"You're fired—effective immediately." Dieter Peters slid the termination packet across the table like he was closing a deal. The packet landed on Jasmine's palm. The paper felt thinner than the resignation always did in movies. It was seventeen pages of corporate language that said, in a dozen passive tenses, that her job didn't exist anymore. "I don't need theatrics, Dieter." He leaned back, shoes on the conference table, grin slow and practiced. "This isn't personal. It's restructuring." "It was business when you promoted me last quarter," Jasmine said. Her voice didn't wobble. It was a quiet thing—sharp, precise. "Which figures into how personal this actually is." Around the long Riverside Consulting table, chairs scraped, a murmur. People who barely knew each other's names tried to look composed. A woman two seats down clutched a mug like it was something she could hold on to. Dieter checked his watch. "HR will handle exit, benefits, that sort of thing. You can clear your desk by the end of the day." "Or I walk," Jasmine said. The room pivoted. She could feel the sound of the conference room swallowing the space between Dieter's bones and the doors. "Either way," he said, "we'll make it smooth." Dieter's "either way" was never neutral. Jasmine folded the packet once. Twice. Her fingers were steady but cold. She could have begged. She could have walked back through the bullshit performance metrics, the "skill fit