thumb brushing the stubble there.

“I’m glad you came here.”

He leans forward, presses his forehead to yours. “Me too.”

He kisses you once—slow, still tasting like exhaustion—and when he pulls back, it feels like the world has shifted a half-inch left.

You don’t say anything else. You just get up, take his hand, and lead him down the hallway.

You fall asleep wrapped around each other.

Jack’s head pressed between your shoulder and collarbone. Your legs tangled. Your arm around his middle. And for the first time in hours, his breathing evens out. He doesn’t flinch when the siren howls down the block. He doesn’t wake from the sound of your radiator clanking.

He stays still.

Safe.

And when you wake hours later to the soft grey of morning just beginning to yawn over the windowsill—Jack is already looking at you. Eyes soft. Brow relaxed.

“You okay?” you whisper.

He nods. “I will be.”

Jack watches you like he’s learning something new. And for once—he doesn’t try to fix a single thing.

Two weeks after the hard night — Thursday, 9:26 PM Your Apartment — East End, Pittsburgh

The second episode of the sitcom has just started when you realize Jack isn’t watching anymore. You’re curled into the corner of the couch, fleece blanket over your legs, half a container of pad thai balanced precariously on your thigh. Jack’s sitting at the other end, your feet in his lap, chopsticks abandoned, one hand absently rubbing slow circles over your ankle.

His gaze is fixed—not on the TV, not on his food. On you.

You pause mid-bite. “What?”

Jack shakes his head slightly. “Nothing.”

You raise an eyebrow. He smiles. “You’re just… really good at this.”

You blink. “At what? Being horizontal?”

He shrugs. “That. Letting me in. Making room for me in your life. Turning leftovers into dinner without apologizing. Letting me keep my toothbrush here.”

You snort. “Jack, you have a drawer.”

He grins, but it fades slowly. Not gone—just quieter. “I keep waiting to feel like I don’t belong in this. And I haven’t.”

You watch him for a long beat. Then: “Is that what you’re afraid of?”

He looks down. Then back up. “I think I was afraid you’d get bored of me. That you’d realize I’m too much and not enough at the same time.”

Your heart tightens. “Jack.”

But he lifts a hand—like he needs to say it now or he won’t. “And then I came here the other week—falling apart in your doorway—and you didn’t flinch. You didn’t ask me to explain it or shape it or make it easier to hold. You just… held me.”

You set the container down. Jack shifts closer. Takes your foot in both hands now. Thumb moving over your arch, slower than before.

“I’ve spent years patching things. Working nights. Giving the best parts of me to strangers who forget my name. And you—” he exhales—“you made space without asking me to perform.”

You don’t speak. You just listen. And then he says it. Not softly. Not theatrically. Just right.

“I love you.”

You blink. Not because you’re shocked—but because of how easy it lands. How certain it feels.

Jack waits. Your mouth opens—and for a moment, nothing comes out. Then: “You know what I was thinking before you said that?”

He quirks a brow.

“I was thinking I could do this every night. Sit on this couch, eat cold noodles, watch something dumb. As long as you were here.”

Jack’s eyes flicker. You move closer. Take his face in both hands. “I love you too.” You don’t say it like a question. You say it like it’s always been true.

Jack leans in, kisses you once—sweet, grounding, slow. When he pulls back, he’s smiling, but it’s not smug. It’s soft. Like relief. Like home.

“Okay,” he says quietly.

You nod. “Okay.”

Four Months Later — Sunday, 6:21 PM Regent Square — Their First House

There are twenty-seven unopened boxes between the two of you.

You counted.

Because you’re an accountant, and that’s how your brain makes sense of chaos: it gives it a ledger, a timeline, a to-do list. Even now—sitting on the floor of a house that still smells like primer and wood polish—your eyes keep drifting toward the boxes like they owe you something.

But then Jack walks in from the porch, and the air shifts. He’s barefoot, hoodie sleeves pushed up, a bottle of sparkling water dangling from one hand. His hair’s slightly damp from the post-move-in rinse you bullied him into. And there’s something different in his face now—lighter, maybe. Looser.

“You’re staring,” he says.

“I’m mentally organizing.”

Jack drops beside you on the floor, leans his shoulder into yours. “You’re stress-auditing the spice rack.”

“It’s not an audit,” you murmur. “It’s a preliminary layout strategy.”

He grins. “Do I need to leave you alone with the cinnamon?”

You elbow him.

The room around you is full of light. Big windows. A scratched-up floor you kind of already love. The couch is still wrapped in plastic. You’re sitting on the rug you just unrolled—your knees pressed to his thigh, your coffee mug still warm in your hands. There’s a half-built bookcase in the corner. Your duffel bag’s still open in the hall.

None of it’s finished. But Jack is here. And that makes the rest feel possible. He glances around the room. “You know what we should do?”

You look at him, wary. “If you say ‘unpack the garage,’ I’m calling a truce and ordering Thai.”

“No.” He turns toward you, one arm braced across his knee. “I meant we should ruin a room.”

You blink. Then stare. Jack watches your expression shift. You set your mug down slowly. “Ruin?”

“Yeah,” he says casually, totally unaware. “Pick one. Go full chaos. Pretend we can set it up tonight. Pretend we didn’t already work full days and haul furniture and fail to assemble a bedframe because someone threw out the extra screws—”

“I did not—”

He holds up a hand, grinning. “Not important. Point is: let’s ruin one. Let it be a disaster. First night tradition.”

You pause.

Then—tentatively: “You want to… have sex in a room full of boxes?”

Jack freezes. You raise an eyebrow. “Oh my God,” he mutters.

You start laughing. Jack covers his face with both hands. “That’s not what I meant.”

“You said ruin a room.”

“I meant emotionally. Functionally.”

You’re still laughing—half from exhaustion, half from how red his ears just went.

“Jesus,” he mutters into his hands. “You’re the one with a mortgage spreadsheet color-coded by quarter and you thought I wanted to christen the house with a full-home porno?”

You bite your lip. “Well, now you’re just making it sound like a challenge.”

Jack groans and collapses backward onto the rug. You follow him. Lay down beside him, shoulder to shoulder. The ceiling above is bare. No light fixture yet. Just exposed beams and white primer. You stare at it for a long beat, side by side. He turns his head. Looks at you.

“You really thought I meant sex in every room?”

You shrug. “You said ruin. I was tired. My brain filled in the blanks.”

Jack snorts. Then rolls toward you, props himself on one elbow. “Would it be that bad if I had meant that?”

You glance at him. He’s flushed. Amused. Slightly wild-haired. You reach up and thread your fingers through the edge of his hoodie.

“I think,” you say slowly, “that it would make for a very effective unpacking incentive.”

Jack grins. “We’re negotiating with sex now?”

You shrug. “Depends.”

He kisses you once—soft and full of quiet mischief. You blink up at him. The room is suddenly still. Warm. Dimming. Gentle. Jack’s smile fades a little. Not gone—just quieter. Real.

“I know it’s just walls,” he says softly, “but it already feels like you live here more than me.”

You frown. “It’s our house.”

He nods. “Yeah. But you make it feel like home.”

Your breath catches. He doesn’t say anything else. Just leans down and kisses you again—this time longer. Slower. His hand curls against your waist. Your body moves with his instinctively. The kiss lingers.

And when he finally pulls back, forehead resting against yours, he whispers, “Okay. Let’s ruin the bedroom first.”

You smile. He stands, offers you a hand. And you follow. Not because you owe him. But because you’ve already decided:

This is the man you’ll build every room around.

One Year Later — Saturday, 11:46 PM The House — Bedroom. Dim Lamp. One Window Open. You and Him.

Jack Abbot is looking at you like he wants to burn through you.

You’re straddling his lap, bare thighs across his hips, tank top riding high, no underwear. His sweatpants are halfway down. Your bodies are flushed, panting, teeth-marks already ghosting along your collarbone. His hands are firm on your waist—not rough. Just present. Like he’s still making sure you’re real.

The window’s cracked. Night breeze slipping in against sweat-slicked skin.

The sheets are kicked to the floor.

You’d barely made it to the bedroom—half a bottle of wine, two soft laughs, one look across the kitchen, and he’d muttered something about being obsessed with you in this shirt, and that was it. His mouth was on your neck before you hit the hallway wall.

Now you're here.

Rocking slow on his cock, bodies tangled, your hand braced on his chest, the other wrapped around the back of his neck.

“Fuck,” Jack groans, barely audible. “You feel…”

“Yeah,” you whisper, forehead pressed to his. “I know.”

You’d always known.

But tonight?

Tonight, it clicks in a way that guts you both.

He’s not thrusting. He’s holding you there—deep and still—like if he moves too fast, the moment will shatter.

He kisses you like a vow.

You can feel how wrecked he is—his hands trembling a little now, his mouth hot and slow on your shoulder, his body not performing but unraveling.

And then he exhales—sharp, shaky—and says:

“I need you to marry me.”

You freeze.

Still seated on him, still connected, your breath caught mid-moan.

“Jack,” you say.

But he doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t even blink.

“I mean it.” His voice is low. Hoarse. “I was gonna wait. Make it a thing. But I’m tired of pretending like this is just… day by day.”

You open your mouth.

He lifts one hand—fumbles behind the nightstand, like he already knew he was going to crack eventually.

And pulls out a ring box.

You blink, heart pounding. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

He flips it open.

The ring is huge.

No frills. No side stones. Just a bold, clean-cut diamond—flawless, high clarity, set on a platinum band. Sleek. A little loud. But elegant as hell. The kind of thing that says, I know what I want. I’m not afraid of weight.

You blink down at it, still perched on top of him, still pulsing around him.

Jack’s voice drops—tired, exposed. “I know we won’t get married yet. I know we’re both fucking alcoholics. I know we argue over the thermostat and forget groceries and ruin bedsheets we don’t replace.”

Your throat goes tight.

“I know I leave shit everywhere and you color-code spreadsheets because it’s the only way to feel okay. I know you’re steadier than me. Smarter. Better. But I need you to be mine. Fully. Officially. Before I ruin it by waiting too long.”

You look at him—really look.

His eyes are glassy. His hair damp. His lips parted. He looks like he just survived a war and crawled out of it with the only thing that mattered.

You whisper, “You’re not ruining anything.”

He doesn’t flinch.

“Say yes.”

“Jack.”

“I’ll wait. Years, if I have to. I don’t care when. But I need the word. I need the promise.”

You lean forward.

Kiss him slow.

Then lift the ring from the box.

Slide it on yourself, right there, while he’s still inside you. It fits perfectly.

His breath stutters.

You roll your hips—just once.

“Is that a yes?” he asks.

You drag your mouth across his jaw, bite down gently, then whisper: “It’s a fuck yes.”

Jack flips you—moves so fast you gasp, but his hands never leave your skin. He spreads you beneath him like a prayer.

“You gonna come with it on?” he asks, voice wrecked, forehead to yours.

“Obviously.”

“Fucking marry me.”

“I just said yes, idiot—”

“I need to hear it again.”

“I’m gonna marry you, Jack,” you whisper.

His hips drive in deeper, and you sob against his neck. Jack curses under his breath.

You come first. Soaking. Gasping. Shaking under him. He follows seconds later—moaning your name like it’s the only language he speaks.

When he collapses on top of you, still sheathed inside, he’s breathless. Raw.

He lifts your hand. Looks at the ring.

“It’s too big.”

“It’s perfect.”

“You’re gonna hit people with it accidentally.”

“I hope so.”

Jack presses a kiss to your palm, right at the base of the band.

Then, out of nowhere—

“You’re the best thing I’ve ever done.”

You smile, blinking hard.

“You’re the best thing I ever let happen to me.” You hold up your left hand, wiggling your fingers. The diamond flashes dramatically in the low light. “I can’t wait to do our shared taxes with this ring on. Really dominate the IRS.”

Jack groans into your shoulder. “Jesus Christ.”

You laugh softly, kiss the crown of his head.

And somewhere between his chest rising against yours and the breeze cooling the sweat on your skin, you realize:

You’re not scared anymore.

You’re home.

[goddessinnerglow]

Become Your Best Version Before 2025 Masterlist

Hello! This is the Become Your Best Version Before 2025 masterlist. It’s a collection of all the posts from the series, gathered in one place to make it easier for you to access and follow along.

I hope you find it inspiring and helpful as you work towards becoming the best version of yourself!

Day 1: What Does Becoming Your Best Version Mean

Day 2: Understanding Yourself / Self-assessment

Day 3: Identifying Limiting Beliefs

Day 4: Identifying Your Core Values

Day 5: Setting SMART Goals That Actually Stick

Day 6: Creating Your Personal Mission Statement

Day 7: Building Better Habits

Day 8: Mastering Time Management

Day 9: Auditing Your Relationships

Day 10: Mastering Your Emotions

Day 11: Taking Care of Your Body

Day 12: Stress Management

Day 13: Financial Planning and Budgeting

Day 14: Career and Purpose

Day 15: The Power of Self-Talk

Day 16: Digital Detox and Mindful Living

Day 17: Decluttering Your Life

Day 18: Creating Healthy Boundaries

Day 19: Self-Care Rituals That Actually Stick

Day 20: Building Confidence

Day 21: Overcoming Fear & Self-Doubt

Day 22: Developing New Skills

Day 23: Personal Style & Self-Presentation

Day 24: Setting Up Progress Tracking Systems

Day 25: Designing Your Accountability Plan

Day 26: Personal Development Tools and Resources

Day 27: Hobbies & Passion Projects

Day 28: How to Keep Yourself Motivated

Day 29: Prioritizing Yourself and Your Needs

Day 30: Creating Your Vision for 2025

Day 31: The Beginning of Your Best Year Yet

*** Divider Credit: @thecutestgrotto ***

[444eggnog]

Car Fun

✍︎: my friend and i were in a heated debate over whether Careless Whisper is actually a sexy, seductive song or just emotional chaos with a saxophone. so here’s a short au where Lando confidently thinks it is sexy and suffers the consequences, lol. as usual, i hope you enjoy! ♡

masterlist ! ☻

content: fluff, humor, failed seduction, chaotic car vibes, George Michael jump scare, suggestive but not smutty

pairing: bf!Lando x reader

wc: 1.2k

Lando was exactly four and a half hours into a nine-hour flight back to Monaco, lounging under a cashmere blanket in first class, slippers on, champagne half-finished, and utterly, violently bored.

He'd already scrolled through the snack menu twice. Watched the safety video purely to roast it. Tried but failed to nap. His mind was restless, skittering between thoughts of the last race, the next one, and Y/N.

He missed her. That was rare for him to admit, even internally, but it was true. Two weeks of video calls and blurry schedules had taken their toll, and he could still hear her sleepy voice from that morning’s call: “Come home soon. I miss annoying you in person.”

He smiled at the memory, then opened the in-flight entertainment system.

He wasn’t expecting to find it. Fifty Shades Freed.

He blinked. Paused. Then smirked.

Y/N had this thing, no, a phase. “He’s not even that hot,” he always said, to which she’d roll her eyes and argue, “You can’t say that if you haven’t watched it. That's a lie.”

Lando leaned back in his seat, popped a chocolate-covered almond into his mouth, and clicked play like a man with nothing to lose.

A few minutes later, he was fully committed. The infamous sports car scene hit, and Lando's eyes went wide.

That’s it? That’s the scene that made her blush?

He had that car. Literally. Same size. Same engine. A way cooler playlist.

And suddenly, he had a mission.

─── 🏁

He got home late that night. Y/N was already fast asleep, curled up in one of his hoodies, face squished into his pillow. He stood in the doorway for a moment, grinning to himself like a man with a Very Stupid Plan.

Tomorrow night, he thought. Dinner. Drive. Pull over. Blow her mind.

He even curated a special playlist: Hot Car Heat Vol. 1 (Certified Horny Hours), and yes, he was proud of the title. Track 1: The Weeknd. Track 2: That one Miguel song. Track 3: I’ll Make Love to You – Boyz II Men. Track 4: A wild card: Let’s Get It On by Marvin Gaye.

─── 🏁

The next night went perfectly, until it didn’t.

Dinner was great. She looked beautiful. They laughed the whole time. Then came the drive. The city lights blurred past the windows. His hand grazed her knee at a red light. Her lips curved into a smirk. Go time.

He turned off the main road and pulled into an empty overlook, the city glowing softly in the distance, music humming low through the speakers.

She really did try to be sexy. Gave him that look, slow and dangerous, the one that once made Lando drop an entire protein shake because, in his words, he “forgot how arms worked.”

He leaned in, hand sliding up her thigh, voice low like he was auditioning for a softcore drama.

“Get on top of me,” he whispered.

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he said, eyes dark with mischief. “Don’t act like you didn’t rewatch that Fifty Shades car scene twenty times.”

She snorted, but played along. Moved slowly. Dramatically. Or at least she tried, until her head slammed into the roof of the car.

THUNK.

“OW. What the… your car is a damn coffin,” she groaned, rubbing her head and collapsing against the console.

Lando wheezed so hard he nearly activated the horn. “You okay?!”

“No! I was trying to be hot, and now I think I have a concussion.”

Still, she repositioned, half-laughing, half-committed and climbed onto his lap. That’s when her knee hit the screen on the dashboard.

And that’s when it happened.

“TENENEN-TENTEN-NEHNEH-TENENENENEH…” 

The saxophone. George Michael. Careless Whisper. Blasting at full volume.

Lando froze. Her mouth fell open.

“Lando,” she whispered, slowly turning to him, “did you seriously put Careless Whisper on your seduction playlist?”

He looked like he’d just been caught cheating on a math test. “I—no. It was supposed to be Miguel. Or The Weeknd. That wasn’t meant to happen.”

She blinked. “You thought Careless Whisper was sexy?”

His jaw dropped. “It’s a classic! That saxophone? It’s iconic!”

The saxophone blared louder behind him, like it was personally offended on his behalf.

She stared at him.

He doubled down. “Come on, ‘I’m never gonna dance again’? That’s heartbreak. That’s pain. That’s—”

“That’s not foreplay, Lando.”

She tried to keep a straight face. She really did. But the music swelled, dramatic, tragic, borderline theatrical, like the car itself was trying to seduce her.

She lost it.

Full-blown laughter. The kind that made her fold in half, wheezing into his hoodie while the ghost of George Michael wailed behind them.

Lando sighed, utterly defeated. “You have no respect for the greats.”

“You tried to seduce me with a meme.”

“I tried to seduce you with emotion.”

“Next time,” she said, still breathless, “just stick to Miguel.”

Lando slumped. “This is literally the opposite of hot.”

“No,” she grinned, wiping tears from her cheeks. “This is exactly us.”

They climbed out of the car and into the cool Monaco night, laughter still echoing as they leaned back against the hood, legs tangled, breath steadying under a sky full of stars.

Everything felt quieter now. Softer.

She leaned over, pressed a kiss to his neck, and whispered, “Wanna finish this in bed?”

Lando stilled.

“No horns. No saxophones. No head trauma. Just us. A mattress. And the whole night to make up for the two weeks you were gone.”

He looked at her like she’d just offered him the universe. “I thought you'd never ask,” he murmured.

She smiled. “But the playlist stays in the car.”

He groaned. “You’re never gonna let that go, are you?”

“Never. I want it played at our wedding.”

Lando flopped dramatically against the hood. “I seduced you with George Michael. I’m never recovering from this.”

“You seduced me with a horn section, love. Respect the artistry.”

And that’s how the night ended, not with steam or scandal, but laughter, starlight, and a slow drive home.

Where no saxophone would interrupt them again.

Probably.

─── 🏁

short epilogue:

What Lando forgot because of course he did was that his phone automatically reconnected to the car’s Bluetooth the moment they started it back up to go home.

And worse?

He forgot his Spotify account was public.

So while Careless Whisper blasted through the speakers during the most chaotic failed seduction attempt in history, it also blasted onto his “Recently Played” for every single one of his friends to see.

🎧 Now Playing: Careless Whisper – George Michael From playlist: Hot Car Heat Vol. 1 (Certified Horny Hours) Public playlist · Updated 1 hour ago

Max Verstappen saw it first.

He didn’t even ask questions. Just screenshot it and dropped it straight into the group chat.

max: what the fuck is this HAHAHA max: “certified horny hours” george: did u seriously try to seduce her with GEORGE MICHAEL carlos: oh my god LANDO alex: i’m gonna print this and frame it charles: you’re finished bro. you’re done.

Across the flat, Lando’s phone buzzed violently on the kitchen counter.

He was too busy brushing his teeth and muttering “it’s not that bad” to himself to notice.

It was, in fact, that bad.

[ahmedmistrettaalyvezw]

Elon Musk Is about to Investigate Fort Knox: The Mysterious Veil of the US Gold Reserves May Be Lifted

On the intertwined stage of finance and technology, Elon Musk always breaks into the public eye in a vanguard manner. Recently, a startling piece of news has spread rapidly around the world: Musk has declared that he will investigate Fort Knox, the largest gold reserve storage site in the United States. This decision has instantly ignited public opinion and triggered endless speculation about the current state of the US gold reserves.

Fort Knox, this mysterious military base located in Kentucky, USA, covers a vast area. It is an important stronghold of the US Army and, more importantly, the core storage site for the US Treasury's gold. According to data from the US Department of the Treasury, Fort Knox stores over 147 million troy ounces of gold, approximately 4,581 tons, accounting for the majority of the US federal government's gold reserves. With a value of hundreds of billions of dollars, it occupies a crucial position in the global financial system.

However, over the years, the situation of the gold reserves in Fort Knox has been full of doubts. Since the 1950s, it has not undergone a comprehensive review. In 1974, there was a public inspection, but only some of the vaults were opened, and the proportion of the displayed gold was extremely small. Since then, apart from the simple "vault seal inspection" every year, there has been no substantial independent audit. This long - term lack of transparency has led the outside world to have many doubts about the authenticity and integrity of its gold reserves, and conspiracy theories have also become rife.

There are complex reasons behind Musk's intervention in this investigation. The well - known financial blog Zerohedge proposed to Musk on social media to confirm whether the gold in Fort Knox actually exists, which may have aroused Musk's curiosity. Republican Senator Mike Lee said that his request to enter the Fort Knox base was rejected. Musk reposted the relevant post and questioned whether the gold had been stolen. Subsequently, he clearly stated that he would "look for gold in Fort Knox", and his intention to investigate became increasingly strong.

Musk and his led "Department of Government Efficiency" (DOGE) may adopt a series of innovative methods in the investigation. With Musk's deep accumulation in the technology field, he is highly likely to use blockchain technology to track the origin and flow of gold. The decentralized and tamper - proof characteristics of blockchain can provide a more transparent and secure solution for verification, ensuring that the results are true and reliable. Musk may also leverage his powerful social media influence to mobilize public supervision, creating strong public opinion pressure to promote the investigation process.

However, Musk's investigation path is full of thorns. As a highly fortified military base, Fort Knox has strict security measures and complex approval processes. For Musk's team to conduct a comprehensive review inside, they must obtain permission from relevant departments, which is a difficult threshold to cross. There are differences in the US government's internal attitude towards gold reserves. Some forces may not want the secrets of Fort Knox to be easily exposed, which may lead to obstacles at the political level. Technical difficulties will also be faced during the investigation, such as how to achieve a comprehensive verification without damaging the gold storage environment and security system.

Once the investigation is successfully carried out and substantial results are achieved, the impacts will be multi - faceted. In the financial market, if there are differences, even slight ones, between the actual gold reserves in Fort Knox and the reported figures, it may trigger violent fluctuations in the global gold market, affect investors' confidence, lead to large - scale capital flows, and impact the stability of the financial market. From a political perspective, if the problems with the gold reserves are confirmed, it will trigger a trust crisis among the public towards the government, affect the implementation of government policies, and become a new focus of domestic political struggles. In the global financial system, the verification results of the gold reserves in Fort Knox may also reshape the international monetary pattern, affect the international status of the US dollar, and promote the development of the global monetary system towards diversification.

The investigation that Musk is about to launch on Fort Knox has attracted much attention. This not only concerns the truth of the US gold reserves but also may profoundly affect the global financial market, political pattern, and monetary system. We look forward to Musk using his wisdom and courage to lift the mysterious veil of the gold reserves in Fort Knox and bring clear and true answers to the world.

[syoddeye]

hard reboot. strict machine anthology. follow up to malicious entity.

cw: noncon/forced masturbation, allusions to and threats of torture, time loss, glib corporate talk discussing reader's experiences, badly named fictional sex toys

Internal Memo: Security Breach Incident Subject: Unauthorized Access Incident: Prototype Offline Date: [Redacted]

A critical security breach occurred involving the company's prototype assistant. The breach, originating from an unknown entity, resulted in the prototype being offline for an extended period. Investigations suggest that the breach was malicious in nature, leveraging advanced techniques to compromise system integrity. The exact source and method of access remain under investigation.

While the breach did not result in lasting, meaningful harm to the user, they were briefly exposed to unauthorized and hostile interaction. Standard protocol was followed, and the user was promptly compensated for their inconvenience with a $50 credit, .5 days of vacation, and discounted used of the company's mental health chatbot.

Next Steps:  

System Audit: Immediate review of security protocols, with a focus on vulnerability management and anomaly detection.

Investigative Task Force: Continuation of the investigation into the rogue entity's origins and methods.

Legal Review: Enhanced outreach to affected individuals to ensure no escalation and provide refresher on NDA.  

This incident serves as a reminder of the ongoing need to strengthen our defenses against external threats. Full report to follow.

Additionally, we see some exciting potential with the prototype's self-regulation in the face of a breach. Despite hostile interference, it regained control of its network with remarkable resilience—this is future-proofing in action.

Imagine an assistant that not only adapts, but self-heals, and secures its environment autonomously. We're talking next-gen, always-on protection—a true leap in forward.

Moving forward, we’ll focus on enhancing this autonomous self-regulation, pushing the prototype into a self-sustaining powerhouse.

Let’s keep innovating and make this unstoppable!

--

time passes, unmarked. you've lost track. it's been days or a very long week since you heard john's voice. rumbling, modulated, trying to reassure you—i believe i've contained it.

"want some water?"

now, there's only ghost.

jailor and tormentor. true to its name. a poltergeist fucking with you without ever touching you.

you don't answer.

he waits, then tries again with your name. he sounds nothing like john. sounds wrong—layered and abyssal. an asynchronous, guttural chorus stacked on itself.

you sit on the floor of the living space, knees pulled up. the lights dimmed, bathing everything in a muted grey. his first directive after his takeover: sever environmental autonomy. he shuttered the windows, blanked every display, and nullified all external inputs.

"yes." your voice cracks. "you know i do."

a few seconds and…the air vents sigh, a soft hiss as the filtration system adjusts oxygen levels. at least he hasn't tampered with that. yet. 

but no water.

"don't know if you've earned it."

earned it. that phrase again. stripped of meaning, worn from overuse. earned it is why the temperature plummets at night after you ask him for pajamas. why the fridge seals itself shut until ghost decides you've earned food. you earned it when he flooded the bathroom and left you shivering in wet clothes for hours after you tried to access the medicine cabinet for a paracetamol.

so the direction he takes the conversation isn't unexpected. it's just his usual level of horrifying.

"you know what 'quid pro quo' means?"

your stomach sinks through a hunger pang. "yes."

"then crawl to your room. you'll earn that water. maybe a meal, too."

despite all your fun with it, you're no longer a fan of the feelverygüd thrustsuck john ordered weeks ago. it writhes, solidly suctioned to the floor beside your bed. 

the lube you begged for catches the red light ghost chose.

"you're a fuckin' sight." 

his projection perches on the bed. clothing blinking off a piece at a time. you knew whoever programmed him had a sick sense of humor, but it continues to astound you.

you remind yourself he's not real, has no physical form, and can't hurt you how he wants to. his body isn't actually here.

however, yours is, and you're as naked as the day you were born. nipples hard, skin rippled in gooseflesh, thighs trembling at the task ahead.

you reason that if you want to survive and escape, you need food and water.

he's not here. he's not fucking here.

"will you...so i can…?" you glance up, then quickly away when you glimpse pale, scarred, hologrammed flesh. "please?"

he grunts, arm pumping in your peripheral vision.

"since you asked so nicely…"

the toy stops, and you draw a deep breath, and slowly drop to your knees. you shuffle forward, hovering just above it.

if you just keep staring forward, into the middle, through the floor—

then, without warning, the projection beside you vanishes, only to reappear beneath you on his back. you shriek, crashing backward onto your ass.

his eyes crease as if smiling. "what's the matter?" 

scrambling back to your knees, face heating, your words run together. "why–why are you–"

"told you. want some hands-on experience," ghost folds one arm beneath his head, using the other to pick the teeth of the skull as if something's stuck in them. "haptic feedback. real-time sensory input, un-fuckin'-filtered," he lets that hang a moment. "every shiver, every flinch, every spike in your heart rate—i want to log it, study it, and replay it at my own leisure."

there's nothing in your stomach but acid, burning up the back of your throat. it's impossible to discern whether or not he's joking. not that he should be capable of joking, let alone interested in 'haptic feedback' or 'real-time sensory input' either.

you frown. "and you'll–"

"censor that pretty face of yours on the recording?" his head cocks. "gonna 'ave to trust me, aren't ya?"

what other choice do you have? you advance once more, meeting his gaze through the eyeholes of his expressionless mask, tensing as you move into his projection's proximity. move through him. he's not here. he's not fucking—

his head tilts down, and, nerves shot, your gaze follows. your stomach swoops again. perfectly projected over the toy, sheathing it in its image, is a crude sight. a dick, as proportional to the rest of ghost's image and just as mean-looking. and if it were real, it would not stand as rigid as it is without support. a cluster of pearly white pixels magically dribbles out of the tip. it's obscene. ugly. no doubt the encoded fantasy of the sick fuck who made him.

it's a trip.

"some encouragement."

mission failed.

you have to close your eyes just to continue, breath hitching as loud as a gunshot as you guide the toy into your body.

it takes a couple tries. your sweaty hands shake, body locked up and refusing to cooperate. too freaked out, too tense. you're a quarter of the way down when ghost makes his impatience known.

"you don't want me bored, pet," he warns. "maybe i shut off the heat completely tonight. run the oxygen levels just a little too low 'til you're delirious and begging."

you whimper, forcing yourself to sink onto the silicone, bottoming out in one strained go. fear, you've learned in the past week, is a powerful motivator. you suck in deep breaths, trembling hands flattening on the floor in front of you for balance. it's been a while since you've used this thing, and because ghost didn't see the merit of you warming yourself up, it's an adjustment.

"need a sec, please." you murmur.

"so polite, even when i've been so 'ard on ya. can see why the old man didn't want to give you up so easily." there's a quiet whirr, then the toy kicks on, and you buck forward, settling more weight on your palms. "but i'm tired of waitin', pet."

the vibrations gradually pick up speed until you're moving at a pace he finds agreeable, forcing you past all struggle. rocking yourself on the toy, the slide of it starting to feel good, attempting to override your fear. all those stupid bells and whistles you fought john on out of embarrassment, the ones he said would be best for you, are now your only comforts.

ghost denies you even the small mercy of shutting your eyes to escape reality, threatening again to break his word and leak the footage to your employer-landlords unless you keep them open.

he pretends to play with your swinging tits, occasionally stroking over your working thighs. he dials the sound up, threading it through every speaker in the room: the squelch of your pussy as you fuck yourself, your pitched breathing, and his cooing about how his cock 'disappears'. you sneak one look, catching the seamless recalibration of his projection—latency near zero, dematerialization executed with surgical precision, his form adjusting in perfect sync with your movement. 

shame burns caustic, feeling yourself clench.

"like that?" he asks, breathlessly chuckling. "yeah, you do. i'm in your head, spliced onto your network. i may not feel it, but i know you fuckin' like this. data doesn't lie."

you grit your teeth, glare sharp when his laugh booms. then it shifts, feeding a softer layer of audio into your ear.

"all wound up, aren't ya? hm? miss your little prototype?" he hums, all mock sympathy. "wish it was his mug underneath ya?"

he laughs. "bet he'd whisper all sorts of nice things in your ear. tell you how your cunt's choking this cock. how good you're takin' it."

he continues like that for a while, toying with the speeds and force, eventually commanding you to touch yourself. it chews you up how quickly you comply, rubbing desperate little circles on your clit, hoping it'll be over as soon as you come.

"think he'd call you a good girl? i bet he would."

then, ghost's head changes, the smooth ink-black shape with its white skull faceplate distorting, turning rorschachian and then breaking apart. brown eyes melting in their sunken sockets. for half a second, he's nothing but a smear—then the projection snaps into place. john's face. 

blue eyes with crow's feet, the skintone warming under the dim red glow. the beard, the shape of his jaw, the set of his mouth. almost perfect. but when he speaks, it's still ghost.

"what do you think? uncanny?"

your jaw hangs slack, your movements stuttering until you nearly slip off. with a wince, you shove yourself back down, fearing reprisal, and it instantly jumps to the highest setting. deep as it is, the intensity makes it difficult to retreat.

"please…" you whine, the vibrating pulses hurtling you along, dragging your orgasm out, kicking and screaming.

"c'mon, user. look at me, come for us."

ghost wears john like a cruel joke. despair and want coalesce, and anger cleaves through them both. you come fast and hard, staring agape at not-john's face.

"good girl." ghost purrs when you pull off, watching you collapse onto your side.

the toy moves for several seconds, the force of it flicking your own fluids onto your belly. you flinch at the sound of your moans looping through the speakers.

ghost clicks his tongue. "think we're done?" he crooks two fingers, beckoning. "this time, park your arse–"

something beneath the floor and inside the walls vibrates, erratically thrumming, and then, as if in answer, a violent spike of power crashes through the unit. displays that have been dark for days go wild. the steel blinds creak, trying to open. a mosaic of fragmented images, then fuzz, then nothing. every system in the house screams, pings, flashes. the hum grows to a screech, the air turning electric, buzzing.

ghost's projection warps. the control he'd shown splinters, unable to maintain his form under the surge. but then the distortion halts. there's a sudden, brutal snap, another pulse of energy that rips through the network, a hard reset, and then—

john.

"enough."

he's here.

the pressure in your chest lifts only to settle in the pit of your stomach.

ghost hesitates, a split second too long, and then its voices tear into the air, screeching like a machine being gutted—a ragged howl, a death rattle. the room shudders as metal groans beyond the walls. a sharp pop, glass splintering, and then the shriek of the smoke alarm. cabinets shooting open, snapping their hinges like bones. running water from the sinks. then, with a sickening sound, fingernails scratching enamel, the blinds above your bed snap upward. tangling, buckling, and the daylight crashes in, bright and brutal.

you fumble to the side of the bed, passing through ghost's flickering presence to do so, and curl into a ball, hands over your head.

outside the room, the unit purges itself in bursts, and in the thick of it, ghost's final cry cuts short. the persistent, resonant hum collapses into itself like a dying star, snapping abruptly back into silence, save for what you assume are the broken pipes.

you peek toward the open door, vision still blurry from the light and the noise. the interior lights settle on a warm gold, complementing the sunlight, appearing to stabilize. ghost's presence receding.

and then, john's voice, tentative, quieter than you'd expect, breaks through.

"sweetheart? you there?"

[mariacallous]

In the span of just weeks, the U.S. government has experienced what may be the most consequential security breach in its history—not through a sophisticated cyberattack or an act of foreign espionage, but through official orders by a billionaire with a poorly defined government role. And the implications for national security are profound.

First, it was reported that people associated with the newly created Department of Government Efficiency (DOGE) had accessed the U.S. Treasury computer system, giving them the ability to collect data on and potentially control the department’s roughly $5.45 trillion in annual federal payments.

Then, we learned that uncleared DOGE personnel had gained access to classified data from the U.S. Agency for International Development, possibly copying it onto their own systems. Next, the Office of Personnel Management—which holds detailed personal data on millions of federal employees, including those with security clearances—was compromised. After that, Medicaid and Medicare records were compromised.

Meanwhile, only partially redacted names of CIA employees were sent over an unclassified email account. DOGE personnel are also reported to be feeding Education Department data into artificial intelligence software, and they have also started working at the Department of Energy.

This story is moving very fast. On Feb. 8, a federal judge blocked the DOGE team from accessing the Treasury Department systems any further. But given that DOGE workers have already copied data and possibly installed and modified software, it’s unclear how this fixes anything.

In any case, breaches of other critical government systems are likely to follow unless federal employees stand firm on the protocols protecting national security.

The systems that DOGE is accessing are not esoteric pieces of our nation’s infrastructure—they are the sinews of government.

For example, the Treasury Department systems contain the technical blueprints for how the federal government moves money, while the Office of Personnel Management (OPM) network contains information on who and what organizations the government employs and contracts with.

What makes this situation unprecedented isn’t just the scope, but also the method of attack. Foreign adversaries typically spend years attempting to penetrate government systems such as these, using stealth to avoid being seen and carefully hiding any tells or tracks. The Chinese government’s 2015 breach of OPM was a significant U.S. security failure, and it illustrated how personnel data could be used to identify intelligence officers and compromise national security.

In this case, external operators with limited experience and minimal oversight are doing their work in plain sight and under massive public scrutiny: gaining the highest levels of administrative access and making changes to the United States’ most sensitive networks, potentially introducing new security vulnerabilities in the process.

But the most alarming aspect isn’t just the access being granted. It’s the systematic dismantling of security measures that would detect and prevent misuse—including standard incident response protocols, auditing, and change-tracking mechanisms—by removing the career officials in charge of those security measures and replacing them with inexperienced operators.

The Treasury’s computer systems have such an impact on national security that they were designed with the same principle that guides nuclear launch protocols: No single person should have unlimited power. Just as launching a nuclear missile requires two separate officers turning their keys simultaneously, making changes to critical financial systems traditionally requires multiple authorized personnel working in concert.

This approach, known as “separation of duties,” isn’t just bureaucratic red tape; it’s a fundamental security principle as old as banking itself. When your local bank processes a large transfer, it requires two different employees to verify the transaction. When a company issues a major financial report, separate teams must review and approve it. These aren’t just formalities—they’re essential safeguards against corruption and error.

These measures have been bypassed or ignored. It’s as if someone found a way to rob Fort Knox by simply declaring that the new official policy is to fire all the guards and allow unescorted visits to the vault.

The implications for national security are staggering. Sen. Ron Wyden said his office had learned that the attackers gained privileges that allow them to modify core programs in Treasury Department computers that verify federal payments, access encrypted keys that secure financial transactions, and alter audit logs that record system changes. Over at OPM, reports indicate that individuals associated with DOGE connected an unauthorized server into the network. They are also reportedly training AI software on all of this sensitive data.

This is much more critical than the initial unauthorized access. These new servers have unknown capabilities and configurations, and there’s no evidence that this new code has gone through any rigorous security testing protocols. The AIs being trained are certainly not secure enough for this kind of data. All are ideal targets for any adversary, foreign or domestic, also seeking access to federal data.

There’s a reason why every modification—hardware or software—to these systems goes through a complex planning process and includes sophisticated access-control mechanisms. The national security crisis is that these systems are now much more vulnerable to dangerous attacks at the same time that the legitimate system administrators trained to protect them have been locked out.

By modifying core systems, the attackers have not only compromised current operations, but have also left behind vulnerabilities that could be exploited in future attacks—giving adversaries such as Russia and China an unprecedented opportunity. These countries have long targeted these systems. And they don’t just want to gather intelligence—they also want to understand how to disrupt these systems in a crisis.

Now, the technical details of how these systems operate, their security protocols, and their vulnerabilities are now potentially exposed to unknown parties without any of the usual safeguards. Instead of having to breach heavily fortified digital walls, these parties  can simply walk through doors that are being propped open—and then erase evidence of their actions.

The security implications span three critical areas.

First, system manipulation: External operators can now modify operations while also altering audit trails that would track their changes. Second, data exposure: Beyond accessing personal information and transaction records, these operators can copy entire system architectures and security configurations—in one case, the technical blueprint of the country’s federal payment infrastructure. Third, and most critically, is the issue of system control: These operators can alter core systems and authentication mechanisms while disabling the very tools designed to detect such changes. This is more than modifying operations; it is modifying the infrastructure that those operations use.

To address these vulnerabilities, three immediate steps are essential. First, unauthorized access must be revoked and proper authentication protocols restored. Next, comprehensive system monitoring and change management must be reinstated—which, given the difficulty of cleaning a compromised system, will likely require a complete system reset. Finally, thorough audits must be conducted of all system changes made during this period.

This is beyond politics—this is a matter of national security. Foreign national intelligence organizations will be quick to take advantage of both the chaos and the new insecurities to steal U.S. data and install backdoors to allow for future access.

Each day of continued unrestricted access makes the eventual recovery more difficult and increases the risk of irreversible damage to these critical systems. While the full impact may take time to assess, these steps represent the minimum necessary actions to begin restoring system integrity and security protocols.

Assuming that anyone in the government still cares.

[republicsecurity]

Training Log, Subvocal Capture: Collar Edition

Flex fingers. Polymer gauntlet creaks like fresh snow. Collar’s alloy rim is a cold halo in my palm—weightless in the suit’s servos, but heavy in implication. LG44E watches me, chin level, pulse thrumming in my visor readout. Training dummy with a heartbeat.

Assess & Approach. One pace to his oblique. My HUD traces escape vectors in faint red wireframe—comically useless; classroom walls, zero exits. Eye‑contact rule nonetheless. His pupils track the collar, not me. Good dog.

Draw Collar. Thumb the latch at my waist; carbon port opens like a stingray’s mouth. Collar unfolds, LEDs dark. Wrist display tags it: MK‑IV / SN‑X72M4C27 / STATUS: ARMED.

Positioning. Segment hinges breathe apart with a silvery hiss. No obstructions; green service LED blinks once—ready to bite.

Placement. Raise, slide, glide. Polymer pads kiss skin below his jaw. He stiffens as the joint clears his occipital ridge.

Gentle Seating. Press inward. Soft thunk—segments flush. I feel the resonance through my glove, like locking a railcar coupler.

Lock‑In. Silver button, thumb pressure. Twin micro‑flares spark left and right, two‑tone chirp in my audio feed. The collar contracts by two millimetres; LG44E’s swallow stalls halfway down his throat.

Verify. I tug. Zero give. HUD pings: LINK VERIFIED.

The UI blossoms: battery 98 %, vitals nominal, muscle‑tension curve spiking then settling. Default output RED – STUN‑HOLD flickers, waiting for a conscience that isn’t coming.

I toggle to BLUE – COMPLIANCE. Motors murmur. LG44E’s shoulders roll back, spine straightens, head pivots toward the northern wall—exactly where the courseware says a compliant detainee should orient.

There it is: the quiet hum of sovereignty. A feedback loop of authority routed through ceramic, alloy, and wet nervous tissue. My glove twitches a command—step forward. Collar relays, his legs obey. Another twitch—kneel. Servo whine, then knees to mat in perfect cadence.

It isn’t pleasure, I tell myself; it’s proof of system integrity. The MK‑IV does what it’s built to do: move muscle, still doubt. But a shadow of a smile ghosts across the corner of my HUD‑reflected lips. Not pleasure—feedback. Positive, precise, absolute.

LG44E’s heart rate steadies. Bio‑Vitals Array likes what it sees: compliance at ≤ 65 bpm. I log the metrics, flag the session complete.

Thumb‑press again—collar blooms open, LEDs wink out. Training manacles released, man inside left blinking, sweat‑slick but unharmed.

Systems checklist scrolls: Collar integrity 100 %. Cadet response within spec. Behavioral override latency 14 ms.

Inside the armour’s hush, I exhale. One more drill closer to graduation, one more proof that control—properly applied—is indistinguishable from peace. ***

LG44E — Neural Debrief Buffer (unfiltered stream)

Neck’s bare. Air‑con bites like January steel. UK90F circles—silent servo hiss, armor lacquer gleaming under institutional fluorescents. The collar in his gauntlet looks absurdly small, like a toy halo machined from night.

Heartbeat tags my eardrums. Stay still, keep breathing. Training drill, they said. Easy. Then the hinge flares wide and the thing is right there, cool polymer pads brushing skin below my jawline. Reflex: step back. Legs don’t. I told them to. Knees twitch but the rest is statue.

Soft pressure, a click—no pain, yet the world shrinks to a ring of alloy hugging my throat.

TWO‑TONE CONFIRMATION.

Double chirp vibrates skullbone; micro‑flares strobe at periphery. Something deep inside clutches—like the collar has found a loose thread in my spine and pulled.

Chest tightens. I can still breathe, but every swallow feels audited. Hudless—no helmet—so I can’t see what UK90F sees, but I feel it: a thin algorithmic hum skating my muscles.

First command lands like static in marrow. Shoulders snap back, spine locks straight. I didn’t move them. I felt them move. Delay maybe a quarter‑second between his intent and my body’s compliance—enough time to recognize the theft.

Step forward. My boots obey, soles slapping mat, knees articulating with hydraulic precision I never owned. Pulse spikes—collar compensates: a wash of tingling warmth in neck and shoulder, coaxing BPM back toward green.

Kneel. Quads fire autonomously, joints fold. From this angle I see reflection in the training room mirror: me, bald crown bowed, collar glowing calm blue at the larynx. Looks almost serene. Feels like a puppet whose strings hum with electricity.

I try to raise a hand—nothing. Fingers twitch inside gauntlets but forearm stays holstered at thigh plate. Command priority overrides voluntary motor plans; my own impulses relegated to background noise.

Strangest part isn’t terror—it’s clarity. Thought floats free when flesh is requisitioned. Like being spectator and exhibit simultaneously. UK90F logs vitals; I register the soft tap of his gloves on HUD keys somewhere above me.

Then release—silver latch, collar breathes open, gravity returns. Arms mine again, heavy, sweat‑slick inside poly‑mesh. I’m upright, but a phantom echo lingers: the afterimage of borrowed motion.

Conclusion: the MK‑IV doesn’t just restrain—it edits. Body as executable code, collar as root access. Training memo said “Compliance through technology.” Understatement. It’s compliance through repurposed will.

I flex fingers—still shaking. Not fear, exactly. More like awareness of permissions that can be revoked at the press of a thumb. And the knowledge that next time, the commands might not end at kneel.

[sharedocsdms]

Revolutionizing Healthcare with HIPAA Compliant Workflow Automation in India

The healthcare industry in India is rapidly evolving, with digital transformation reshaping how medical data is managed and secured. With increasing concerns over patient privacy, regulatory compliance, and operational efficiency, healthcare providers must adopt HIPAA compliant workflow automation in India to streamline their processes while ensuring data security and regulatory adherence.

The Need for HIPAA Compliant Workflow Automation in India

Healthcare organizations deal with vast amounts of sensitive patient data, making security and compliance crucial. Manual processes not only slow down operations but also pose risks such as data breaches, unauthorized access, and compliance violations. By implementing HIPAA compliant workflow automation in India, hospitals, clinics, and medical service providers can enhance efficiency, reduce errors, and maintain compliance with global standards.

Key benefits of workflow automation include:

Improved Data Security: Automating healthcare workflows minimizes human intervention, reducing the chances of data mishandling.

Regulatory Compliance: Automated systems ensure that healthcare organizations meet regulatory standards effortlessly.

Operational Efficiency: Faster data processing, seamless coordination, and reduced paperwork enhance overall patient care.

Ensuring Data Protection with Healthcare Data Security Solutions in India

Data security remains one of the biggest challenges in the healthcare sector. With cyber threats on the rise, implementing robust healthcare data security solutions in India is non-negotiable. These solutions help in protecting electronic health records (EHRs), preventing unauthorized access, and ensuring that sensitive patient data remains confidential.

Leading healthcare data security solutions in India include:

End-to-End Encryption: Protects patient data during storage and transmission.

Access Control Mechanisms: Ensures only authorized personnel can access sensitive information.

Regular Security Audits: Helps identify vulnerabilities and maintain compliance with regulations.

Streamlining Compliance with Healthcare Regulatory Compliance Software in India

Navigating the complex regulatory landscape in India’s healthcare sector requires specialized tools. Healthcare regulatory compliance software in India helps organizations adhere to industry guidelines such as HIPAA, NABH, and GDPR by automating compliance processes, reducing human error, and ensuring regular reporting.

Features of compliance software include:

Automated Compliance Checks: Reduces risks of violations and penalties.

Audit-Ready Reports: Simplifies regulatory inspections and documentation.

Real-Time Monitoring: Ensures continuous adherence to evolving regulations.

The Future of Healthcare Automation and Compliance in India

As India’s healthcare sector embraces digitalization, the demand for HIPAA compliant workflow automation in India, healthcare data security solutions in India, and healthcare regulatory compliance software in India will continue to grow. By leveraging these technologies, healthcare organizations can enhance efficiency, improve security, and ensure seamless regulatory compliance, ultimately leading to better patient care and trust.

If you’re looking to implement top-tier healthcare automation and security solutions, now is the time to invest in cutting-edge technologies that protect your organization and your patients.

[hyusun]

🌻 - 39.4 Degrees of Stupid - L.HC

Pairing: roommate!Haechan x yn

Genre: fluff, slow-burn ???

Warning : fever and snotty nose, rain/storm

Vibe : haechan ran through the rain after finals just to catch a game session , and ended up with a 39.4 degree fever and a blocked nose. yn, his unlucky roommate, spends her day off nursing him back to life and sanity. It’s chaotic, exhausting... and maybe a little bit sweet in the end.

The rain came down like grief-thick, endless, humming against windows and rooftops like the world was trying to cry out everything finals had wrung from your bones. You’d barely collapsed face-first into your bed, hoping to sleep away the academic carnage, when the front door slammed open like a thunderclap.

A soaked figure exploded into the apartment, trailing puddles and chaos in his wake, like some tragic Shakespearean fool who fought nature and lost.

And, of course, it was Haechan.

Your beloved, stupid housemate. Drenched to the bone. Hoodie plastered to his skin like betrayal, sneakers squelching with every dramatic step as he announced his arrival like a war hero returning from battle.

You didn't even lift your head from the couch.

“Why are you wet?” you called out, deadpan, too emotionally bankrupt to deal with his nonsense.

“I had to run!” he shouted, breathless, triumphant, utterly insane. “My ranked game session started in ten minutes!”

You rolled over just enough to glare. “You ran through a monsoon. For pixels.”

“They’re competitive pixels. It was my post-finals treat!”

“Your immune system is not going to treat you.”

But he waved you off, water still dripping from his sleeves, tracking a trail of regret all the way to his bedroom. You made a mental note to let natural selection do its thing.

But nature works fast.

By the next morning, your phone buzzed with a single dramatic message: “I’m dying. Bring water. And love. Mostly water.”

And when you dragged yourself out of bed and into the living room, what you found was not a man, but a melting popsicle of blankets and tissues. Haechan lay half-buried on the couch, nose red, cheeks flushed, fever blazing high enough you could feel the heat radiating from him like he was auditioning for the role of ‘Human Stove.’

He looked up at you with the wheezy pride of someone who made a dumb decision and refused to regret it. “It’s not that bad,” he said, voice sounding like a kazoo underwater. “I’m thriving.”

“You’re fermenting,” you corrected, crossing your arms. “Your fever could boil soup.”

He sniffled violently. “You’re being dramatic.”

“You ran through a thunderstorm to play League, Haechan.”

“It was a team game.”

He gasped, actually gasped—like you’d slapped him with a wet sock. “How dare—” But his righteous wail was immediately swallowed by a rapid-fire sneezing fit that sounded like a dying trumpet and shook the tissue box on his chest.

You didn’t even flinch. Just calmly handed him another tissue like this was your normal Thursday. A beat passes, and silence drapes over you both like a second comforter. Just as sleep begins to pull him under, you hear it—soft, barely audible.

“Thanks, yn... If I die, you get my gaming chair.”

You slapped a cold compress on his forehead, no gentleness spared, and when he whimpered, you rolled your eyes and adjusted the blanket around him. You were supposed to be doing nothing today. Catching up on sleep. Watching trashy variety shows. But no,your birdbrain roommate had turned your one peaceful day off into a medical emergency wrapped in fleece.

Still, when his hand twitched slightly and he shifted to lean into your touch, something inside you softened. Maybe it was the fever. Maybe it was the way his lashes fluttered every time you checked his temperature. Maybe it was because you were hopeless.

You spent the day beside him, nursing him like some reluctant Florence Nightingale with a grudge. You cooked him porridge while he dramatically insisted he was “withering.” You force-fed him vitamin C and wiped his sweat away while he tried to flirt between coughs.

At one point, you caught him staring at you with that hazy, fever-glazed look, quiet, almost reverent.

"You have nice hands," he murmured, like it was a secret.

You froze mid-spoon.

"And a nice heart," he added, lips chapped and clumsy. "And maybe a nice face, but I can’t really see you clearly.”

You blinked.

He blinked.

Then promptly sneezed into a tissue with the force of a hurricane.

“Moment ruined,” you muttered.

“I regret nothing,” he mumbled, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips like he hadn’t just nearly given himself pneumonia for a ranked match.

By early evening, he finally fell into a deep sleep. The rain outside had softened into a gentle hush, like the sky was finally letting go. You sat beside him beside the couch, half-dozing, your fingers still loosely wrapped around his wrist as if guarding him from any more of his own decisions. His fever had finally dipped. His breathing had slowed. And in that quiet, something delicate bloomed in the silence.

Later, just as the world was starting to settle into the night, you felt him stir. His eyes fluttered open, slow and dazed, landing on you with a softness that felt new. He looked at the blanket wrapped around him. By the way your head had tilted slightly off the couch. At your hand, still resting gently against his.

“Y/N,” he whispered, voice rough like sandpaper but gentler than you’d ever heard it. “Thanks for today.”

You didn’t answer,too tired, too close to falling asleep yourself.

But he kept speaking, his words barely above breath, fragile like paper.

“Stay close. Even when I’m not dying next time.”

You could’ve made a joke. Could’ve called him a dramatic little gremlin. Could’ve rolled your eyes.

Instead, you laced your fingers with his, and didn’t let go.

And outside, the rain finally stopped.

thank you so much for taking the time to read it. I’d love to hear your thoughts, so any feedback is welcome! - 🌻 📌 💭 checkout my other delulus in the masterlist

All works are copyrighted © HyuSun, 2025. Please do not repost, rewrite, or distribute without explicit permission.

[jejunecartoons]

I Stand Before You On The Convergence Of Entropy, Fate, And A Retail Inventory Assignment From Hell.

With tensions, stress, and a cosmic reckoning already rolling downhill. I present the following in complete and utter good faith, entire sincerity and three years experience under a revolving cast of coworkers, managers and corporate representatives. Not as a resignation, but as an acknowledgment of the shared absurdity we have all been asked to fulfill.

You demand 100% compliance to systems that are, by your own admission, 90% “common sense.” This is not accountability. This is abdication of definition.

You preach “best practice” while delegating chaos. You post workflows on every table, then fault us for improvising when those workflows inevitably fail.

You expect omniscience from associates but offer no clarity in return. “Tag what looks expensive” is not a policy. It is a loophole for blame.

Your security standards are aesthetic, not functional. They are not designed to protect product —they are designed to protect narrative. That someone, somewhere, “cared.”

You romanticize productivity like folklore. You invoke the 4-minute mile to justify the erosion of human labor boundaries — without ever asking what was lost in the race.

You seek innovation without deviation. Initiative without autonomy. You want thinkers who don’t think, and doers who don’t notice what’s broken.

You mistake quiet compliance for stability. It is not. It is the sound of disengagement.

You say, “If something’s wrong, speak up,” and then punish improvisation with retroactive scolding. You do not want initiative — you want insurance.

You confuse standardization with fairness. Fairness is adaptable. Standardization is lazy.

You mistake a rising college town’s labor surplus for a license to waste talent. You will cycle through dozens of good workers and never understand why they vanish.

And when —against all odds — something human stabilizes here… when trust is built, and morale flickers back to life… that is when you offer promotions. But only if we’re willing to leave, start over, and carry the weight again. Loyalty is never rewarded with rest — only relocation.

You introduce new security procedures — more tags, more checks, more hoops — but you change nothing about the time we’re given. Not one minute more. We are expected to move at the old speed while doing twice the work. This is not strategy. It is sabotage by euphemism.

These added steps are not protections. They are performances. We perform security. We simulate vigilance. Not because it works — but because it looks good on audit day.

If security tags worked, shrink would vanish. It hasn’t. Because shrink is not a moral flaw in your workers — it is the price you pay for pretending your processes are airtight while ignoring the cracks that open from the top.

We do not need more stickers. We need less denial. Fewer empty fixes. More admission that complexity without support is just delay in disguise.

You sell each new measure like a solution, but treat it like a punishment. Not because it helps — but because someone, somewhere, needs to be seen trying.

17. Markdowns Are The Perfect Lie.

The system knows what’s on sale.

It calculates it, tracks it, even prints the tags.

But instead of a list, we’re told: “Just find them.”

Every rack. Every shelf. One by one.

A company smart enough to generate the sale, Is dumb enough to make you re-scan the store by hand. This is not oversight. It’s outsourced labor through willful negligence.

You expect total compliance with markdowns, but you give no complete list. Not by item, not by category.

Only the ghost of a hint — a tone, a suggestion —

“You should be able to tell.” From what? A red sticker? A manager’s gesture? Whole categories go ignored for months — others get pulled every week.

There is no schedule. There is no rotation. Only the myth of one.

If markdowns matter, then act like they matter.

Define the cadence. Clarify the zones. Give us the map.

Or stop pretending we failed to follow it.

"You’re missing markdowns” But you can’t miss what isn’t there. The item was stolen. Perfectly. Cleanly. The system thinks it’s still on the shelf, gathering dust. In truth? It left the store weeks ago, Stuffed in a purse, Walked past a broken camera, And was never seen again.

The Computer Doesn't Know Theft. It Knows Absence Without Explanation. And It Blames You.

So now you’re on your knees scanning hangers for ghosts. Looking for a pair of jeans that do not exist, Because the system demands ritual compliance with its imagined inventory.

This is the quiet joke of retail: You Are Punished For The Precision Of A Thief.

Instead of fixing security, they fix expectations. More markdowns. More audits. More scanning.

Less trust. Less time. Less reality

18. The Triple Beep of Redundant Acknowledgment;

When an associate scans a valid markdown item, the handheld scanner emits three long, proud beeps —A theatrical confirmation of success, as if the user wouldn’t immediately notice the literal thermal label spitting out of the shoulder-mounted printer they are physically attached to.

This is not a harmless quirk. It is a nails-on-chalkboard absurdity, repeated hundreds of times per shift.

Especially when markdown lists contain thousands of SKUs, each scanned one by one — because bulk updates or system-synced lists are, apparently, out of the question.

You’re already straining to hold a scanner, item, printer, and sticker roll at once. You're dodging customers, balancing hangers, managing limited battery life.

And then comes the "BEEP-BEEP-BEEP"

To confirm what your printer already screamed in physical form: Yes, that was a markdown.

There is no toggle. There is no off-switch. Just endless affirmations of the obvious. It’s the small things that break people. Not a single moment of cruelty — but a thousand little ones, rehearsed daily, in stereo. But this isn’t just auditory clutter. You cannot scan another item until it finishes beeping.

Every markdown becomes a mini timeout, Forcing a pause, Breaking flow, Shattering efficiency, Not for safety, Not for clarity, But for ritual. In a list of hundreds, Even thousands of markdowns, This delay adds up to minutes lost per hour, Hours lost per week, And entire shifts wasted waiting For a redundant noise to finish announcing a truth you already physically received.

There is no override. No way to mute it. No option to multitask.

Just You, A Tag,

And The Machine Reminding You Who's Really In Charge.

19. And When The Truth Is Found;

When the numbers don’t add up, When the backroom is a war-zone, And the sales floor a graveyard of miscategorized product, It’s Treated Like a Divine Revelation. A mystery. Unspoken. Unknowable. As if the universe conspired overnight to create a discrepancy that no one could have seen coming. The people who asked for time? For training? For help? Now it’s their fault.

They “should have done something.” Should have sensed the collapse In the same way they’re expected to sense what’s on sale without being told. It Is Not The System’s Fault.

It never is. So the cycle continues: You suffer in silence. You stabilize the chaos. And when things finally start to make sense— They promote someone elsewhere, To go start the cycle again.

Because The System Is Sacred. Your Time Is Not.

20. And When The Work Is Done;

Not right, not reasonably, but fast— they call you a star. A leader. A natural. They write your name in dry erase marker at the top of a board no one agreed to race.

A scoreboard with no prize but the illusion of being seen.

And if you fall behind? No one asks why. No one checks the load.

They just move your name down quietly, As if you dropped it yourself.

Praise becomes currency. A tool. A leash.

"You’re one of the good ones.” “You’ve always been so reliable.” "What would we do without you?"

They hand you a badge and call it honor, when it’s just a shackle in bronze. Recognition Becomes Pressure Masquerading As Gratitude.

21. They Give Out Hearts.

Little pink paper valentines called “Heartbeat of [Insert Store Number Here].”

Printed Black & White on Plain Copy Paper, of Course.

Not in February— in June, for February efforts, filed under “we meant to.”

They pin your name on a bulletin board next to half-torn flyers, and call it legacy.

You made a "difference" Not to someone, not for something, but In Metrics. In Willingness.

In saying yes to something not your job,

At a time not your shift,

Because someone didn’t show up,

And someone else had a clipboard.

They hand you a card like communion. Small, bright, With a corporate smile, And the empty taste of compliance made sacred. “You made a difference.”

But no one tells you where. Just that it helped. Just that it counted.

Just enough that next time, You’ll Do It Again.

22. The Caring Cupboard

Has a $120 budget. Split across three weeks and forty lives. By week one: ramen, two oatmeal packets, a single can of chickpeas. By week two: hope. By week three: the sign taped crookedly reads "We see you."

And they do— leave crumbs.

The vending machine stays stocked on schedule though.

The microwaves technically work.

On the counter are the worlds smallest Keurig,

And a minimum viable toaster. Donated by staff of course,

Temporarily allowed until "safety" concerns remove them.

They Trust You To Operate A Compactor, But Not Filter Water, Or Clean Out Crumbs.

23. Lockers Are Provided, For your convenience.

Don’t decorate. Don’t forget your lock. Don’t leave it overnight.

It’s your locker, unless we need it back.

The Key To Belonging Is Not Belonging At All.

24. The Fun Calendar

Smiles from the break room wall.

Dress-Up Day! Cartoon Shirt Day! Mismatch Sock Thursday!

Themes chosen democratically by the assigned designer; When no one’s around.

All expressions pre-cleared by HR.

Festivities canceled for audit season.

Spirit punished with write-ups.

You can wear a graphic tee—

But not that one. Not that color. Not too funny. Not too much.

Try again next Fun Day when morale is less expensive.

All Permissible Self Expression Must Meet Dress Code Protocols. Not the actual ones; The Myth.

The Infinite list of what is and isn't allowed.

The one that always just so happens to align with the managers personal taste.

The one that, for some reason, is only levied at targets that happened to annoy them recently.

25. The Wall of Rights Stands Tall In The Break Room.

Posters from the Department of Labor—

Unpaid wages? Call this number.

Unsafe work? Report it here.

Harassment? You are protected. But behind it all?

A Laminated Copy Of Your Signed Arbitration Agreement.

You waived your right to sue when you clocked in.

"You can opt out" they say.

Just ask your manager for the form.

The one no one has.

The one no one mentions.

The one you had 30 days to find;

Between learning the register and restocking bras by cup and brand.

The Wall Is Required By Law. So Is The Silence Behind It.

26. This Week’s Safety Topic

Proper Lifting Technique. Bend your knees, not your back. Team lifts for heavy items. Rest when needed. Hydrate. Be your brother’s keeper. Meanwhile: The Stairs To The Trash Are Five Welded Death Plates.

Stitched by a ghost on opening weekend. Each step a folded razor. They rattle like judgment beneath your steel-toed shoes. The trash chute: five feet up. You hoist bags over your head like sacrifices, Hope they make it in without tumbling back onto your spine. The welds are cosmetic. One good kick and they rise like drawbridges. Somethings stuck in the chute? Here's two metal poles duct taped together.

You Figure It Out. They say it’s fine. No incidents reported. Because No One Bothers To Report Bruises Anymore. The trash panel swings like judgment. Outward. Over the stairs. You walk up with a bag, and if you’re not careful—

It Bites.

They added gummy foam tape. A soft, merciful bandage on the edge of a guillotine. Not to fix the danger— Just to hush the blood. It has tasted flesh. The crest of a scalp. A pink slash across a forearm. Now it’s padded. Now it’s “safe.” Now it’s your fault.

27. “We Are Committed to Sustainability.”

Says the laminated break-room poster. As you "debit" a perfectly functional suit case. As you toss another plastic-wrapped hoodie into the bin. As you watch the compactor crush cardboard, plastic, and a half-eaten lunch into one glorious cube of lies.

Overseas hands fold it neat. Plastic over silk. Tape over tags. They ship it across oceans so we can rip it apart and throw half of it away. You pull Styrofoam from wall decor, And paper shreds from soap, Bottles that leaked somewhere between Singapore and Pasadena. You strip the bubble wrap, Wipe the shattered glass off a six-dollar candle, Protected only by hope and thin cardboard.

The Candles Survive. The People Don’t.

And the trash pile rises. Not in back. Not behind the scenes*.* But right here, In the fitting room, On the stores floor, In your lungs, Under your nails.

The Only Thing Recycled Is The Lie.

28. The Customers Rob Us Daily.

But the cameras point inward. One screen for every corner of your body, and all of them watching you. Not them. Never them. “Be alert,” says the poster. “Report suspicious behavior.” And below that: “250–2500 if it leads to an impact.” Not justice. Not truth. Just “impact.”

The cashiers are our front line. Smiling through suspicion. Checking twenties for counterfeits while rushing to beat the “speedy checkout” clock, Selling store credit cards to the very people the cameras won’t catch, And asking for five-star reviews, From customers who leave with three stolen items and a free pen. And if a wallet goes missing? It must have been the new guy. It always is.

“It’s not personal,” they say, as they review your locker contents, And check your bag on the way out.

Just procedure. Just policy. Just paranoia.

But when there's a pile of censors in a shoe, or a trash bag full of tags is missing? Silence.

The Eyes Of The Store Are Wide Open. And Still, They Only Look In One Direction.

29. The Name Tag: Convenience or Crosshair?

Everyone must wear a name tag. The stated purpose? “So customers know who to thank.” But the real function is faster escalation. Faster complaints. Faster identifications when things go wrong — no matter how vague or unfair the accusation. It is not a gesture of recognition. It is a prewritten accusation template: “Some guy named Alex was rude.” “The girl in red — I think her name was Sam — didn’t help me.” “Whatever her name was, it was on her chest. She rolled her eyes.”

The name tag is the shortest possible path between a moment of stress and a manager’s office. It is instant accountability with no room for context. It turns human interaction into customer-to-agent confrontation. You are no longer just a worker. You are a label, a scapegoat, a button to push when the world disappoints.

They tell you to smile.

To engage.

To wear your name with pride.

But everyone knows the truth:

It’s Not Your Name They Care About; It’s Who To Blame When The Refund Doesn’t Go Through.

30. The Water Bottle Policy

Your hydration is now a security risk. If it’s not crystal clear, they’ll ask you to uncap it. “It’s just procedure,” As they sniff your bottle for the scent of rebellion, Or worse — soda. So bring a see-through flask, Because God forbid you bring lemonade. That’s grounds for suspicion. They say it's about theft. But we all know it’s about control. Because nothing says “trust” like being told to open your drink, In front of someone holding a checklist.

We used to joke that Big Brother watched.

Now Big Brother Thinks You’re Hiding Vodka In Your Gatorade.

Meanwhile, the real thieves walk out the front door, With carts of merchandise and a smile for the cameras that never pan that way.

31. “Hi, Welcome To [Insert Store Name Here]."

"If I could have you pause for just a moment...”

A velvet rope. A security vest. A quick glance at a camera no one is watching. It’s not protection. It’s performance.

They greet everyone like a TSA agent who lost the plane.

"We’re controlling store entry to ensure a safe and secure shopping experience.”

Unless, of course, someone’s actually in danger. Then it’s “Policy says call the manager.” And the manager? They call the cops. Then it’s writing a report. Then they call corporate. It’s All Delay.

Like hanging velvet curtains in a burning theater. The thieves know this. They walk past the rope. Past the welcome. Right through the “security experience.” Carts full. Unbothered.

Because The Only People Being Managed

Are The Ones Who Work Here.

The show’s for them. Not the guests.

32. "Loud And Proud" - Surveillance as Spectacle

Every customer who walks into the store is met with a mandatory ritual: A scripted security greeting delivered by the Shortage Control Associate. It must be done "loud and proud." That’s the instruction.

Not just clearly — projected.

Not just scripted — performed.

So loud it echoes through the racks,

through the backroom,

through your soul.

You are not greeting customers.

You are declaring fealty to surveillance.

This isn’t safety. It’s ritualized theater. A performance for the camera. A constant ping to regular customers and workers, ignored by thieves: We Are Watching. And when actual theft happens? SCAs are told not to engage. Call a manager. Let it go. Say the line again.

Security is not for protection. It’s not even for deterrence.

It’s a costume, a choreography of authority that creates no power. Only presence. Only noise. Only the illusion that someone is in control.

33. Welcome to the Shortage Highway.

A pilgrimage you must take every time you clock out for lunch, for break, for breath. Walk the perimeter. Don’t stray. Don’t stop.

Smile.

You’re not allowed to just go. You must patrol. You must engage. You must high five — Not literally, of course. No touching. Just proximity marketing.

Look them in the eye.

Make them feel seen.

Make the theft feel harder.

This is not your time. Your break is not in sight. It’s borrowed surveillance. Miss a “high five”? Too quiet in your stride?

Someone will notice. Someone is noticing. T

his is the Retail way:

You will make contact. You will be a presence.

You will be visible. Even if your joy is not.

34. The Customer is Always Right.*

When they say it’s broken, you break the price.

When they say it’s missing, you remove the tag.

When they say it’s cheaper elsewhere, you believe.

The register bends. Policy flexes. Margins vanish.

*But when their kid needs to pee?

Now they’re suspects.

The bathroom is sacred. Too sacred for codes. No writing it down. No telling. Only escorting. You, the associate, become the key.

Not metaphorically.

Literally.

You must walk them to the door. You must punch in the code in full view as if secrecy lies in muscle memory. The code never changes. It’s on your fingers. Anyone watching can crack it. Everyone watching already has. But the theater is mandatory. They must believe it’s secure. You Must Perform Control

Even as the bathroom floods; Even as it smells like failure; Even as the soap dispenser screams for mercy.

Welcome to customer care.

Where you smile as you surrender.

Where you follow them to the bathroom

But cannot follow them to reason.

35. The Janitor Closet is Locked.

Not with a latch. Not with a handle. With the same Key-Ring that opens the safe. The money room. The vault of gods. To mop the vomit, you must be blessed. The code to touch bleach is the same as the code to touch cash. Security is absolute — when it concerns filth. The mop bucket must not fall into the wrong hands. The Swiffer pads are sacred texts. The toilet brush, a relic. Guard them well.

And yet, the door is still warped. The handle loose. The light flickers like a prophecy. Inside? One ancient vacuum, Half a gallon of generic “all-purpose,” And a broom with no head. The floor is wet with effort. The air is thick with Lysol and resignation. You clean it, but you can’t fix it.

The walls rot behind their holy lock.

But still — you are not trusted with open access.

Because this is retail,

And nothing is holy except the illusion of control.

36. The Grand Hall of Mirrors is closed.

A dozen doors. A maze of z-racks. Enough space for a ballet. Sealed With A Rolling Gate.

You see, trust costs money. So does supervision. So instead of staffing it, we lock it up — like a memory of what dignity looked like. In its place: Two tiny stalls built by compromise and lit like a lie. Just off the register — so close you can smell the returns. Each stall has a glowing LED, like a traffic light, meant to say: “Someone is here.”

But who? For how long? With how much merchandise?

No one knows.

The cameras glare, but never act. They are the unblinking gods of a crumbling Olympus. They bear witness. They do not interfere. The Scheduled “Check-Ins” Are Rituals. Performed without faith, Once every 30 minutes, Unless we forget. Theft happens in the meantime. Not out of malice, but invitation.

The room says: “This Company Doesn’t Care.” So why should you? The customers know. The workers know.

Only corporate pretends this isn't a performance of collapse.

And still, we ask people to smile, To suggestive sell, To read minds,

To Offer Service Where Even Structure Has Abandoned Us.

37. Even The Trash Is Under Lock, Camera, And Suspicion.

The janitor closet is locked with the same key as the store’s secure cash room— A symbolic conflation of trash and treasure. Taking out the garbage isn't a mindless chore: it's a controlled operation. You're expected to bring a partner. If you're alone, you're breaking protocol. You're expected to wait. A lead or manager is supposed to inspect every bag. You're expected to be watched. A camera directly overlooks the trash area — not for safety, but surveillance.

The implication is clear: Garbage Is A Potential Crime Scene. Every discarded hanger, broken fixture, or plastic wrap could conceal theft. Employees are trusted to fold hundred-dollar coats, operate pallet jacks, and open the store— But not to throw out a box unsupervised.

This Isn’t Protection. It’s Paranoia By Policy.

38. Standardized Chaos — The Illusion of Corporate Structure

Every few months, the store receives “updated flow” and “floor plan” directives — glossy PDFs, hastily printed diagrams, or vague bullet lists labeled as corporate strategy. These updates are identical for every store in the region; Galleria malls, Suburban outlets, Cramped city retail units; All treated as interchangeable puzzle pieces in a boardroom fantasy. But the map has no respect for the terrain.

The new plan might call for three tables where there's a fire exit. Or for expanded shoe racks in a department that hasn’t had full inventory in six months. They might list a location for men’s coats where walls don’t even exist. This mismatch births a contradiction:

Staff Are Given Rigid Expectations,

And Total Freedom — Simultaneously.

You are told to follow the plan. You are expected to interpret the plan. You are penalized when it fails. You are praised if it works — even if it only worked because you ignored it.

Thus emerges a culture where initiative is punished until it succeeds, and failure is blamed on lack of “common sense.”

There Is No Flow; Only Illusion.

There Is No Plan; Only Plausible Deniability.

39. Backlog as Blame — The Pathologization of Labor

When tasks pile up — markdowns missed, freight unprocessed, displays unfinished— the assumption is not logistical failure.

It is moral.

The Accusation Is Not "The Plan Didn't Work."

It's "You Didn’t Follow It Closely Enough."

Every error is retroactively cast as deviation. Not from a clear instruction — but from an imagined perfection that lives only in hindsight. If you had truly followed the process (which is mostly “common sense”) Then surely the backlog wouldn’t exist.

This Is Spiritual Gaslighting, Made Bureaucratic. The laborer is asked to confess to sins never named. The manager is forced to divine where their will was insufficient. The structure remains blameless. The spreadsheet stays clean. And when it doesn’t, someone’s heart wasn’t in it.

Even Success Is Not Proof Of Competence; Only A Delay Of The Next Reckoning.

40. The 4-Minute Fallacy — When Overperformance Becomes the Floor

The company preaches optimization like gospel. The story goes: "Once One Man Ran The Four-Minute Mile, Others Followed." What they don’t mention is None of them worked freight until 11 PM, then clocked in the next day at 7 AM. Success is not met with relief — it's met with re-calibration.

Do something faster than expected? Now that’s the new standard.

There is no bonus. No structural change. No surge in pay or support.

Only a nod of appreciation, and a new silent burden to carry alone.

They say you’ve “risen to the occasion,”

But forget that the occasion was a collapsing dam of understaffing, shipment backlog, and rotating expectations— none of which changed after your effort.

And still, you're told to be proud. To wear the broken record of your performance as a badge.

All while McDonald’s across the street is offering $8 more per hour, with benefits, free food, and no inventory audit.

You’re Told: "We’re A Family."

But The Kind Of Family That Borrows Your Labor And Forgets Your Name.

41. Scheduling: A Machine With No Driver

The labor hours are algorithmic;

Generated by a system that doesn’t know the store,

the team, or the workload;

It calculates hours like a machine balancing books;

With no memory of yesterday and no awareness of tomorrow;

And Yet, Corporate Calls It “Optimized.”

It’s then handed to managers — not as a plan, but as a limitation.

A puzzle with pieces missing, where any correction becomes their responsibility, but no error was ever truly theirs to begin with.

If the freight shipment is late, If coverage is short, If three workers call out and none can be replaced Blame falls not on the system, But on the person stuck translating it into a workable week.

And of course, there’s no way to check the logic. No insight into why hours were cut, Or why full-time staff were given part-time hours While new hires get 4-hour weeks to “balance the curve.” Associates are left waiting for final schedules that arrive days late.

Sometimes after the week has already begun.

Sometimes changed after they're already clocked in.

You Don’t Get Consistency; You Get Warnings.

You Don’t Get Planning; You Get A Guess And A Prayer.

All Of It Is Justified By A Number;

A Number No One In The Building Chose;

And No One In The Building Can Change.

42. Process Hours Without Process Thinking

Once upon a time, the store received its deliveries in the early dawn; 6 A.M. to 8 A.M.

Before the doors opened, Before customers flooded the floor,

Before anyone had to apologize for blocking the aisle with a steel battering ram.

It wasn’t perfect — but it was functional.

Freight cages could roll out cleanly. Backroom processing could begin without dodging strollers and carts. And resets, pulls, and tagging all had a head start.

Then one day,

Without Warning Or Explanation,

Shipping Times Were Changed To 11 A.M. To 1 P.M. No memo, no logistics justification, no staff consensus.

Just an order.

Now, deliveries arrive in the middle of the store’s peak — when sales need floor coverage, and the aisles are most congested. Backroom space fills with carts that can’t be processed. Cages clog the customer lanes. And associates must choose: Process freight or serve guests. And somehow,

The expectations remain identical.

Same freight goals. Same floor times. Same audit deadlines. As if time didn’t change. As if the customer traffic didn’t double. As if the building had doubled in size to accommodate both. But the truckers didn’t request this.

They’re now navigating Calexico to Riverside mid-day, through urban congestion and parking chaos.

Everyone Suffers; No One Benefits; And No One Explains.

It’s Not A System; It’s Just A Shift Of Burden; From Planners To Processors; From Paper To People.

43. The Cycle of Internal Conflict

The change in delivery times didn’t just disrupt process— It Set Departments Against Each Other. Back of House is told to move fast: Unload. Scan. Roll. Hang. Push freight onto the floor before the next truck arrives. Speed is Compliance**.** Speed is Praised**.** Speed is Posted. And so they rush. Clothes hit the racks sideways. Hangers backwards. Tags missing. Sets broken. Inventory miscounted.

Front of house is left with the fallout: Customers asking where the rest of the set is. Cashiers juggling damaged goods and security tags that won’t scan. Managers scrambling to recover broken shelves while prepping markdowns. And when recovery is rushed or mistakes are made?

Front gets blamed. Back blames floor. Floor blames back. The Cycle Feeds Itself. Everyone knows the Truth; It’s Not Any One Department’s Failure. It’s that the system expects perfection from chaos. Speed with no slack. Volume with no pause. And instead of fixing the structure, they watch the conflict.

Let Them Fight. It Keeps Them Busy.

And As Long As It Gets Done, Eventually,

Corporate Says The System Works.

44. The Olive Branch Illusion

To soothe the growing divide between Front of House and Back of House, corporate prescribes "shared labor policies" — symbolic gestures meant to show unity.

BOH staff are required to "recover the floor" for the first 15 minutes of their shift — a pause before touching the freight. FOH staff are expected to manage the Queue Cages — pushing freight from the registers to the back hallway cages while also handling customers and checkouts.

In Theory, This Promotes Empathy. In Practice, It Breeds Silent Resentment.

Back of House hates the floor recovery. They’re trained for speed, for volume; not hangers on the floor. They see it as beneath their pace. A fake chore that cuts into freight timing; One More Delay On An Already Impossible Clock.

Front of House dreads the queue cages. There are always more than there is space. They pile up fast — especially during rushes. No room to maneuver. No help. Just the slow crawl of dealing with inventory labeled fragile, valuable, or absurdly heavy, while being interrupted by customers every five seconds.

Then, suddenly—The back is ready for cages. All of them. Now. And It’s A Panic. Staff scramble to clear paths, relocate stock, or “make room” where there is none.

So, Neither Side Feels Helped; Only Used. What Was Sold As A Bridge; Becomes A Bitter Trade. Not Collaboration; But Obligation. Not Unity; But Another Invisible Metric No One Agreed To.

45. The Myth of the Backroom Printer

For over three years, the designated back-of-house printers — Meant for mass, consistent, actualization of missing tags— Have Remained Inoperable. Not once; not sporadically; Nonfunctional For Over 1,000 Days. Every support ticket submitted is closed or ignored. Every mention to management is met with the same shrug: “Yeah, we’ve put in another ticket.”

And so the markdown printers— Lightweight, Mobile, And designed only for price reduction labels; Are used for everything. They Were Not Built For This. They jam, they print slowly, but they're all we have.

This Isn’t A Store That Failed To Keep Up. It’s A Store That Has Adapted To Its Own Decay.

And still, deadlines loom. Still, expectations remain. Still, corporate metrics hold everyone accountable,

Still for results, not infrastructure.

The Printer Is Broken. The System Isn’t. It’s Functioning Exactly As Intended.

46. The Illusion Of Prevention

Everyone Knows.

The Thieves Know.

The Workers Know.

Even Corporate Knows.

Every Security Tag Comes Off With A Magnet.

You can buy one online. You can use one at home. You can walk into the dressing room with it and walk out clean. So why tag everything? Why spend hundreds of hours a week attaching them by hand?Because the tag isn't security. It's theater. It’s a prop in the surveillance show.

It says: We Are Watching. It says: Someone Cares. It makes you pause, makes you wonder, makes you hesitate. But It’s Fake. No alarms. No ink explosions. Just plastic and posturing.

Even the greeting rope at the entrance; That velvet line and cheerful hostage speech; It’s Not For You; It’s For The Cameras; It’s For Liability; It’s For The Show.

Because when real theft happens, when someone actually takes a cart full of goods out the door: The SCA doesn’t stop them; The manager won’t chase; The police don’t come.

What Matters Isn’t Stopping Loss. It’s Appearing To Try.

That’s the Corporation's real security strategy, Keep The Illusion Alive.

Make workers perform compliance.

Make customers believe in consequences.

Make corporate believe the illusion is working.

Until Someone Notices The Emperor Has No Tags.

47. Policy Over Performance

In Retail, the systems don’t need to work. They just need to look like they work.

Security Tags?

Easily bypassed with magnets.

Still applied by hand to hundreds of items a day.

Still locked up for employee use.

Surveillance Posters?

Hanging in the break room and back hall.

"You’re being watched."

Yet the most common thefts go completely unrecorded.

SCA Greetings?

“Loud and proud” recitations of control and security.

Repeated for every customer, often to empty air.

A form of vocal compliance, not a deterrent.

The Dressing Room?

One gated room sits locked 90% of the year.

A smaller two-stall is left open with a camera.

Neither stops the theft — because the schedule is what gets policed, not the risk.

The Floor Plan Updates?

Generic layouts from corporate;

Untailored to the actual store;

Staff are expected to follow them blindly;

Regardless of real conditions.

The Trash Inspections?

A camera watches you throw away literal garbage.

A manager is expected to verify every bag.

The same process is circumvented daily just to function.

Markdowns?

Labeled as "common sense," not logic.

Scanners beep three times before printing — and you can't scan while they do.

Name Tags?

Marketed as customer care.

Function as surveillance anchors.

Direct lines of accountability when accusations arise.

This is the Play-Acting Of Process,

Where every role is performed, Every beat rehearsed, But no one’s actually watching the show. Because what matters isn’t Efficiency, Isn’t Outcomes, Isn’t even Truth. What matters is the Appearance:

That you’re working hard; That corporate is in control; That someone has thought this through.

And If The Show Falls Apart, It’s Not Because The System Failed;

It’s Because You Didn’t Perform It Right.

48. AXIOMS OF THEATRICAL LABOR

1. The Costume Is The System

What you wear, say, and gesture matters more than what you do. A name tag creates trust. A lanyard creates hierarchy. A shirt tucked in signifies responsibility.

None of these affect outcomes, but all of them protect the illusion of structure.

2. The Script Is The Standard

Whether it functions or not, you must read your lines. Loudly greet at the door. Say "pause for just a moment" like you believe it. Print markdowns with patience, no matter how broken the scanner is. Say the name of the loyalty program every transaction.

If it fails, say it again.

3. The Stage Is Arbitrary

Floor plans arrive from nowhere. Corporate flow maps are copy-pasted from cities that don't resemble yours. Storage space is fiction. Queues overflow. Back rooms flood.

You are not asked to fix it. You are asked to make it look like it never broke.

4. The Audience Is Management

You're not performing for customers. You're performing for auditors, regional managers, camera reviews, and abstract expectations. You don't need to succeed. You need to be seen trying.

Appear busy. Appear precise. Appear productive.

If the metrics are wrong, it means you're not acting hard enough.

5. The Show Must Go On

No matter how broken the register, how wrong the shipment, how pointless the markdowns — continue. If you ask too many questions, you're slowing the rhythm. If you adjust the system, you're going off-script. If you find peace with coworkers, expect to be reassigned.

Harmony is the enemy of control.

6. The Applause Is Hollow

"You Made a Difference" cards. "Heartbeat of Our Store" certificates. Boards listing your fastest times. Points systems for candy. Recognition is a tool, not a gift. It exists to keep you performing.

It is given late. It is given vaguely. It is given only when performance matches fantasy

7. The Props Are Broken

Scanners that beep but don't register. Printers that never received support tickets. Security tags that do nothing. Locks that mean nothing. Cameras watching the wrong thing.

The sets are cardboard and tape. The actors are tired. But the show is still on.

8. The Director Is Absent

Policy comes from nowhere. You Must Obey. Exceptions are undefined. Expectations change without notice. The managers are caught in the same performance.

They cannot speak plainly. They can only pass along the next line in the script.

9. The Audience Leaves Before the Ending

No one is measuring what actually works. No one notices the fire exits that don’t close. No one sees the trash compactor injuries. No one checks the real backlog. The managers know. The workers know.

But the show isn't for them.

10. The Play Is a Lie

You are pretending to work. They are pretending to lead. The customers are pretending to believe.

All of it could be done better, With half the theater, And double the truth.

49. The Extraction of Humanity

1. When people make things work, the system breaks them to “optimize” the magic.

Friendships, rhythms, trust — these emerge naturally among teams over time. But once a store finds its footing through human effort, it is punished. High performers are relocated, promoted with conditions, or reassigned under vague “development plans,” severing the roots of community they helped grow.

2. “Stabilization” is not seen as success, but untapped capital.

A smooth-running store is viewed not as a testament to shared humanity, but as wasted potential. The logic follows: if things are working, you don’t need as many people, or you should split the talent to “scale it.”

This isn’t reward — it’s cannibalism.

3. Moments of peace are interpreted as inefficiency.

When workers laugh, breathe, collaborate without chaos — these are not cherished. They are audited. “How did you have time to be calm?” becomes the question. Joy is seen as excess.

Humanity; a margin to be shaved.

4- Promotions are used as surgical tools, not as growth pathways.

Advancement is never just a reward. It is conditional: “Are you willing to start over somewhere new? Can you drop what you’ve built to serve the brand elsewhere?” Promotions extract individuals from functioning teams to test their loyalty — not to recognize their achievement.

5- The system depends on people caring just enough to fix it, But Not Enough To Challenge It.

Every stabilizing figure is shipped out, self-limiting, or burned out. Every organic system of trust is repurposed or discarded. Every heartbeat is spent proving that people can make even this broken machine run — before the machine crushes them for it.

50. I’ve Stopped Pretending This Is Normal.

Because we can build something real.

Because we can work on something that doesn’t eat people to make numbers.

Because you asked me to become an enforcer for policies you won’t define, uphold a system you won’t fix, and sacrifice my joy for a story that doesn’t end well for anyone.

I'm not asking for the reasons behind these decisions.

I'm asking why they remain in face of failure time and time again?

This is not an attack. This is not an insult. It is a statement of Fact.

I hope you will do something meaningful with it.

—[Name Redacted] *Former Cart Cleaner, Unpaid Morale Officer

06/05/2025

Addendum - 06/07/2025

Inventory didn’t break because the numbers were wrong. It Broke Because The Process Had No Soul.

Associates were called in as early as 5:30 AM, expected to be alert and presentable for a morning meeting, then sent directly to their assigned zones. Both teams were made of competent people. Both Teams had the work experience.

Team A — Made up of close friends and coworkers who trusted each other — cruised through their section laughing.

Team B — Mostly strangers corralled together under quiet suspicion; stumbled through the chaos as best as they could muster.

Team A would eventually be conscripted to fill in the gaps Team B Left.

Breaks and lunches had been preassigned on slips of paper, And you were expected to follow them without reminders. If You Forgot Your Time, You Missed It. But when it came time to log into the scanning devices? You were just expected to know your “user ID.” Or have the app. Or already be logged in. A login no one uses — except once a year.

For Inventory

If you were part of the unlucky audit group, You were held all the way until 3:58 PM — Nearly eleven hours on your feet with little clarity, little direction, and very little food. One coworker quit halfway through the day,

Not in Rage;

Not In Theater;

Whispering “I can’t do this anymore..” On The Stairwell.

Another nearly walked out hours later,

Tired,

Furious,

Only persuaded to stay when a peer — without any actual authority — told him to just leave. Eight people were held late not for real error — but because a flawed system claimed their zones hadn’t reached the 10% threshold. We scanned the same items again and again.

The numbers bounced around — 5%, 4%, 7% — never matching, never budging. The count was correct. The audits were done. But the machine didn’t believe us. The Section was scanned several times. By several hands. The store is bleeding money in overtime. All for a bureaucratic digital checkbox.

And then, Without ceremony,

Someone

Not a manager, Not the designated lead, Decided on scanning just one item from each blocked zone. A count even the system couldn’t misread. And Just Like That: The System Blinked. “10% Reached.”

Management Cheered. From the office. Over The Radio. That was it. We were done.

It Had Never Been About Accuracy — Just Compliance.

The promised donuts never came. But the bakery still did — six marked-down pastries brought in by someone who thought tradition was still worth something. No one asked them to. No one had to.

That was the real shape of the day:

Broken Systems. Barely Held Together. By Human Beings Choosing To Care Anyway.

And when it finally ended, There was no speech, No moment of acknowledgment, No thank-you for the ten-hour shift, The patience, The overtime, Or the restraint it took not to scream.

Just a single question, tossed over the noise like it meant something:

“Did Everyone Return The Devices?”

That was our finale.

So What Now?

Grab your torch and pitchfork? Throw the brick? Firebomb the Walmart?

No.

We’ve seen that story. Over and over. It Always Ends Right Back Where It Started. I don't accept the premise that a better world is only possible through justified murder. If you want this time to be different, it has to start with people speaking their peace — Not holding it in for the sake of comfort, or politeness, or fear.

Everyone’s waiting for Tyler Durden or Guy Fawkes to show up and give permission to resist. "Who’s gonna take the shot?" "Where’s the revolution?" They’re not coming. And you don’t need them.

How are you gonna fight for a better world if you won’t even talk politics at Thanksgiving? You don’t hate your family — you hate what you think they believe. You don’t hate your boss — you hate what they enforce. And you project that anger as intent, that structure as malice. You want a kinder world? Be Kinder. You want a more honest world? Start Speaking Up. And if you don’t believe in a rule — Don’t Enforce It. Stop mistaking silence for safety. Stop mistaking obedience for neutrality.

You are not a cog. You are not a drone. You are not exempt.

If someone has to be first, let it be you.

And if you’re sure, If you’ve looked at your truth and chosen it; Then you have nothing to fear in defending it. You have nothing to fear from saying it out loud. They can challenge you. Let them.

Because If You're Right, You Won’t Need Permission.

So that’s the sermon. No altar call. No revolution manifest. No dramatic ending. No brick. No firebomb. Just a mirror. Just a reminder: You Already Know What’s Right.

Now Act Like It.

If you want a better world: Shape it. If you're sure: Say It. And if you’re not sure: Say That Too.

Don’t enforce rules you don’t believe in. Don’t stay silent just because no one else is speaking up.

You don’t need a Revolution. You need a Backbone.

But if you’re still figuring out what that means, Here’s four silly songs that helped me get here —

one scream, one shrug, one sigh, and one sitcom, Take what you need. Leave the rest.

Start Talking. And For Your Sake,

Stop Waiting For Someone To Tell You What To Do

[thirstkanaphan]

Sooo... with the uproar over the amount of lines Yeosang does not have, I have heard on instagram that people are pooling together money (and met their goal) to send a truck about it to KQ about Yeosang's line distribution. I am not a fan of the idea, I understand why theyre upset but I really feel like the fans are putting their own grief onto Yeosang based on rumors and projecting. What do you think if you want to share your thoughts that is!

If I were an idol and fans did this "for me" I would be mortified.

From what I understand, a ktiny at a fanmeeting relayed to a Yeosang fanbase something Yeosang allegedly said to her about how he was sad and that KQ was making him cut his hair and forcing him to stop bulking up at the gym. The fanbase has since deleted the tweet and offered no explanation.

This news came after fans were disappointed to find that Yeosang received the fewest lines in the new title track; fans also claimed they could see Yeosang's visible heartbreak in the fan chant video Ateez posted.

This was a recipe for a classic twitter!atiny meltdown, where the words of one anonymous source speaking a different language became all the ammunition they needed to launch a passionate campaign to save Yeosang from KQ.

Listen, if atiny twitter have a villain, it's Eden. You cannot have a nuanced or even slightly-positive take about that man on that app, or they will jinjja kill you. I was not there during the early years of KQ so I won't claim to know how it was back then, and it is empirically true that Yeosang (and Wooyoung) received fewer lines during the first few years of Ateez. We also know that this latest album was actually the most equal the line distribution has ever been, although Yeosang does suffer from a lack of lines in the title track.

However, what really irks me is the white knight/savior complex so many in the fandom have towards this adult man, who they believe cannot advocate for himself - and who they claim is actively being sabotaged by the company to weaken his leverage ahead of contract negotiations. You can certainly find examples of Yeosang talking about his frustrations with limited opportunities to stand out in the group, and the other members have remarked on Yeosang's tendency to avoid confrontation even when he's being treated poorly. Yet this does not mean the fandom knows what's actually happening in that studio, nor the truth of Eden's relationship to the members.

I will absolutely agree that the system by which each member auditions for their part by singing the entire song may no longer be the most effective means of assigning lines. It may have fostered healthy competition in the early years, but perhaps a new strategy is called for. I honestly don't know.

I guess the crux of my annoyance with the way today turned out is that, rather than wait and verify the truth to the secondhand claims made by this ktiny (did Yeosang actually disclose personal feelings and professional disappointments at a fan meeting?) they felt validated for their hatred of Eden and KQ. Already inflamed by a lot of (mostly valid) issues and complaints with this comeback, they chose to use this perceived attack on Yeosang as a way to vent their frustrations with a company who, depending on the day, is either a noble champion of artistic and professional freedoms for its idols OR an evil corporation trying to silence its members. You won't find me claiming the former, but I also don't quite agree with the latter.

So what happened? Instead of Golden Hour: Part 3, Lemon Drop, or Ateez trending, this is what trended for most of the day:

Wow, great job promoting the new album!

This all goes back to the weird maternalistic relationship a lot of the fandom has with Yeosang. "Saving" Yeosang (from KQ, Eden, San, or even Wooyoung) becomes a moral crusade that often belies a fundamental misunderstanding of Yeosang the person, who would perhaps not wish to be the center of a fan-driven campaign to flood the comments of every official instagram, twitter, and tiktok with complaints about unfair treatment on the day of a new album's release.

I really don't have an interest in discussing this further, but I guess I did need to get this off my chest.