Sarah gripped her coffee mug, its warmth failing to steady her trembling hands. Across the chrome-and-glass conference table, three executives in tailored suits studied her resume with practiced indifference.

"Your requested salary seems... ambitious," the HR director said, tapping her manicured nail against the paper.

Two floors down and twelve hours earlier, Sarah had cleaned these same conference rooms, emptying waste bins and wiping fingerprints from glass surfaces. The cleaning company had slashed their hours again, spreading the same work across fewer people. When she'd mentioned the union contract their parents' generation had won—back when half the cleaning staff were members—her supervisor had laughed.

"There are twenty people who'd take your spot tomorrow," he'd said. "That's just how it is now."

In the top-floor conference room across town, Sarah's brother Michael leaned back in his ergonomic chair, letting the tension build. He knew three other tech firms were hunting for senior developers. His recruiter had the offers lined up like cards in a winning hand.

"We could go with an overseas team," the CTO said, more tired than threatening.

Michael shrugged. "You could. But we both know the cost of onboarding, the timezone issues, the communication gaps. I'm local, I know your systems, and I have five years of institutional knowledge. Ball's in your court."

Later that night, Sarah's phone buzzed. Michael's text: "Got the raise! Dinner's on me."

She typed back "Congratulations!" while scanning job listings on her cracked phone screen, searching for anything that might offer more than minimum wage, more than survival. The cleaning company's new contract sat unsigned in her bag, offering fewer hours for the same pay. Her choices felt as stark as the fluorescent lights still burning in the offices above: sign, or join the desperate queue of those who would.