But the most jarring track came at 4:55 PM. A simple, clean piano melody, almost a lullaby. He found himself not in a fantastical world, but back in his cubicle. Only this time, the spreadsheet numbers weren’t digits. They were notes. The columns were measures. The Q4 losses, he realized, formed a heartbreakingly beautiful minor-key waltz. He saw his own reflection in the monitor: not a tired accountant, but a composer who had forgotten his own language.

He reached up and slowly pulled the earbud out.

The low hum of the HVAC became a cello’s mournful drone. The clatter of keyboards syncopated into a snare drum’s nervous patter. And then, a voice—gravelly, like Tom Waits after a three-pack night—whispered, “You’re in the wrong movie, kid. Let’s recast you.”