“We need fresh blood,” the manager said, dismissing me at 58. He had no idea I was the undercover auditor sent to shut down his branch.
“Geoffrey Archibald, you understand. The company is shifting directionwe need new perspectives, youthful energy.”
Victor Sergei Belyaev, the branch manager, leaned back in his enormous leather chair, which probably cost as much as my annual salary. The chair creaked in protest, underscoring his feigned regret.
He twirled an expensive Parker pen between manicured fingers like a conductors baton, orchestrating the reality of his sunlit office, thick with the scent of luxury cologne.
“We need youth,” he finally declared, setting the pen on the mahogany desk.
The words hung in the air like a grease stain on a crisp white shirt, poisoning the atmosphere of leather and hollow success.
I watched him silently. His perfectly styled hair, lightly greying at the templesno doubt a mark of distinction in his eyes. The Swiss TAG Heuer watch flashing carelessly on his wrist as he adjusted his cuff. The smug posture of a man whod never once doubted his right to decide others fates. He couldnt be more than forty.
He belonged to that breed of “efficient managers” who confused an MBA with life experience and saw anyone over fifty as dead weight, slowing the corporate ships rush toward new horizons.
“Youre an excellent specialist,” he continued his rehearsed speech, avoiding my gaze as he studied the city skyline through the floor-to-ceiling window. “Your expertise is invaluable, but the market dictates its terms. Energy, drive, digital transformation. New horizons demand new speeds. Were rolling out CRM, migrating to the cloud, integrating neural networks. Its not for you.”
I nodded slowly, keeping my face a mask of weary resignation. Inside, there was no anger, no resentmentjust the cold, methodical ticking of my thoughts, like a Geiger counter.
Item No. 12 in my preliminary report: “Unjust termination of skilled employees based on age, clearing positions for loyalists.” Check.
His talk of “digital transformation” was laughable, considering Id uncovered server logs just last week tracing embezzled funds through dummy IT contracts.
“I understand,” I said flatly, perhaps too calmly.
Belyaev clearly expected something elsea scene, pleading, curses, reminders of the years Id given the company. He even tensed slightly, fingers gripping the armrest, bracing for an outburst. But none came.
I stared at him, seeing something else entirely: the double-entry bookkeeping Id pieced together over three weeks of this “probation,” cross-referencing shadow server data with official reports. Kickbacks from suppliers disguised as “marketing services.” Ghost employeespeople on payroll who never set foot in the office.
And, of course, his mistress, Ksenia Igorevna, hired as deputy director with a salary triple mine, whose sole duty was accompanying him to business dinners.
“Well settle everything owed to you. Three months salary,” he added, visibly relieved, assuming the “old man” had simply broken. “The best I could negotiate. Be grateful. Personal initiative.”
I nodded again. Three months. Such generosity. Especially against the budget gap Id uncoveredone large enough to fund a small town for a year.
“Very well, Victor Sergeiovich. If the company needs youth, so be it.”
I stood. He had no idea my full report120 pages of documented evidence, audio recordings of hushed conversations, and money trailswas already on the CEOs desk.
He didnt know the board had voted yesterday morning to forcibly restructure his branch.
And I wasnt just a dismissed 58-year-old economist. I was the liquidator. My job wasnt to salvage rotting structuresit was to demolish them, clearing space for something new and sound.
“May I collect my things?” I asked, playing my role to the end.
“Yes, of course,” Belyaev replied, already mentally ushering me out as he dialed Ksenia to share the “good news.” “Take your time.”
He was wrong. I was in a hurry. Because at nine sharp tomorrow, auditors would arrive to seal every officestarting with his.
Walking through the open-plan space was a gauntlet of starespity, schadenfreude, fear. I felt them all.
Item No. 13: “Fostering a toxic workplace culture built on fear and nepotism.” Check.
A twenty-something with an undercut and a wireless earbud lounged at my old desk, barely glancing up as I approached.
“Those are my things,” I said calmly, pointing to a small stack of books and a framed family photo hed shoved aside for a pizza box.
“Oh. Right.” He tugged out his earbud. “Take em, grandad. Need space for my second monitor. TikTok wont watch itself.”
His smirk dripped with arrogance. I recognized himStanislav, Belyaevs nephew, hired last week as an “SMM specialist.”
As I packed, Ksenia appeared in a tailored designer dress, her smile saccharine.
“Geoffrey Archibald, what a shame,” she cooed, though her eyes glittered with malice. “You were such a vintage touch to our team.”
“Im sure,” I replied evenly.
“If you need work dont hesitate. I could put in a word. Theres a security guard post at a gated community. Quiet nightsperfect for your age. They even allow crosswords. And dominoes.”
A calculated blow. She wanted to see me crack.
I met her gaze, studying her like an entomologist would a venomous insect. She flinched first, fussing with her hair.
“Good luck,” she spat before clicking away.
Item No. 14: “Nepotism and appointment of incompetent personnel, directly harming company interests.” Another check.
At the exit, a timid voice stopped me.
“Geoffrey Archibald”
Lena from accountinga young woman Id helped more than onceheld out a chocolate bar. “Dont let them get to you. They wont last.”
Her sincerity was the only genuine thing left in that office.
“Thank you, Lena.” I smiled. “Good people always stand out.”
Outside, I breathed in the cool evening air and dialed a number.
“Its done. Tomorrow at nine. Be ready.”
At 8:50 the next morning, I stood at the business center entrancenot with a cardboard box, but in a sharp dark suit. Beside me were two security officers and the silver-haired head of legal, Andrew Victorovich Lisitsyn.
Belyaev arrived first. Spotting me, he frowned, then smirked.
“Geoffrey Archibald? Back for an encore? No need for dramatics.”
Andrew stepped forward. “Victor Sergeiovich Belyaev? Lisitsyn, head of legal. This branch is under immediate audit. Hand over your pass and phone.”
Belyaevs mask slipped. “What joke is this? Ive cleared everything!”
Just then, Ksenia and Stanislav arrived. Belyaevs eyes locked onto mine with dawning fury.
“This is you You did this, you old snake!” he hissed. “Revenge for getting sacked? Ill ruin you!”
He lunged, but security blocked him. Ksenia screeched, “Petty, vindictive sneak! Running to daddy like a child!”
I looked at them both.
“Victor Sergeiovich,” I said, steel in my voice, “this isnt revenge. Its an audit.”
“I was sent here to evaluate this branchs viability. My report,”I allowed a slight smile”was damning. Especially the financial discrepancies, ghost employees, and kickbacks.”
Belyaev paled. Ksenia recoiled.
“Now,” I extended my hand, “your pass, Victor Sergeiovich. And yours, Ksenia Igorevna.”
Now, I made the rules.
