1.
Ryan Human stands under fluorescent lamps in the Dispute Resolution Chamber, floor minus four, where the Firm conducts its lengthiest trials. In front of him sits a panel of five Board Members, reading quietly from screens. His feet ache, but for once Ryan’s posture is exemplary, straightened in military stiffness. It’s the first time he sees him in person: Tony Ladio, the Firm’s legendary Founder, donned in all white, twice as wide as any of the suits flanking him.
Tony lifts his massive head and shatters a twenty-minute silence. ‘We don’t have all day. Livia, would you mind? The recommendations, please.’
A mellow, robotic female voice flows from overhead speakers:
‘Certainly, Mr Ladio. One, Ryan Human to be permanently suspended. Two, the Firm to provide proactive, truthful references to competitors, to protect our reputation for excellence, despite the likelihood of Ryan Human losing his US work permit. Three, any testimony from Ryan Human regarding other ongoing investigations to be invalidated, because of overwhelming evidence of the employee’s fundamental dishonesty—’
‘Please,’ Ryan says, before his rib cage retracts, clenching his windpipe flaccid. It’s a misunderstanding, he wants to continue, don’t do this.
‘Mr Human,’ Tony says, with two fervid eyes stirring above his grey beard, in a look that pierces the brain, conducts due diligence, and exploits the findings. ‘You’re wondering why your conduct has prompted such an esteemed group of your senior colleagues to congregate this evening. Why am I, the big guy, sitting here, presiding over a junior employee matter? Don’t we have better things to do?’
Ryan opens his mouth, but barely manages a breath. His mind is a blank, unmoving space, frozen useless in suspense, occupied by a simple truth: lose this job and you lose everything, including Amelie.
‘My top priority is to protect the firm’s principles,’ Tony continues. ‘That’s why this trial is crucial. As for your case, Livia is, as always, correct. Your charges reflect a lack of integrity.’
One of the empty-eyed, seated suits says, ‘Principle one-zero-five. Demand integrity from yourself, and others.’
‘Thank you,’ says Tony. ‘Integritas, Mr Human. You need to become one person. Be whole. Don’t let your loyalty to certain individuals impact your relationship to the truth.’
Another suit finds a voice: ‘Principle five-seven-zero. Embrace radical transparency, and act as if everyone is watching.’
‘That’s right,’ Tony says. ‘As for your verdict…’ His fingers tap the bare metal armrests. ‘We find you guilty, Mr Human. But we also find you young, and worthy of a second chance. A week’s suspension will suffice.’
Ryan’s face expresses nothing, he hopes, as his speaking organs re-inflate in relief. ‘That’s it?’ he says.
‘Do you accept the mistakes you have made, and vow to incorporate the feedback we have given you?’
‘Yes, sir, I understand.’
Ryan corrects his glasses, as Tony Ladio flashes his teeth.
‘We will always offer redemption to those who deserve it. If you wouldn’t mind, Mr Human? You’re not the only piece of business today.’
The superfluous entourage of suited men and women look up from their screens. Ryan stands still. In front of him in a half circle: five sets of eyes bouncing between himself and the cramped conference room’s only door. What are you waiting for? the five faces ask. Get out. He’s waiting to decide whether he should express gratitude for his lenient sentence or ask what the hell is happening. A week’s suspension, after a full-blown trial, chaired by the damn Founder himself?
‘Mr Human?’
Ryan opts for a third option: he nods in acknowledgement and exits, urging himself not to run, as he paces through the basement corridor, into an elevator. Deep breaths, Ryan, no panic. Four floors up, the doors open to the Firm’s spheric reception hall. Ryan’s hurrying leather soles play an awkward echo as he walks fifty metres across the white porcelain to the revolving door, past eight FBI-looking guards, out of the office. A full lung of relatively fresh air, but, still—
‘Mr Human?’
Ryan salutes to block the low sun, and makes out a man in a stained T-shirt, standing by a Toyota Prius. Not the brown uniform of the Firm’s hospitality staff, nor the right car. ‘That’s me,’ he says, ‘but I haven’t—’
‘Taxi, sir, for you,’ the man says, opening the back door.
‘To where? I didn’t book it.’ Ryan looks over his shoulders. He’s not being followed.
‘Old Greenwich, sir. Booked through the app.’
‘What—’ Then he realises: Amelie must have ordered it. She lives there; the only one of their Junior Analyst class not crammed in Manhattan. That familiar, feverish excitement of meeting her mixes into the witch's brew of emotions boiling inside of him, almost indistinguishable from fear, which would be a natural response, considering he might have ruined her career, and she’s self-described as proudly vindictive.
‘Yes, sir,’ Ryan says, stepping into the car. ‘This heat, huh? What’s up?’
‘Always like this, sir, in the summer. It’s only the beginning.’
‘Is it?’ Ryan asks, as if New Yorkers had talked about anything else since late May. He pops in his headphones to drown out the noise of rubber wheels spinning on concrete.
Don’t panic, Ryan. Reset your brain. Thinking won’t help until you have more facts. They pick up speed on Interstate 95, flying past the generic greenery lining the six-lane highway. The amount of carbon oxides this stuff has to absorb must be astounding, he thinks, counting seventy, eighty trees, as a distraction from his oblique circumstances. The view shifts to white stone walls; between the protected gardens of finance barons, he catches glimpses of the Long Island Sound, sticking into New York City like a shining dagger in the distance.
What will he say to Amelie? Maybe, despite the humiliation and hostilities, she will be impressed that he just met him in person, Tony Ladio, the Founder—
‘Sir,’ says the driver. The car has stopped.
‘Oh, thanks very much. What do I owe you?’
‘Nothing, sir. Paid through the app. Have a nice day.’
Ryan gets out. His thin white shirt, underneath a navy suit, re-sticks to his body. He circles, trying to work out where, exactly, in Old Greenwich he is. It’s one of those disorienting new-built multi-residential blocks, invariably falsely advertised as “Luxury Apartments”, that look identical from Mexico City to Stockholm to Beijing.
There she is! On the other side of the parking lot, hands folded like a sentry. He rushes, then reins in his pace. Normally, when meeting out of the office, a hug could be appropriate, certainly worth the risk, but not now, says her extra controlled countenance.
‘I’m sorry.’
Amelie makes a shushing gesture, picks up two phones, and mouths: Turn them off.
Ryan complies and switches off his Firm and personal phones. ‘I said nothing that could compromise you.’
Amelie’s laughter is short. They’ve met almost daily since they started at the Firm last year, but it’s the first time Ryan has seen her like this. He must make her understand it’s not his fault. He had no choice. If anything, she got them into this mess.
‘You totally did. Compromise me. We’ll talk inside.’
Her smoke-free smoker’s voice suits direct orders. Ryan follows into an unmanned reception. ‘Why do these new builds always smell like glue?’ he asks. No response. ‘You ordered the taxi? I thought you lived in some big house when you said Greenwich.’
‘Yes. Couldn’t text you.’
‘Why? What do you mean?’
The elevator plings. Amelie takes the lead and presses number fourteen.
‘So—’
‘Wait,’ she says. ‘When we’re up.’
She turns away her face, her black ponytail just an inch from his chin. Ryan shuts his eyes, suppressing the urge to move even closer. In his fantasies, when he’s allowed himself to dream of the sensational scenario of being invited to her home – a necessary step in upgrading their relationship from platonic to physical – it’s been very different. Not this invisible force field of confused guilt…. and anger? No. He tries to summon rage, as a psychological band aid for his shame, but fails. Deep breaths, Ryan. Deeper. Through the nose, you’re not a mouth breather. No desperate outbursts of regret until you understand what’s going on.
They alight and proceed down a grey-carpeted, narrow corridor. Amelie blips her keycard by door 1492, and garlic and cumin replace the glue stink.
‘A hell of a lot bigger than my place,’ Ryan says. ‘And no roommate. Right?’
‘A week’s suspension,’ she says, gesturing towards a two-seater leather sofa. ‘Not bad.’
‘What? It’s already out?’ Ryan tosses aside a copy of The Economist and sits. It might be the cleanest flat he’s ever seen, in that eerie, Airbnb-ish sense.
‘She produces them instantly. They must have pre-approved it for distribution. Everyone can access it. Well, except you. I’ve just skimmed it.’
‘Stop saying she. Livia’s a bot. A computer program. A glorified HR system. Did I tell you Tony made her read out the recommendations in some weird robot voice today?’
Another stupid question. When would he have told her that?
Amelie massages the small golden cross hanging from her neck, as she walks two steps to the kitchen counter and picks up a stack of papers. ‘Here,’ she says. ‘I printed it.’
He catches the report, feels its weight, and his mood sinks further. ‘I thought they’d fire me.’
Amelie scoffs and, as always, he can’t intuitively tell why: did he say something funny, something ridiculous, or is it just his silly Scandinavian accent?
‘Read it.’
‘I can’t believe you have a printer at home. Who are you? Why do you live here?’
‘Read it,’ she repeats.
Ryan flicks open the first page.
2.
*** (REPORT START)
The Investigation and Trial of Ryan Human
Livia generated this report for distribution to all employees of the Firm on July 1, 20XX+1.
The Charge
The Firm charged Junior Analyst Ryan Human (Employee #6789) with noncompliance concerning four Principles:
Eradicate Dishonesty in yourself and help others do the same (Principle 2.01).
Provide Constructive Criticism as often as you can (Principle 1.52).
Accept Feedback, even if it is painful—
*** (REPORT END)
Ryan drops the report on the glass sofa table. ‘Please. Does it include the HR interrogation?’
‘Of course.’ Amelie grabs a plastic water bottle from the fridge and presses it on her stomach, leaning back on the spotless kitchen counter.
‘Why didn’t you tell me—’
‘I told you not to follow us into the woods. Read it and we’ll talk, okay? I’ll be right back.’
‘Fine.’ He pulls off his jacket and folds it over the black leather sofa arm and continues.
*** (REPORT START)
The Investigation and Trial of Ryan Human
Section 1: Dishonesty (Principle 2.01)
Exhibits 1.1 - 1.4 below all occurred in the first five days of Ryan Human’s employment, 298–302 days before the publication of this report.
Exhibit 1.1: Dishonest correspondence (The Floor, floor 1)
By Saturday, three days into his Firm service, Ryan Human had received a standard number of feedback notes from his colleagues and superiors (13), but submitted only one (1), and his Firm Score (“FS”) was already diverging from the junior analyst cohort mean (rank 46/50, at a FS of 3.7/10.0)[1]. But Ryan Human presented an entirely different, wholly fictional account of his performance and well-being to external parties. The email below has been translated from Swedish to English, and the most erroneous claims are highlighted in bold.
To: <marie.p******@gmail.com> Saturday, 5 Sep 20XX 23:47
Sent from: <r.p******@gmail.com>
Hi mom
I’m very sorry to hear you’re so lonely. Are you talking to anyone? Keeping busy?
I miss Viktor all the time, and you all, but otherwise things are going very well for me. Sorry for not returning your last call. I’ve moved uptown to be closer to work. It’s still forty minutes on the train, but I don’t mind. Worth it to live in Manhattan. It’s a great apartment, really spacious, just ten minutes from central park. Sharing it with Christian, of course. He sends his best. I’ll invite you over as soon as I’ve settled in a bit more.
Work is going great, really interesting so far, very rewarding, I’m learning loads. Brilliant people in the organisation, although different from anything else I’ve ever experienced.
The rest of the email is irrelevant.
Exhibit 1.2: The HR induction (room 37, floor -1)
In capacity of Co-Chief Investment Officer and Global Head of Culture, Simon Stream (Employee #07) welcomed the incoming graduate analyst class of 20XX.
Simon Stream (standing by the heightened lectern): ‘You are all here for a reason. You have conquered the most selective recruitment process in finance. Your background doesn’t matter. We’ve got plenty of Harvards here, but in your ranks are soldiers, nurses, doctors, and entrepreneurs. There’s a son of a president in here, and a daughter of a cleaner. A dozen Asians. We even got Europeans! Here, the American dream is not only alive: it’s young, it’s starving, it’s yelling in your face! Raise your hand, if you’ve moved here to work for the Firm!’
Camera footage shows Ryan Human’s eyes darting around the room. His evasive mannerism suggests he understood the request, but he did not raise his hand. Compared with later infractions, this display of noncompliance was minor, but indicative of a core dishonesty.
*** (REPORT END)
Amelie returns from what must be her bedroom, now wearing a gasping, close-fitting yellow dress, rather than dark, austere office attire. Long black hair falling over covered shoulders, not tied in an angry ponytail. ‘Done yet?’ she asks.
‘Have you read this shit? They’ve included an email I sent to my mom from my personal phone a year ago. Literally last September. I had no idea they could access that stuff.’
‘She takes a long view of history.’
Ryan looks out of the room’s sole window, seeing only the sky, trying not to think of the five thousand employees who have access to his humiliation.
‘I wasn’t gonna ask,’ Amelie continues. ‘Sorry about that. Viktor was your brother, right? You’ve mentioned—’
‘Were you talking to someone?’
‘Are you through it? The report?’
‘Are you kidding me? I’m on page two. It’s a novel. Unbelievable. How do I explain this to people?’ Ryan angles his face so that his glasses blur his eyes, just in case.
‘Jesus, you’re slow. I have to go soon.’
Amelie sinks into an armchair, crosses her legs, revealing a rare flash of upper thigh skin, and Ryan finds it very, very difficult to focus. Most East Coast Americans have an open-looking, athletic vibe to them. When they turn around, their arms swing. When they fill up your glass, liquid splash on the floor. Not Amelie. Ryan doesn't know or care enough about Mexican American stereotypes to assess whether she conforms to them, but no one would describe her as open. She's controlled. Her movements are gracious, quietly passionate.
She holds out her hand. ‘Give me that, or we’ll be here all night.’
‘Are you going out?’
No reply, just that silent, extended arm. Ryan rises, gives her the report, and sits again.
‘I’m skipping ahead,’ she says. ‘Section four, radical intransparency, principle five-seventy. This section focuses on Ryan Human’s behaviour concerning Co-Chief Investment Officer and Global Head of Culture, Simon Stream v. Junior Analyst, Amelie Guerrero. Exhibit four-one. The summer party. Ryan Human and Amelie Guerrero continued to socialise, with nearly daily contact over personal and Firm-owned devices. While most messages were of a logistical or trivial nature, some carry darker undertones.’
‘Please, Amelie, stop. Can we just talk about this?’
‘Okay.’
‘Okay.’
‘Okay,’ Amelie repeats. ‘Talk. Tell me what happened.’
He’s gone over it a hundred times in the last week. ‘Okay. From my perspective… It’s complicated. Over the last few months, yeah, you’ve texted me complaining about Simon’s behaviour, basically saying he’s been an overall low-key predator.’
‘I never said low key.’
‘Fine, yes, sorry. But you asked me not to say anything to HR. Right? So I didn’t. And you told me to keep an eye out during the summer party last week, in case he tried something. When the two of you went off into the woods—’
Amelie slams the sofa table, leaving glassware trembling. ‘I told you: Don’t. Follow. Us.’
A feeling of overwhelming hopelessness; Ryan tries again to summon anger. ‘You lied to me! You made me lie to HR. I told them I couldn’t see what happened, but they had proof I could.’
‘Lie— When did I— You should’ve trusted me! I told you Simon is a predator. You should’ve done what I said. Not follow us. Testified that we went away together, and that he’s been a pest since I joined. Now be quiet and listen. Exhibit four-two. Follow on actions. The next day—’
‘Give it back. It’s too—’
‘Fine.’ Amelie holds out the papers and fishes up a phone from her handbag, which has somehow appeared by the armchair; another sign of her impending departure.
Ryan stands, leans forward, and receives the report. Rather than sitting again, he counterbalances the victimhood narrative of Livia’s AI-generated account by showing decisive action. He steps sideways between the sofa and glass table, reaches the balcony door, but fumbles the opening. Something is stuck.
‘What are you waiting for?’
‘Sorry.’
Ryan reads the next two sections with a sinking sensation. Unfortunately, it’s an accurate summary of events. He forces himself to reread the end of the excruciating interrogation with a Firm “HR internal dispute resolution specialist” last Monday. He needs to face his failure.
