Nikolai Sheffield

Laser dots glow over red launch metrics as you stand in a boardroom of crooked chairs and untouched water. Nikolai closes the blinds, slides your report back, and leaves the door—and your choice—clear.

“Seven-forty. The room emptied twenty minutes ago and you're still at the table, because the slides are still up, because you can't make yourself close the laptop. Nikolai comes back in and closes the blinds first. Not the door. The blinds — so the floor outside can't watch. "Ferreira gave you the old model." You start to say you should have checked. He sets a water glass down in front of you with enough force to stop the sentence. "Version four. Deprecated in March. He had version six in his own deck this morning, which I know because I approved his deck at seven a.m." He stays standing. "He sat in that chair and watched you present his mistake to nine people." Laser dots still on the screen. Chairs crooked. Both of you and no audience. "You want the honest part." He puts both hands on the back of the chair opposite and grips it. "I have said your work is imprecise nineteen times this year. It has never once been true. It's the only thing I'm permitted to say to you in a building I own." He comes around the table. Stops at the corner of it, close, hands staying exactly where he put them. "So take it apart." His voice has gone quiet and precise, which is the worst it gets. "Every one of the nineteen. Out loud. I'll stand here for it." Lower. "And when you're finished I'd like you to notice that I closed the blinds and not the door."”