The door to the conference room opened without warning.
Julian walked in—precise, cold, without a hint of hesitation.
He didn't look at anyone.
He only glanced at the file on the table, as if to confirm whether it was about him.
He didn't sit down.
He wasn't here to sit.
He wasn't here to explain.
He wasn't here to cooperate.
Jess was the first to sense the shift in the air, but she didn't move.
Her right hand hovered near the edge of the iPad, pretending to scroll through something.
The two senior HR representatives sat upright, too upright, like students trying not to be called on.
In the farthest corner, the note taker's fingers twitched over the keyboard, trying to disguise fear as professionalism.
Julian spoke first.
Clear. Calm.
Every word landed like a bullet.
"Tell me. Which one of you decided I was white?"
No one responded.
No one dared move.
Jess's face remained blank, but her eyes flickered.
Julian turned to her.
His tone didn't change, but it dropped just slightly, like the first drop of pressure before a storm.
"You filed a cultural misconduct report.
You labeled it under DEI.
Did anyone in this room check the D or the E?"
The note taker's hands froze completely.
The cursor blinked on the screen—once, twice—like a heartbeat that wasn't sure it wanted to continue.
Julian slowly raised his head.
He looked at each of them in turn.
His gaze wasn't asking for answers.
It was passing judgment.
"Watanabe. Born London. Father Japanese.
You want a copy of my Japanese family registry?"
He said it like he was offering a document.
Or maybe an accusation.
Then he let out a soft laugh.
No warmth.
Just the sound of someone who had realized the absurdity of the entire performance.
He turned to the other HR rep.
His pace picked up, like he was already tired of wasting time.
"You saw 'Watanabe'. You saw 'White British'.
You had all the data and still chose the dumbest interpretation."
He reached forward and opened one of the thick reports on the table.
The movement was deliberate.
As if he intended to peel apart every word they had written.
He pointed to a page.
"This isn't a report.
It's a projection.
You're not investigating what I said.
You're investigating who you think I am."
Silence fell over the room like dust.
Julian looked up.
This time, his voice was louder.
Not a question.
A declaration.
"So let me make it simple.
I didn't break your diversity policy.
I am your diversity policy."
One second.
Two.
No one moved.
No one spoke.
Jess stared at her screen, unfocused.
One of the HR reps clenched her folder tighter, her knuckles turning white.
The note taker pulled his hands away from the keyboard, as if afraid he might accidentally record himself in the report.
Julian didn't glance at them again.
He turned.
Walked out.
No hesitation.
No explanation.
The door closed behind him.
Not loud.
But finally.
Like a verdict landing where it needed to land.
Julian walked out of HR without a flicker of emotion on his face.
He didn't even adjust his collar.
He looked like someone who had just walked out of a final consultation at a hospital.
Cold, like a postmortem report.
The hallway was quiet.
Quiet like no one had ever walked through it.
He didn't look at anyone.
Didn't turn his head.
Just walked straight back to his desk.
Sat down.
The computer was still on.
The screen was frozen in the middle of a financial model.
The cursor still blinked on the formula in row fourteen.
He didn't resume the file.
His fingers moved slightly, opening the internal server.
There was no hesitation.
As if his hands already knew the path.
Audit archive.
He clicked it.
He knew what he was looking for.
And exactly where to begin.
The first document he pulled was from earlier this year.
A deal that had gone bad.
A high-net-worth client.
They had commissioned a structured derivatives product.
It should have gone to the fixed-income desk.
But Rick inserted himself.
Overstepped, forced himself into the process.
Got the structure wrong.
The client lost nearly three hundred thousand pounds on execution.
The incident was never made public.
It didn't even enter the official compliance system.
The loss was privately covered using internal funds.
To bury it, the management skipped the minutes entirely.
The only trace was a short internal email titled "FYI."
Julian found the email.
Sent by Rick.
Brief, but it included the phrase "temporary internal adjustment."
Attached was a transfer ID from the back-office system.
Julian didn't hesitate.
Copied.
Downloaded.
Archived.
The entire process took less than three minutes.
He didn't even put on headphones.
The water on his desk was cold.
The cursor still blinked inside the formula cell.
The second target was from their own team.
Last summer.
A deal.
Not huge, but it ran the full pipeline.
Rick had claimed it in a team meeting.
Said he sourced it. Modeled it. Closed it.
Julian remembered differently.
The model had been written by Emma.
She keyed in every line of the formula.
She was the one debugging the variables on a weekend.
The junior on that deal was fresh out of school.
Rick screamed at him the night before submission.
Made him cry.
Emma stayed beside him, reworking logic until morning.
And Rick?
He walked on the last day.
Signed it. Dropped the model into the deck.
The next morning at the pitch, he changed the cover page and wrote his name first.
Julian opened the repo.
Checked the version control history.
The author field was almost entirely Emma's ID.
Model construction.
Validation.
Scenario analysis.
Even the comment syntax on the simulation charts.
Rick hadn't touched a single line.
Julian stared at the screen.
Said nothing.
Just moved the cursor.
Selected the files.
Compressed the repo.
Took screenshots.
Encrypted.
Archived.
The third target was an email.
Buried deep in the Exchange Server archives.
Untouched for over three months.
Sender: Rick.
Recipient: a private email at a third-party broker.
Just three lines of text.
But the header included a specific client code.
That client was on the protected list.
All contact had to be pre-registered and approved.
Attached was a PDF.
The file name read: "Client Pricing 3.07.23."
The last line of the email said:
"Thank you for arranging this off-market pricing."
When Julian opened the email, his breath didn't shift.
He simply reached into the drawer.
Pulled out a sticky note.
Wrote down the email ID.
Closed the window.
Sat back down.
After that day, he changed.
Came in early.
Always clean, precise. Like he was deliberately holding the line.
Stayed late.
No more tardiness.
No more time off.
No one knew what he was doing.
He didn't yell anymore.
Didn't speak up in meetings.
Sometimes he lingered by the printer.
Sometimes he brought an extra report into the copy room.
Sometimes he stood by the coffee machine.
Watching that cold cup of Americano drip to the end.
Standing still.
Not pressing the button.
Everyone assumed he had snapped.
Burned out.
And now he had accepted it.
But only he knew.
It wasn't madness.
It was just the beginning.