**Diary Entry**
*Monday, 15th October*
We need fresh blood, the manager said as he let me go at 58. He had no idea I was the secret auditor sent to shut down his branch.
Gerald Archibald, you understand how it is. The companys shifting directionnew vision, new energy.
Victor Spencer-Blythe, the branch director, leaned back in his enormous leather chair, which probably cost more than my annual salary. The chair creaked theatrically, underlining his insincere sympathy.
He twirled an expensive Parker pen between manicured fingers, like a conductors baton, orchestrating the reality of this office drenched in morning sunlight and the scent of expensive cologne.
We need youth, he finally stated, setting the pen on the massive mahogany desk.
The words hung in the air like a grease stain on a crisp white shirt, poisoning the atmosphere of leather and pretentious success.
I watched him silently. His perfectly styled hair, lightly silvered at the templesno doubt a mark of sophistication in his mind. The Swiss TAG Heuer watch gleaming carelessly on his wrist as he adjusted his cuff. The smug posture of a man whod never questioned his right to decide other peoples fates. He couldnt have been older than forty.
He belonged to that breed of efficient managers who wore their MBA like a badge of honour, dismissing anyone over fifty as dead weight, an obstacle to corporate progress.
Youre an excellent specialist, he continued his rehearsed speech, avoiding my gaze while admiring the city skyline through the floor-to-ceiling window. Your experience is invaluable, but the market demands change. Energy, drive, digital transformation. New horizons require new speed. Were implementing CRM, migrating to the cloud, exploring neural networks. Youd struggle.
I nodded slowly, keeping my face a mask of weary resignation. Inside, there was no anger, no resentmentjust the cold, methodical clicking of a Geiger counter in my mind.
Item #12 in my preliminary report: *Unjust terminations of valuable employees under the guise of age-related downsizing to clear positions for loyalists.* Check.
His mention of digital transformation was particularly amusing, given that just last week, Id uncovered server logs siphoning funds through fictitious IT contracts.
I understand, I said flatlytoo flatly, perhaps.
Blythe clearly expected something else. Outrage, pleading, curses, reminders of decades of service. He even tensed slightly, gripping the armrest, ready to deflect an attack. But there was no attack.
I just looked at him and saw something else entirely. The double-entry accounting Id spent three weeks reconstructing, cross-referencing shadow server data with official reports. Kickbacks disguised as marketing expenses. Ghost employees on the payrollnames drawing salaries but never stepping foot in the office.
And, of course, his mistress, Cassandra Irene, hired as his deputy with a salary triple mine, whose sole duty was accompanying him to business dinners.
Well pay you whats owed. Three months salary, he added, visibly relieved, assuming the old man had simply broken. Thats the best I could negotiate. Consider it a personal favour.
I nodded again. Three months. Such generosityespecially against the gaping hole in the branchs finances Id uncovered. A hole the size of a small towns annual budget.
Very well, Victor Spencer. If youth is whats needed, so be it.
I stood. He had no idea my 120-page reportcomplete with scanned documents, covert audio recordings, and transaction 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 accountant. I was the liquidator. My job wasnt to salvage corruptionit was to demolish it, clearing the ground for something better.
May I collect my things? I asked, playing the part to the end.
Yes, of course, Blythe replied hurriedly, already mentally ushering me out as he dialled Cassandras number to share the good news. Take your time.
He was wrong. I was in a hurry. Because at 9 AM sharp tomorrow, a compliance team would arrive, sealing every officestarting with his.
Walking through the open-plan office felt like a gauntlet. Dozens of eyes pinned me like needlessome pitying, some smug, most fearful, measuring my fate against their own.
I felt every glance. Item #13: *Fostering a toxic workplace built on fear and nepotism.* Check.
At my old desk sat a young mantwenty-five, an undercut hairstyle, a wireless earbud gleaming in his ear. He didnt even look up as I approached, too busy scrolling his phone.
Those are my things, I said calmly, pointing to the modest stack of books and a framed family photo hed shoved aside for a pizza box.
Oh, right, he said, popping out his earbud. Take it, grandad. I need space for a second monitor. For TikTok, you know? Content wont watch itself.
His smirk reeked of arrogance and impunity. I recognised himStanley, Blythes nephew, hired last week as an SMM specialist.
I packed my belongings in silence. Then, a figure in a tailored dress appeared beside meCassandra Irene herself.
Gerald, what a shame, she simpered, though her eyes glinted with cold malice. Well miss you. You were such a vintage touch to the team.
Im sure, I replied evenly, not looking at her.
If you need work dont hesitate. I could put in a word. Theres a night-watchman position at a gated community. Quiet nightsperfect for your age. They even allow crosswords. And dominoes.
It was a calculated blow. Humiliating, public. She wanted to see me crack, to bask in my defeat. Her own position was precarious, and she thrived on others misery.
I met her gazelong, deliberate, like an entomologist studying a venomous insect. She faltered, looked away, nervously smoothing her hair.
Right. Good luck, she muttered, clicking away on her stilettos.
Item #14: *Nepotism and appointment of incompetent personnel, directly harming company interests.* Another bold check.
At the exit, a timid voice called after me. Gerald
I turned. It was Emily from accountsyoung, earnest, the one Id quietly shielded from Blythes temper over minor mistakes.
Here, she handed me a chocolate bar. Dont dont let it get to you. They wont last.
Her eyes shone with genuine kindness. She was the only one who dared approach.
Thank you, Emily, I smiled. Good people always stand out.
Stepping outside, I inhaled the crisp evening air and dialled a single number.
Its done. Tomorrow at nine. Be ready.
—
*Tuesday, 16th October*
At 8:50 AM, I stood by the business centre entrancenot with a cardboard box, but in a sharp dark suit. Beside me were two burly security officers and the silver-haired head of legal, Adrian Vicary.
Blythe arrived first. Spotting me, he frowned, then smirked.
Gerald? Changed your mind? No need for dramatics.
Adrian stepped forward. Victor Spencer-Blythe? Vicary, head of legal. As of now, this branch is under suspension pending a full audit. Hand over your pass and mobile.
Blythes mask slipped instantly.
What joke is this? Who authorised this?
Just then, Cassandra arrived by taxi, followed by Stanley. Blythes gaze darted between Adrian and methen understanding, then hatred.
You, he hissed. This was you, you bitter old sod! This is revenge for sacking you? Ill ruin you!
He lunged, but security blocked him. Cassandra, ever the opportunist, screeched:
I knew you were a petty, vengeful rat! Running to HR like a child! Did you think anyone would care?
I looked at her, then at Blythe.
Victor, my voice was steel. This isnt revenge. Its an audit.
I was sent here to assess this branchs viability. My report*I almost smiled*was damning. Especially the sections on financial misconduct, ghost positions, and kickbacks.
Blythe paled. Cassandra recoiled as if struck.
Now, I extended a hand, your passes, please.
For once, I made the rules.
