As I step in, I notice I’m alone in the corridor. This is the first time I’ve ever been late. Normally, there’s a queue by the elevator—a quiet, orderly line of people shuffling forward, avoiding eye contact. Does no one else ever arrive late? Better this way; I won’t have to wait.
I step into the elevator. The air feels stagnant, pressing down on me like the walls themselves are alive. The transparent walls give a clear view of the work floors. I’ve never been alone in this elevator before. Since I’m already late, an extra minute or two won’t make a difference. I might as well take a closer look at what’s happening on the upper floors.
I press the button for the 100th floor, and the doors slide shut with a metallic hiss. As I ascend, it’s clear how the organization is divided—a tower of monotony, each floor trapped in its own strange purgatory:
1. Clerks of Obligation (Floors 1-10):
The clerks endlessly write pointless documents. Their desks are cluttered with stacks of paper that never seem to shrink. Their faces are blank, their hands mechanical. They don’t understand what they’re writing; they focus only on adhering to formatting rules as though their lives depend on it. Everyone begins their career here.
2. Couriers of Compliance (Floors 11-25):
Couriers dart between floors, clutching folders like holy relics. They glance nervously at their watches, muttering about deadlines. The papers they carry are meaningless, yet they sprint as if the company’s future depends on them. Their eyes flicker with desperation. I’m glad I no longer work here.
3. Analysts of Insight (Floors 26-50):
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The analysts read the documents, distilling gibberish into slightly more polished gibberish. They hunch over their desks, their faces lit by computer screens, convinced their summaries are brilliant. True, I spoke about the Analysts in the third person, but I am one of them.
4. Inspectors of Irrelevance (Floors 51-60):
Inspectors scrutinize every document, hunting for errors in stamps, signatures, or spacing. They generate endless reports that no one reads. Their eyes twitch as they pore over papers, finding fault in perfection. I can already see my future here.
5. Auditors of Anonymity (Floors 61-80):
Auditors evaluate processes that require no evaluation. Their screens are filled with endless graphs and charts. They whisper among themselves, as if afraid their findings might be noticed, even though they never will be. This is probably where my journey will end.
6. Architects of Redundancy (Floors 81-90):
Architects brainstorm “new” ideas that are indistinguishable from the old ones. They present these ideas with smug satisfaction, oblivious to the irony. They are celebrated for reinventing the wheel. Some people survive long enough to see themselves become architects. I am not one of those people.
7. Coordinators of Chaos (Floors 91-100):
The Coordinators move with an air of importance, organizing meetings and events that either never happen or achieve nothing. They shuffle calendars endlessly, their faces masks of calm efficiency. I’ve never understood how people end up here.
At the end of every year, each employee receives a letter dictating their next assignment. The strange thing is, no one knows who or what decides these changes. I glance up as I reach the 100th floor. For a moment, I think I see a shadow flicker at the edges of the transparent walls. But when I blink, it’s gone. Just my imagination, surely.
Oh well, time to head back to work. I press the button for the 33rd floor.
As the elevator descends, I can’t help but glance at the unmarked panel above the buttons. The building has 108 floors, yet the elevator only goes to 100. What lies above? How do people get there?
The elevator doors open. I step onto the 33rd floor. The air feels heavier here. My throat tightens, the unseen pressure intensifying. I take a shallow breath and move forward.