Exit Interview
The room is white in a way that feels intentional. Not sterile. Manufactured. A white that hums softly beneath the surface. It has no corners, no clock. Just a smooth table and two chairs. One of them is already occupied.
The man sitting across from me wears a dark suit and no expression. His eyes are the exact color of boiled water. His tie is slightly askew.
“Ms. Collins,” he says.
“Yes?” My voice comes out hoarse. I haven’t used it in a while. Or maybe I’ve...