“I walked into this store and half of the staff didn’t even greet me.”

  The cold words sliced through the room like a blade.

  “Some of you aren’t wearing name badges,” Vincent Adams continued, his voice calm but razor-sharp. “And the way you’re dressed—don’t any of you know what an iron is?”

  The room was silent. No one dared breathe too loudly.

  “From tomorrow morning onwards,” he said, pacing slowly in front of us, “when you walk into this store, you will greet me. I will check you from head to toe. And if you look like trash, I will send you home.”

  His eyes scanned the room with disgust.

  “This is a business. Not a circus. Strict rules will be implemented, and if you refuse to follow them—” he pointed toward the exit, “—there’s the door.”

  A bitter smile crossed his face.

  “No wonder this store can’t make money. Your previous managers were clowns.” He paused. “But not me.”

  My stomach tightened.

  “I will deal with each and every one of you. And don’t think for a second that you can’t be replaced.” His voice dropped. “I will lay a red carpet in my office for anyone who thinks they can challenge me. That’s where we’ll face each other.”

  He straightened his shirt.

  “Now get back to your departments.”

  As we slowly dispersed, one thing was painfully clear—

  the staff of Pick Your Product was not going to rest until Vincent Adams was gone.

  Working in retail, I’d long forgotten what weekends felt like. I got one Sunday off a month—if I was lucky. Other than that, all I saw was the inside of the store.

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  The rules were clear: dedication meant sacrifice. Having a life outside of work was apparently optional.

  If I didn’t need the money so badly, I would’ve disappeared a long time ago.

  Unlike me, some staff members simply didn’t care. They skipped shifts, made excuses, and treated absence like a hobby. But ever since Mr. Adams arrived, those days were over.

  Every Monday had become Red Carpet Monday.

  Anyone who had been absent was summoned to his office to explain themselves—face to face. Mr. Adams made sure the red carpet was laid out perfectly, with three senior staff members standing by like silent witnesses.

  As I walked into the store that faithful Monday morning, I froze.

  A long line of employees stretched down the hallway, all waiting for their turn to face Judge Vincent Adams.

  The first name echoed from his office.

  “Dylan Johnson.”

  Dylan stepped forward, pale and shaking.

  “So tell me, Dylan,” Mr. Adams said smoothly, “why were you absent on Saturday?”

  “I—I was sick, Mr. Adams,” Dylan stammered. “I have medical records to prove that I’m a chronic patient.”

  Mr. Adams picked up the papers and studied them slowly.

  “Dylan,” he said at last, “you don’t belong at Pick Your Product.”

  Dylan’s face fell.

  “You belong in a hospital.” He tilted his head. “I’m confused by these records. I can’t even tell what illness you have. Frankly, I’m surprised you’re still alive.”

  The room went silent.

  “Please leave my office,” Mr. Adams continued. “You will not be placed under further investigation. And I will not be paying you.”

  Dylan walked out with tears in his eyes.

  Mr. Adams didn’t even look up.

  “Next.”

  A young woman stepped inside.

  “Candice Fisher.” His tone hardened. “You were absent Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. Care to explain?”

  “Well, Mr. Adams,” Candice began nervously, “the police held us hostage in our own house since Friday. I don’t know why, but we couldn’t leave.”

  Mr. Adams stared at her.

  Then he smiled.

  “You see, Candice,” he said softly, “this is the part where everyone says I’m crazy and you’re the normal one.”

  Her hands trembled.

  “I’m giving you a verbal warning,” he continued. “If you value your job, your absenteeism ends today. I will find out where you live. I will speak to your neighbors.”

  Candice’s eyes widened.

  “You’re under investigation,” he finished. “You’re on very thin ice, Candice Fisher. Try not to break it.”

  She left the office shaking.

  And that’s when it hit me—

  Mondays at Pick Your Product weren’t just workdays anymore.

  They were war days.

  Everyone versus one man.

  Mr. Evil Adams.

  And losing to him was not an option.