Chapter 1: The Man Who Never Leaves

There’s a legend in our company: Big Mike.

Everyone knows someone like him—the guy who’s become part of the place, almost like he was installed with the wiring. Almost like he came with the building, you know? Around here, just say “Big Mike” and people nod—like you’re talking about the break room fridge, or that copy machine that only works if you smack it twice. He’s that much of a fixture.

The company’s been around for twenty years, and he’s been here all twenty of them. He’s never even talked about quitting—almost like he’s planning to stick around until the end of time.

It’s almost a running joke: new hires come and go, managers shuffle in and out, but Big Mike is always there—same desk, same battered mug, same faded flannel on casual Fridays. Some folks say he was hired before the company even had a logo. No one’s sure if it’s a joke. He’s the kind of guy who knows where every skeleton is buried—and probably where the shovel’s hidden too.

He knows every contract we’ve ever signed, every client we’ve ever worked with, the boss’s side hustle, and all the office gossip—like he’s got a spreadsheet in his head. We call him our walking, talking company encyclopedia.

I mean, if you want to know the Wi-Fi password, or the story behind why the break room microwave smells like burnt popcorn, just ask Mike. He remembers the details no one else bothers with—like who borrowed the office stapler in 2008 and never brought it back. Some people have Google; we have Big Mike.

Whenever something goes wrong, we just go straight to him. No questions asked. He’s become our workplace mentor, the soul of the company.

You could be a rookie or a department head—doesn’t matter. If the new accounting software is acting up, if you need to navigate the labyrinth of HR paperwork, or if you just need to vent about your manager, Mike’s the one who’ll listen. And somehow, he always has the right advice. He’s the guy who brings in coffee for the night shift, who remembers your birthday even if you forgot his.

Big Mike? He’s hands-on, all right. If the front door sticks, he fixes it himself. He knows exactly which screw is missing from any piece of office furniture.

He’s the first to roll up his sleeves, even if he’s in the middle of a call with a client. You’ll catch him on a Saturday with a toolbox, muttering about how "you can’t trust these mass-produced hinges." I swear, the guy could run a hardware store. There’s a rumor he once rewired the whole break room himself, just because he didn’t like the way the outlets were spaced.

Every time the boss sees him, you can tell he gets a little emotional.

And I mean, not just a little misty-eyed—sometimes you can see the boss’s jaw clench, like he’s fighting back a full-on dad moment, you know, the kind where you want to hug someone but just end up grumbling instead. It’s like watching someone look at an old family photo, except the photo is a middle-aged man fixing the printer.

But Big Mike always says, “Boss, don’t get all sappy. The company’s my home. Of course I fix things at home.” He just waves it off, like it’s nothing.

He’ll say it with a half-smile, waving the boss off like he’s batting away a fly. He’s not the sentimental type—he just does what needs doing, and that’s that. Still, you can tell he means it. The company is his family, and he’s the guy who keeps the lights on.

And just like that, the boss gets even more choked up and waves his hand: “Give him another 10% raise.”

It’s almost a ritual now. Makes you wonder if we should all start fixing door hinges, too.

We ask Big Mike, “You know, they say a rolling stone gathers no moss. You ever think about changing jobs or starting your own business?” Just messing with him, mostly.

We’ll tease him in the break room, half-joking, half-serious. “Mike, you ever think about going out on your own? You could run this place.” But he just grins and shakes his head, like we’re all crazy.

Big Mike grins, “The company’s my home. How could I just up and leave?”

He says it so simply, like it’s obvious. For him, loyalty isn’t a big speech—it’s just showing up, day after day. Honestly, you almost envy that kind of certainty.

We give him a thumbs up. “Legend.” And we mean it.

Sometimes, someone will even clap him on the back or raise their coffee in salute. Not just respect—more like awe. Seriously, there aren’t many people like Mike left these days.

But after this New Year, Big Mike didn’t show up. No one answered his phone. No one replied to his texts.

At first, we thought he was just taking a rare vacation. Or maybe his phone died. But after a couple days, the silence felt heavy. Wrong. The office felt off-balance, like someone had moved a load-bearing wall.

Everyone in the company was on edge. You could feel it, like a storm about to break.

You could feel it in the way people whispered in the halls, glancing at Mike’s empty desk. Even the office plants seemed droopier than usual. The coffee tasted stale. It was as if the building itself was holding its breath.

He’s the soul of the company. Always has been.

If you asked anyone to describe what kept this place running, they’d say "Big Mike" before they said "payroll." He’s the pulse, the glue, the guy who makes Mondays survivable. No contest.

A business can get by without vision, without culture even—but without a soul? Forget it.

You can buy a new logo, rebrand, hire consultants, but you can’t just replace the person who makes everyone feel like they belong. That’s what Mike is for us. No substitute.

The boss called an emergency meeting: everyone was going to look for Big Mike.

It felt a little dramatic, honestly, but nobody questioned it. The boss stood up in front of us, voice tight, and just said, "We find him. Today." It was like a family searching for a missing brother.

We split up—some went to his apartment, some to his favorite bars, some to his go-to diners, and someone even went looking for his favorite massage therapist, Angie.

We all drew assignments, like we were in some kind of cop show. I got the diner. Someone else grabbed the bar. Even Angie, who half the office had heard about but never met, was on the list. It was all hands on deck.

At noon, we gathered in the break room to share what we’d found.

The usual banter was gone. People sat on the edge of their seats, clutching coffee cups, waiting for news like it was the evening news.

The colleague who went to Big Mike’s place reported:

There was no one at his apartment. The neighbor said that on the night before New Year’s Eve, they heard knocking next door—sounded like someone hammering nails. It lasted about ten minutes. The neighbor left for their family’s place the next morning and didn’t come back until after the holidays.

But judging from the Christmas wreath still on Big Mike’s door, he must have spent the holiday at home, at least on Christmas Eve.

The colleague who went to the bar said:

The bar owner is a local. The hours are pretty random. He remembered that on the night before New Year’s Eve, just before closing, Big Mike called and asked him to leave a bottle of whiskey at the entrance, saying someone would pick it up later.

Worried the bottle might get stolen, the owner hid it under the bench outside. When he reopened after the New Year, the whiskey was gone. He wasn’t sure if Big Mike took it or someone else, and when he texted Big Mike, there was no reply.

The colleague who went to the diner reported:

The owner’s from out of state. On the night before New Year’s Eve, after closing, he tried to sell the leftover sausages on his Facebook page. Big Mike saw the post and had a delivery guy buy all the sausages.

The colleague who went to find Angie, the massage therapist, was the last to come back.

The boss scolded him for being late—"Did you stop for a session?"

The colleague swore he didn’t.

He even raised both hands, like he was surrendering to the cops. “Swear on my grandma’s grave, boss. No massage, just the facts.”

When he found Angie, she’d just gone back to her room to sleep. According to her, Big Mike had made an appointment but never showed up. They chatted a bit on Messenger.

What stuck with her most was that Big Mike asked, “What do you think is the meaning of life?”

She answered, “What else? A good steak and a cold beer, that’s all.” After a long pause, Big Mike replied, “Thank you.”

After hearing this, everyone sucked in a sharp breath. You could feel the chill run through the room.

People looked at each other, wide-eyed. Suddenly, it all felt a little too heavy.

The night before New Year’s Eve, a farewell drink, food for the afterlife, the meaning of life—no matter how you put those words together, it sounds like the start of a murder mystery.

Honestly, it was the kind of thing you’d see on Dateline. The clues lined up just a little too well. Someone even nervously laughed, but nobody joined in.

A suffocating silence spread through the break room, settling over everyone. You could hear the hum of the fridge. The tap of someone’s foot. Nobody wanted to break the quiet.

“Damn! Could it be…” a colleague blurted out.

The boss frowned and quickly cut him off: “Don’t go making wild guesses.”

His voice was sharp, almost angry—like he was trying to will us back to reality. But the worry in his eyes gave him away.

The boss asked, did anyone know where Big Mike’s hometown was?

We all looked at each other. No one knew. Even his driver’s license listed a local address.

It was weird—realizing someone you saw every day could still be a total mystery. Even his emergency contact was the company’s own number.

After graduating college at 22, Big Mike joined this company and worked here for twenty years.

He’d been here longer than the paint on the walls. Some of us realized, for the first time, how little we knew about his life before all this.

Twenty years is a hell of a long time. Two decades of birthdays, holidays, heartbreaks, and promotions.

That’s two decades of birthdays, holidays, heartbreaks, and promotions. In a world where most people job-hop every few years, Mike’s record felt almost mythical.

The boss thought for a while, picked up his phone, and tried calling Big Mike again, but his phone was still off.

The silence after the dial tone seemed to echo in the room. Someone cleared their throat, but no one spoke.

“Go open his door,” the boss said.

His voice was low, but there was a finality to it. The kind of tone you don’t argue with.

“Isn’t breaking into someone’s place illegal? Shouldn’t we call the police and report him missing first?” someone asked.