Chapter 1

The night everyone vanished, I was pulling an overtime shift, drafting the layoff list.

It’s been ten years. I thought I was the only survivor.

Today, the computer that had been dead for a decade suddenly booted up.

The printer spat out a sheet of paper.

"Hazel, your probation period has ended. Report to the CEO's office."

Holding an axe, I pushed open the door to the top floor.

All my vanished colleagues were there.

They were wearing their suits from ten years ago, their bodies stiff as boards.

Mr. Sterling sat at his desk, pointing out the window.

"Hazel, you failed your performance review for the past ten years."

"Because of you, that layoff list was never finalized."

He handed me a pair of scissors.

"Now, snip their necks, and you'll pass your probation."

"Hazel, what are you waiting for?"

Mr. Sterling's tone was as casual as if he were asking for a late weekly report.

The cold metal of the scissors pressed into my palm, but it felt burning hot.

I stared at the fourteen colleagues in front of me. Grey faces, grey hands, their ID badges still hanging from their necks. The photos on the badges showed faces ten years younger than they looked now.

They sat perfectly straight, like a row of set-up chess pieces.

"Mr. Sterling, everyone has been gone for ten years, and you're talking to me about passing probation?"

"The corporate policy doesn't expire with time." He flipped through a stack of documents on his desk. "Article 17 of your employment agreement, black and white: 'To pass probation, the employee must independently execute at least one complete workforce optimization plan.' You didn't do it."

I looked down at the document.

The paper was yellowed, but the signature at the bottom was mine.

The handwriting, the thumbprint—all mine.

"So what? You want me to take scissors and cut their necks? You call that 'workforce optimization'?"

"They are not living people." Mr. Sterling stood up, walked around the desk, and stopped next to the colleague closest to me.

It was Zach.

Born in '94. When he was an intern, he used to follow me around the office every day, calling me his mentor. The night everyone disappeared, he had just finished his shift and told me, "See you tomorrow."

Ten years had passed.

His eyeballs rolled slightly.

To the left.

Looking right at me.

"Ha...zel..."

The voice squeezed out from the gaps of his teeth, sounding like metal scraping against bone.

"Don't... listen..."

Mr. Sterling patted Zach on the shoulder. Gently, like he was soothing a jammed printer.

"Zach, please maintain professional discipline during the meeting."

Zach's mouth snapped shut.

He didn't close it himself.

It was as if someone had hit a mute button on him.

I took a step back, the back of my hand hitting the cold doorframe.

My axe was still leaning against the door—I had brought it up with me. Surviving alone for ten years had taught me to never go anywhere without a weapon.

"Mr. Sterling, what did you do to them?"

"Performance management." He sat back down, interlacing his fingers on the desk. "A-grade employees have speaking privileges. Anyone below a B stays on mute. It's only fair."

"Fair? You call this fair?"

"Of course. The evaluation standards are the same for everyone." He picked up a remote control and pressed a button.

The wall on the left side of the office lit up.

It was a massive screen.

On it was a giant spreadsheet. The vertical column listed everyone's names, and the horizontal rows were packed with evaluation metrics: Compliance, Stress Tolerance, Violent Tendencies, Emotional Threshold, and Residual Empathy.

Behind each name was a cumulative rating.

I scanned down the list.

Tyler — D.

Chloe — C.

Marcus — C+.

Rachel — B-.

Zach — B.

The very last line was me.

Hazel — Pending.

"You are the only one without a final score," Mr. Sterling said. "Because your probation period never officially ended."

"So, for the past ten years, you guys have been grading me?"

"Not us." Mr. Sterling smiled. The angle of his mouth was exactly the same fifteen-degree curve as ten years ago. "The system."

"What system?"

He didn't answer.

He pressed another button.

The lights flickered black for a second.

When they came back on, a chair in the back row was empty.

Tyler was gone.

His ID badge lay on the floor.

It was covered in a layer of grey dust. No, not dust.

It was grey powder. Fine as flour.

I smelled something burning.

"D-grade employee, automatically terminated." Mr. Sterling glanced at his watch. "Starting now, the person with the lowest score will be eliminated every hour. In twenty-four hours, if you haven't made your move—"

He looked at me.

The smile remained.

But his eyes were completely hollow.

"Hazel, guess who gets the one remaining spot?"