The operation had been planned with military precision. At 9:00 AM Central Time on the twenty-ninth of October, one thousand souls received calendar invitations titled simply: "Important Company Update." No agenda. No dial-in option. Just a Zoom link and the implicit understanding that attendance was non-optional.

They arrived in waves—software engineers, marketing managers, supply chain analysts—each clicking "Join Meeting" with the grim resignation of souls presenting themselves for final judgement.

There was no "Good morning." No "Thank you for joining us." The mute button had been applied with the thoroughness of a surgical procedure. A thousand professionals sat in enforced silence, watching a crimson emblem rotate slowly on their screens.

The bullseye. That familiar target mark. It had never seemed quite so... pointed.

For twenty-three minutes, nothing happened. The logo spun. The clock advanced. A thousand careers hung suspended in the digital ether, each participant forbidden from uttering a syllable, forbidden even from typing in the chat—for the chat, too, had been disabled with the foresight of generals preparing for war.

When the audio finally connected—twenty-three minutes late—the announcement lasted less than four minutes. "Your role has been eliminated." "This decision was not made lightly." "A representative will follow up with next steps."

One thousand people. One muted meeting. One spinning logo. Zero opportunity to respond.

A corporate spokesperson later expressed regret that 'technical difficulties may have impacted the experience' and affirmed that the company remains 'committed to its team members.'