Chapter Text
The elevator’s digital display blinked the familiar numbers as it hummed upward. I glanced at my watch. 8:43 a.m. Seventeen minutes before the official start of my shift—more than enough time to settle in, skim through the latest reports, and prepare for whatever the day decided to throw at me.
Efficiency is predictability. Predictability is peace. That’s the foundation of order in the workplace.
The doors slid open. My shoes tapped steadily against the polished tile as I made my way to the Human Resources department. A quick bow exchanged with the receptionist, a polite nod toward the early birds at their desks; the decorum for order in the workplace. Faces were already buried in screens, fingers clattering on keyboards. Just the way it should be.
I had long since accepted that this was my world: a kingdom of spreadsheets, performance reports, and resignation letters. People came and went. Jobs were filled, jobs were cut. Resources were allocated according to merit and efficiency. Family drama, personal feelings, private circumstances—none of those mattered in the final equation.
That’s why I belonged here.
By noon, the day had already proven more irritating than usual.
The phone call came from upstairs. A manager’s voice, tight with the mix of authority and fear that always accompanied any HR request.
“We have… a situation in the QA department. Some kind of conflict. I’ll send the details by email.”
Situations. Conflicts. Always so vague. When executives got nervous, HR became the dumping ground.
I scrolled through the forwarded report. The subject line: ‘Concerning Employee Relations – Immediate Attention Required’.
Reading through it, I pinched the bridge of my nose.
So this is what passes for an ‘incident’? A QA worker announced her engagement. To a woman. And now the department’s older staff can’t stop whispering, harassing, and treating her like a walking scandal.
I leaned back in my chair, fingers steepled.
To me, this is nothing. Love, marriage, orientation—none of that impacts job performance. If she can hit her KPIs, she’s valuable. If she can’t, she isn’t. End of story.
But society is never that simple. People carry their prejudices like briefcases. They drag them into the office and drop them right in the middle of otherwise efficient workflows. Now her personal choice had become my professional headache.
I opened my calendar, setting several reminders in the notebook and sorted through some old files. Tonight was looking like another round of overtime.
I called her in first. Neutral environment: my office.
This was standard HR procedure, something I was used to. Both troublemakers and model workers would be given a seat, where we would evaluate their work or attitude.
She entered nervously, clasping her hands, trying to mask the exhaustion in her eyes.
“Thank you for coming,” I said evenly, gesturing to the chair opposite me. On my computer screen were list of data and number, as well as a file ready to be filled. “This is not a disciplinary matter. I simply want to understand the situation from your perspective.”
She hesitated before answering. “It’s true, I… recently got engaged. To another woman. I didn’t think it would matter here, considering the society values creativity and progress. But now, people—some of my colleagues, especially the older ones—they whisper, they laugh. Yesterday, someone left a note on my desk. It said… ‘This isn’t natural,’ and one that called me a deviant witch.”
Her voice shook.
I took notes, my face expressionless.
Emotions are data. Her tears, her voice—they’re not my concern directly. But they are indicators of a poisoned environment, a risk to productivity. That’s what I need to solve.
“I see,” I replied. “For clarity: has anyone interfered with your work assignments? Or obstructed your ability to perform your tasks?”
“…Not yet. But it’s… hard to focus.”
She bit her lip.
She is on the verge of breaking. If her performance drops, it will be marked. If she leaves, we need to recruit—something I was not hyped for. This woman was a senior data analyst and these people are hard to come by. Either way, this becomes costly. The best option is to neutralize the cause before it spreads.
“Thank you. I will address this.”
I forced a professional smile, causing her to relax a bit. With a bow, she left.
The second half of my day was spent interviewing the so-called adults causing the disruption. Most denied everything. A few smirked, muttered excuses about ‘tradition’ and ‘morals.’
One man in his fifties said outright:
“It’s disgusting. God created women to become men's wives. This is just not normal.”
God, huh?
I stared at him. A calm, steady stare that lasted long enough for him to squirm.
I do not care about your religion or ideals. You are clearly a troublemaker. Your prejudice and way of thinking is outdated and clearly not welcomed into this corporation.
If a woman was willing to work and achieve great things through her own effort—like in the case of our data analyst who climbed the ranks through overtime and expertise—then she was worthy of working with us. We live in the 21st century where it was proven time and time again that gender does not determine one's gender. Equality was not a thing for everyone, but we were close to it.
In my personal opinion, the true pox plaguing humanity is currently religion. They brainwash people into following a "God" no one has seen, decree orders that made no sense, refused anyone who point out the inconsistencies in their tales or ideas. It is more often than not these "religious" people, who would start wars—be it about the "God" they praise, about how their children should be raised, or about how much money should be donated to their church.
The man continued to spat some useless things that made no sense. Our company was clear in its term, something each employee had to read and sign when they applied here—politics, religion, sexual orientation, and such debate are to be kept away from work.
“Your opinion on her private life,” I said slowly, “is irrelevant to her ability to perform her duties. Harassment of colleagues is not tolerated. If you continue, disciplinary action will follow. Consider this your only warning.”
"You dare take her side?!"
"I do not take anyone's side. I am merely doing my job by following the company's rule." I started typing on my computer, only giving him a side glance. "One wise advice; keep your God and prejudice to yourself and your family. What drives our corporation are laws and rules. Said rule specifically mention that workers are judged based on their personal achievement, not preference, not gender. Anyone who get in the way of others for petty matters are breaching the set rules, as it is in your case, where you are stirring unrest and chaos in your department."
The silence that followed was heavy, but necessary.
By the time the office emptied and the lights dimmed, I was still at my desk, compiling the final report for upper management. I looked up at the clock. 21:56.
Another day wasted untangling the irrational. If people would just do their jobs, none of this would be necessary. Stability depends on order, and order depends on rules. Deviations, drama, emotions—these are inefficiencies to be stamped out.
I clicked ‘Save’ to finalize my last due assignment and leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
I work harder than anyone else because I must. Because one day, the table will turn, and I will be the resource deemed unnecessary. When that day comes, the only defense I’ll have is proof: proof of my diligence, my utility, my worth.
That is why I can’t afford romance. Or family. Or anything that might slow me down.
This life is enough. It has to be.
A week later, the verdict came down from above.
The CEO had reviewed my report and delivered his response in a brief, few-line memo:
“Harassment is unacceptable. Remove those unwilling to adapt. Company culture must evolve, not regress. Tell them to return to live in caves and beasts hide if they want their 'conservatism,' which is unneeded here.”
In other words: fire the troublemakers.
To me, it was neither surprising nor sentimental. Rules are rules. They had been given a warning. They ignored it. Now they would face consequences. Simple as that.
The first termination was a woman from QA, mid-forties, who clung to “tradition” as if it were part of her job description.
“You can’t do this!” she snapped, her voice cracking. “I’ve been here twenty years!”
I adjusted my glasses and kept my voice even.
“Your tenure is acknowledged. However, company policy requires a professional environment free from harassment. You already received five warnings before," I tapped on the piece of paper in the table, listing all the trouble she'd caused and warning to improve her personality.
She was a conservatist to the core who refused to acknowledge that others might have a different opinion than her. It started with minor loud debate in the cafeteria when she complained that another woman from prod department was "raising her children wrong," and eventually escalated into insulting customers and destroying materials, earning her warning.
"Your conduct breached that standard. Effective immediately, your employment is terminated. We appreciate the years you dedicated for the company and wish you luck on your next job.”
She cursed me. Called me a soulless machine. Said I was betraying real workers.
I didn’t flinch. I’d heard it all before.
Their venom is predictable. Anger is the final act of those who refuse accountability. I don’t have the luxury of indulging in it.
Mentally, I scoffed. In my opinion, her departure was not a loss at all. Many young people wanted her job, so it opened the opportunity to find hidden gems that are more adept to rules and less driven by emotion.
The next was the man who had been the loudest critic—the one who had called her engagement “disgusting.”
He slammed his fist on my desk, face red, spittle flying.
“This is all politics! That girl gets special treatment because your boss is a damned wokist! And you—” He jabbed a finger at me. “You’re nothing but a bootlicker! One day you’ll see where this road leads!”
I let the words hang in the air, waited until he calmed down enough to breathe. Then I slid the papers across the desk.
“Please sign here to acknowledge receipt of your severance package. Security will escort you out once you’re done.”
His glare could have burned holes through me. But glare doesn’t appear on performance metrics. Rage doesn’t change a policy. He signed. They all sign, eventually.
By evening, the last file was closed. The severance papers filed. The security escorts reported no incidents. My desk was once again orderly, as it should be. In total, three people were fired, while two received a solemn warning. The three were already known troublemakers who always managed to avoid high management's gaze until now, so the workers rejoiced more at this resolution.
Another set of terminations completed. Another mess cleaned up. No need to moralize—it’s procedure. They failed to separate their personal biases from their professional responsibilities. That is failure. And failure deserves consequences.
It was raining when I left the building. The kind of steady, heavy rain that blurred the neon lights into streaks of color. Umbrellas bloomed like black flowers on the sidewalk.
I waited at the bus stop, coat collar pulled tight. My mind drifted back to tomorrow’s schedule—onboarding interviews at ten, policy revisions by noon. Nothing unusual.
Then, a shove. Hard, sudden, from behind. My balance vanished.
Headlights. The roar of an engine. The wet street rushing up to meet me.
And in the corner of my eye—the man I had fired earlier. His face twisted with hatred.
I saw the people around panic, with the bus driver panicking, but I could see there was no escape for me. I would end up crushed by the vehicle, no matter what.
So. It ends like this.
Pain didn’t come immediately. Only the awareness of inevitability.
Humans. Always driven by their emotions. Anger, fear, pride, love—irrational forces that cloud judgment, ruin careers, and now… kill me. How exhausting. How… inefficient.
Darkness closed in. My last thought was as cold and clear as the rain:
If only people would follow the rules, the world would be so much simpler.
Darkness. Silence.
For a moment, I thought that death had truly been the end. That I had ceased, as all things must. But then came sensation. Warmth, softness pressing against my skin, a muffled thrum of voices vibrating in the air.
I opened my eyes—or rather, my eyelids fluttered weakly. My vision was blurred, shapes and colors bleeding together. High ceilings. Wooden beams. A strange mix of sterile white walls and religious iconography. Candles flickered alongside instruments of medicine. A hospital? A chapel? Both?
A face leaned close. A woman. Young, exhausted, sweat clinging to her brow. Her eyes brimmed with tears as she smiled faintly. Her arms trembled as she clutched me. My vision was grayish so I could not quite identify the color of her hair, and my eyes felt heavy, not allowing me to register more.
“…Tanya,” she whispered alonside other words in a language I didn’t recognize. The sound was tender, final.
She pressed her lips to my forehead. Then, after one last long look, she passed me into the arms of another. I forced my eyes open.
The second woman carried herself with refinement—her clothes too clean, her bearing too composed to be common. A noble, or at least wealthy. She accepted me gently, firmly, as if I already belonged to her.
The first woman—my birth mother, I realized—sobbed softly, covering her mouth. Her voice cracked as spoke a word I assume was a farewell, then she turned away.
The noblewoman held me close, rocking me with a practiced motion as she spoke to what looked like a nun. After a while, they gave a small bow to each other and I was brought to another room where I was changed into a dress, and fed what tasted like the most disgusting milk I've had in my life. I forced myself to eat as I felt my stomach empty, and once done, the woman brought me outside this place—my birthplace.
Her warmth was steady, her gaze calm. Affectionate. Protective. She spoke words I couldn’t understand, but her tone was unmistakably maternal, mentioning the name "Tanya" several time in between foreign tongue. We rode a carriage and traveled for a long time, the rocking becoming unbearable at some point.
So. This is my new guardian. My ‘mother,’ for all practical purposes.
Through the window I saw glimpses of the town as we left by carriage: muddy streets, thatched roofs, rough stone walls. A medieval landscape straight out of a textbook.
As for the woman, I stared at her face for a long time, trying to remember her. I wasn't entirely sure what would await me, but from the look of it, she would become someone I would have to rely on.
This whole situation… Impossible. Irrational. I was supposed to be dead. I was supposed to cease to exist. And yet… what other explanation fits? A newborn body. A foreign language. A feudal society. In fiction, they call this reincarnation. I always dismissed it as fantasy. But now, here I am, living evidence of the improbable.
I squirmed slightly, testing my limbs—they were tiny, weak and uncoordinated. A toddler’s body, vulnerable in every measurable way. She reached to my hand and I gripped her index finger. It was warm and felt real.
So I’ve been reassigned, in a sense. Demoted. From HR manager to infant. No contracts, no office, no control. Only dependence. I tried to joke, but to be honest, it was not funny.
A feeling of tiredness overtook me so I let my eyelids sink shut again.
Still. Panic would achieve nothing. Observe. Adapt. Survive. That is the only logical path forward. If this ‘Tanya’ is to be my new identity, then so be it. My task remains the same as ever: navigate the rules of this system, and climb as high as possible within them.
The carriage wheels rumbled against the dirt road, carrying me away from the life I never asked for, and into a world I had no choice but to accept.