Chapter 65: The Desperate Bargain
The words from the email seemed to vibrate inside Ken’s skull, a sterile, bureaucratic chime that had dismantled his entire understanding of himself. The congratulatory chatter of his friends, the warmth of the leather sofa, the bitter aftertaste of his cold brew—it all receded, muffled as if he were sinking underwater. He stared at the phone’s screen until the letters blurred.
A sound escaped him. A choked, wet gasp.
Then, a sob tore loose, raw and shocking in the cozy coffee shop ambiance. Tears welled and spilled over, tracing hot paths down his cheeks before he could even register the shame of crying in public. His body moved before his mind could catch up, driven by a panic more profound than any he’d felt during the original humiliations. Those had been terrifying, but they had a direction. This was an eviction.
He slid off the sofa, his knees hitting the scuffed wooden floor with a soft thud. He scrambled the short distance to where Boom and Kla sat in two adjacent armchairs. He pressed his forehead to the cool leather of Boom’s sneaker, then turned to do the same against the polished toe of Kla’s dress shoe. The posture was instinctual, deeper than protocol.
“Please,” his voice was a fractured whisper, muffled against their feet. “Masters. Please don’t make me wear clothes.” He lifted his head, his face streaked and gleaming under the shop lights. “I need to be transparent. It’s… it’s who I am now. The company provided it. It’s mine. Please.”
The coffee shop’s murmur died around their corner. Liam, Jesse, Sam, and Cole were frozen, cups halfway to their mouths. Their earlier, cheerful congratulations curdled in their stomachs. They’d seen his pride, his confidence on the court. They’d celebrated his victory. Now, watching him weep and beg not to be allowed clothing, the full, warped reality of his transformation hit them with a sickening thud. He didn’t feel freed by the news; he felt condemned. They felt a sharp, vicarious pity for him, and a confusing guilt for themselves.
“Hey, come on, man,” Liam started, his voice soft, but Jesse was already leaning forward, his energetic face etched with concern.
“He’s really broken up about it,” Jesse said, looking urgently at the CEOs. “Isn’t there… I mean, can’t you guys make an exception? Just for him?”
Sam nodded, his detail-oriented mind seeking a loophole. “His case is unique. The 56-day assessment was uniquely intensive. The outcome deserves unique consideration.”
Cole simply looked at Boom, then Kla, his analytical gaze trying to parse their expressions. “A rule variance for a statistical outlier is sound data management.”
Boom and Kla listened, their faces masks of thoughtful concern. As the four friends pleaded Ken’s case, their eyes met for a fraction of a second over Ken’s trembling back. A flicker of something passed between them—a shared, secret understanding, a smirk that never touched their lips. It was gone before anyone else could register it.
Kla cleared his throat, the sound clinical and calm. “We hear you. And we hear Ken’s… preference.” He paused, choosing the word carefully. “We cannot unilaterally override a systemic HR protocol. The weekly lottery is a cornerstone of inter-departmental equity.”
Ken’s shoulders slumped, a fresh wave of despair shaking him.
“But,” Boom continued, his tone adopting a note of benevolent authority. “We cannot promise anything yet. But we will look into what flexibility exists. We will do our best for you, Ken.”
The words were a lifeline, thin but tangible. Ken’s breath hitched, his red yeses searching their faces.
“For now,” Kla said, his voice leaving no room for ambiguity, “you will wait for the official email from Pon tomorrow. It will specify the designated cloth of the week for all Strategy & Foresight personnel. You will wear it on Monday. That is non-negotiable.”
“Exactly,” Boom said, picking up the thread seamlessly. “Wear what you’re told on Monday. Kla and I will see what can be arranged by Tuesday. So you can return to your… most transparent cloth… as desired.”
The timeline was a torture and a salvation. Monday in costume. A possible reprieve by Tuesday. Ken swallowed hard, the tears still flowing but slower now, mixed with a desperate, kindling hope.
Boom then reached down, his hand closing firmly around Ken’s bicep. Kla did the same on the other side. Together, they pulled him up from the floor and guided him back onto the sofa, settling him between Liam and Jesse. The physical manipulation was gentle but absolute.
“Now,” Boom said, brushing imaginary lint from his henley. “Today is a holiday. Your friends are all here to celebrate your winning reward from the Italian restaurant yesterday.” He grabbed a napkin from the table and handed it to Ken. “Wipe your tears. This is unbecoming of a champion.”
Kla gave a single, slow nod. “This is a day for happiness, not sadness. You have much to be grateful for, Ken. Focus on that.”
The firm directive, the clear boundary—it acted like a balm on Ken’s spiraling panic. The chaos had a frame again. He had orders: Wait for Pon’s email. Wear Monday’s uniform. Trust that his Masters would act on Tuesday. He dabbed at his face with the napkin, the simple action steadying him.
He looked around the circle—at Liam’s worried kindness, Jesse’s eager support, Sam’s focused sympathy, Cole’s quiet solidarity, and the controlled, commanding presence of Boom and Kla. A profound, unexpected warmth flooded his chest, thick and comforting. They had all witnessed his breakdown. They had all, in their way, tried to help. They were here for him.
“Thank you,” Ken whispered, his voice hoarse but clear. He looked at each of them. “Thank you all. For supporting me.”
The mood lifted, fragile but real. Jesse nudged Ken’s shoulder with his own. “Alright, no more waterworks. Who wants another round? My treat. Ken, get another cold brew. Seriously.”
The conversation slowly stuttered back to life, treading on lighter ground. Ken sat nestled in the sofa, the dread of Monday a cold knot in his gut, but around it, cradling it, was the warmth of the circle and the fragile, burning hope for Tuesday. He held his phone tightly in his lap, already waiting for tomorrow’s email, already imagining the fabric he would be forced to wear, and beyond it, the blessed, transparent nothingness he ached to reclaim.
He held his phone tightly in his lap, already waiting for tomorrow’s email, already imagining the fabric he would be forced to wear, and beyond it, the blessed, transparent nothingness he ached to reclaim.
The email from Pon arrived Sunday at precisely 7:00 PM. The subject line was just Weekly Designate. The body was a single, brutal sentence: A charcoal grey two-button tailored suit, white shirt, and a necktie featuring cartoon renditions of the company’s mascot (a cartoon bee) are hanging in your assigned locker. This is your uniform for this week. Wear it correctly. Ken read it eleven times. He pictured the bee, a cheerful, grinning thing called “Buzz” from the corporate onboarding videos. The suit itself sounded expensive, severe. The tie sounded like a joke.
Monday arrived.
Ken walked from the subway in his common weekend clothes, the same black shirt and joggers, feeling like a fugitive. The glass doors of the Fah Rung tower swallowed him. The lobby’s marble echoed with the click of dress shoes, the murmur of early arrivals. No one looked at him. He was invisible, just another clothed body. This felt worse than any stare.
The Strategy & Foresight department was quiet, just the hum of dormant computers. The locker room was a small, mirrored space off the main floor. Hanging on a single hook inside his locker was the suit.
It was fine wool, impeccably tailored. The shirt was starch-stiff. The tie was a silken betrayal, a splash of yellow and black stripes with those stupid, winking bees. He undressed slowly, folding his soft joggers with care. He put on the crisp underwear that had been provided, then the shirt. The collar choked him. The suit trousers were a foreign weight on his hips. The jacket constricted his shoulders. He stared at the tie for a full minute before looping it into a clumsy knot, the cartoon bees smirking up at him from his chest.
He looked in the mirror. A stranger, handsome and sharp and utterly wrong, looked back. His reflection was a lid clamped over the simmering, honest thing he had become. He felt like a forgery.
His first collaborative call came at 9:15 AM, a request from Logistics to optimize a delivery route algorithm. He walked into their bullpen, a clipboard in hand. The usual ambient noise stuttered, then resumed. Heads lifted from screens. Eyes tracked him. He saw confusion, not recognition. A few frowns. A junior analyst opened his mouth, then closed it, thinking better of it. They were processing a visual error. The man who was supposed to be naked was wearing a suit. A very bad tie. It broke their reality.
“Ken? Is that you?” the Logistics manager finally asked, his tone wary.
“Yes, master. I’m here to assist with the route analysis.” Ken’s voice sounded tight, strangled by the shirt collar.
The work was a disaster. The numbers on his screen swam. The logic gates of the algorithm, which usually unfolded in his mind with crystalline clarity, were a fog. He was hyper-aware of the wool scratching his wrists, the belt buckle digging into his stomach, the constant, suffocating pressure of the jacket. Every thread felt like a condemnation. He made a basic arithmetic error. Then another. The manager’s patience thinned.
“Your performance last week was flawless on the Svelto project. This is… sub-par.” The manager’s voice was cold. “Are you unwell?”
“I’m… adjusting, master,” Ken whispered, his face flushing hot beneath the corporate uniform.
It happened again in the afternoon with Procurement. A senior staffer named Gerald, a man with a permanent scowl and thin lips whom Ken had never directly served, was leading the session. Gerald was known for his temper. Ken fumbled a supplier cost comparison, transposing two key figures. The error was glaring, amateurish.
Gerald slammed a hand on the table. “What is this? Is this a joke?” His voice was a whip-crack in the quiet room. Other Procurement staff flinched. “We were told you were the brilliant prodigy. We were told you were an essential resource. This is pathetic. Are you even looking at the data, or are you just admiring your own ridiculous tie?”
The words were not the calibrated, cruel pressure from Boom or Kla. This was raw, unfiltered contempt from someone who didn’t know the rules of the game. It wasn’t about exposure or service. It was about sheer, professional incompetence.
Something in Ken snapped.
A visceral, choking shame surged up, burning his eyes. The careful hope for Tuesday evaporated. The suit became a prison of his own failure. He wasn’t transparent Ken, essential and seen. He was just a fuck-up in a funny tie.
He tried to mutter an apology, but it dissolved into a wet gasp. His shoulders shook. The tears that came weren’t the quiet, relieved tears from the coffee shop. These were great, heaving sobs that ripped through him, uncontrollable and ugly. They blurred the spreadsheets, dripped onto the polished table. He cried for the lost clarity, for the humiliation of the fabric, for the scolding that felt so ordinarly, pointlessly cruel.
The Procurement team stared, utterly bewildered. Gerald’s anger evaporated into stunned discomfort. “Oh, for god’s sake. Get him out of here. Get HR.”
Ken didn’t remember leaving the room. He found himself in a sterile, white hallway, back against the cool wall, sliding down to the floor. The cartoon bees on his tie were a blur of yellow through his tears. The weight of the suit pressed him into the ground. He was dressed, and he had never felt more utterly, completely broken.