You can’t fire it

The room swallowed the sound of my ragged breath. The corporate men were staring at me—six of them, all in the kind of suits that didn't wrinkle, the kind that cost more than my entire existence. Their faces flickered between confusion and irritation, their sharp eyes darting between me and Uncle Chen.

One of them, an older man with slicked-back silver hair and an augmented left eye that flickered faintly blue, turned to Chen with a slow, calculated tilt of his head. "I thought you told us the problem was taken care of." His voice was level, clipped, the kind of tone used by people who weren't used to hearing 'no' for an answer.

The man next to him—shorter, broader, with hands that looked too rough for corporate work—was less restrained. He shoved his chair back, standing aggressively. "What the fuck is this, Chen? You said it was handled!"