The Bureau's headquarters looked especially solemn under the night sky, its iron-gray walls like a face permanently clenched shut, unwilling to smile. The dim corridor lights flickered like the final wavering lines on a dying patient's ECG.
Tonight, everyone knew: a purge was coming.
Not the kind with mops and disinfectant—this was the "remove unnecessary people" kind. The "unnecessary" were officially called dissenters. Internally, the slang was simpler: the walking dead.
The conference room's long table gleamed, polished so bright it seemed eager to reflect the stains in everyone's hearts. The executive sent by the higher-ups wore white gloves, his tone casual, like ordering food:
"Here's the list. Go through them one by one. Process accordingly."
No one argued.Because those who argued were already on the list.
Ethan sat at the far end, holding the sheet of names. Every entry belonged to a colleague he once shared coffee with, cursed the system with. Now their futures were reduced to a line in ink, stamped with the bureaucratic word cleared.
It was absurd, like an office joke gone feral:Yesterday they argued about reimbursement forms. Today he was signing their death warrants.
The first agent brought in was a bald old man, famous for bad tea-room jokes no one laughed at, but everyone tolerated."There's evidence you questioned directives from superiors," the executive said, matter-of-fact.The man swallowed, opened his mouth to explain—But two guards already had him by the arms, dragging him off like yesterday's garbage.
The door shut. Silence, tomb-like.Then, far away, a dull thud echoed—like an elevator suddenly halting.Everyone understood: the bald man was no longer on the list.
Next was a young woman whose worst crime had been "borrowing" office chairs."You privately criticized the Bureau's investigative direction," the executive read as if reciting a lunch order.She trembled out a laugh. "I only said the coffee tasted bad.""That's more than enough."
Dragged away.Her chair rocked gently afterward, orphaned.
Ethan's blood ran cold. It wasn't politics—it was mass layoffs, dressed in bullets.Downsizing, but the severance package was a body bag.
"Your turn, Ethan." The executive tapped the table. "Your files show repeated notes of doubt. That alone proves you lack loyalty."
The air thickened. Eyes turned toward him, vultures awaiting spectacle.
Ethan exhaled, lips curving into a bitter smile. "If doubt is a crime, then the Bureau should've purged itself long ago. Our whole job is doubt."
The executive's eyes narrowed, then—unexpectedly—he smiled. "Good. A clever dissenter is far more useful than a stupid loyalist."
A wave of his hand: "Ethan stays. For now."
The purge dragged deep into the night. One by one, colleagues vanished. Names slashed off the list. The building felt lighter, as though shedding weight.By dawn, only a few survived—like furniture left after a fire.
The halls echoed with footsteps, ragged breaths. Faces ashen, eyes twitching. Everyone knew this was just round one. Next time, it could be them.
As the executive left, he offered one last benediction: "Remember, you're alive not because of loyalty—but because you're still useful."
Ethan stared at the wreckage of the room. Chairs tipped over like drunks after a party no one would clean up.
He muttered under his breath: "Purging dissenters? No—you're purging humanity itself."
The humor was darker than the grave, suffocating more than death itself.