The first thing Ethan noticed was how quiet the office felt.
Not empty—just wrong.
Keyboards still clicked. Phones still rang. People still laughed softly near the coffee machine. But when his manager asked him to step into the glass-walled conference room, the air seemed to thin, as though the building itself was holding its breath.
"Have a seat, Ethan."
Martin didn't look at him when he said it.
That was when Ethan knew.
He sat anyway, fingers interlocked, posture straight. He had spent ten years training himself to look composed under pressure. Structural engineering didn't allow panic. Panic killed bridges. Panic collapsed buildings.
Martin cleared his throat. The HR woman beside him—Claire, maybe—offered a rehearsed smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"We'll get straight to it," Martin said. "The board has decided to terminate your position, effective immediately."
Terminate.
The word landed without sound.
"I don't understand," Ethan said. His voice was calm, even to himself. "I just submitted the Riverton project report last week. It passed inspection."
"It did," Martin replied. "This isn't about performance."
"Then what is it about?"
Martin finally met his eyes. There was something close to guilt there. "Cost efficiency. Automation. We're restructuring."
Ethan leaned forward. "You can't be serious. I've been lead structural analyst on three major projects this year alone. You know how much I've saved this firm in corrections."
Claire shifted uncomfortably. "Your Master's degree is impressive, Mr. Cole. Truly. But the firm is moving toward AI-assisted modeling. Fewer human redundancies."
Redundancies.
Ethan laughed once, short and disbelieving. "So what—my degree is suddenly irrelevant? Ten years of experience replaced by software?"
"It's not personal," Martin said quickly.
Ethan stood. "Then why does it feel like it?"
Silence.
He exhaled slowly, pressing his palms against the table. "Give me time. Cut my pay. Move me to another department. I'll retrain. You know I can."
Martin looked away.
"We've already finalized the list."
A list.
Ethan straightened, the muscles in his jaw tightening. "You're making a mistake."
Martin didn't argue.
That was answer enough.
An hour later, Ethan was packing his desk into a cardboard box. No farewell speech. No handshake. Just murmured condolences from coworkers who wouldn't remember his name in a year.
He folded his blueprints carefully. Old habits. Precision even when it didn't matter anymore.
The plaque—Outstanding Structural Engineer, 2019—stared back at him from the bottom of the box. He turned it face-down.
By the time he stepped into the elevator, his hands were shaking.
The ride down felt endless.
When the doors opened onto the street, the city swallowed him whole. Horns blared. People brushed past him without a glance. Somewhere, a construction crane swung steel into the sky.
Structures were still being built.
Just not by him.
The apartment smelled expensive.
Vanilla candles. Roasted chicken. The kind of scent meant to signal comfort and success.
Ethan closed the door quietly, setting the box down near the entryway.
"Ethan?" Sarah's voice floated from the dining area. "You're home early."
She appeared a moment later, perfectly put together—hair smooth, makeup flawless, silk blouse unwrinkled. Her mother, Margaret, sat at the table behind her, scrolling through her phone with mild disinterest.
Margaret looked up first.
"Well," she said coolly. "This is unusual."
Sarah's eyes dropped to the box. Her smile faltered. "What's that?"
Ethan swallowed. "I lost my job."
The words sounded foreign, like they belonged to someone else.
The silence that followed was sharp.
Margaret laughed.
Not loudly. Not kindly. A soft, scoffing sound.
"Lost?" she repeated. "Or fired?"
"I was laid off," Ethan said. "They're restructuring."
Sarah's face drained of color. "That's not funny."
"I'm not joking."
Her lips parted. Closed. Then her voice rose. "You said your position was secure."
"It was."
Margaret stood. "Secure men don't come home in the middle of the afternoon with a box of their failures."
Ethan stiffened. "I have a Master's degree in structural engineering. I'll find another firm."
Margaret snorted. "Engineering? Please. Everyone's an engineer these days. Degrees don't impress banks, Ethan. Income does."
Sarah pressed her fingers to her temples. "Do you have any idea how this makes me look?"
Ethan stared at her. "I just lost my career."
"And I just lost my future," she snapped. "We have commitments. Appearances to maintain."
"I'll apply everywhere," he said quickly. "This industry is competitive, but I have experience. Give me time."
"Time?" Margaret cut in. "Time is a luxury for men who earn."
Sarah shook her head slowly, her eyes scanning him like a stranger. "You promised me stability."
"I promised effort."
She laughed bitterly. "Effort doesn't pay the mortgage."
The words hit harder than he expected.
Margaret crossed her arms. "You should excuse yourself. This conversation is embarrassing."
Ethan's throat tightened. He nodded once.
"Of course."
He picked up the box and walked past them, down the hallway, into the small spare room—the one Sarah once said would be a nursery someday.
He closed the door.
The silence inside was heavy, absolute.
For a moment, he stood there, breathing through the pressure in his chest.
Then he sat on the bed, opened his laptop, and started searching.
Structural Engineer – Senior Level
Bridge Design Specialist
Infrastructure Consultant
Rejections came fast.
We've decided to pursue other candidates.
Your qualifications are impressive, but…
Position filled.
Hour after hour, Ethan sent applications into the void.
Outside the room, he heard laughter. Sarah and her mother. Glass clinking.
He kept typing.
By midnight, his eyes burned. His head ached. The job boards were empty.
Structural engineering had built cities.
But tonight, it couldn't build him a place to stand.
He leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
A man with a degree. A man with skill.
And yet, utterly disposable.
Ethan closed his laptop.
Tomorrow, he would try again.
He had no choice.