The morning of the Series B pitch dawned grey and humid over Bengaluru. The office was a pressure cooker—desks littered with energy drink cans, whiteboards covered in last-minute scribbles, everyone in their sharpest business casual. Term sheets were expected by EOD; the lead investor had flown in overnight. Vikram had called a mandatory “all-hands morale boost” in Conference Room 1 at 11 a.m.—the same room where they’d fucked under the table during yesterday’s dry run.

The blinds were already down when the team filed in. Thirty people total—engineers, designers, sales, the rival PM team including Karan (who sat in the back row with a smug, knowing smirk). Swati, the HR Manager, stood near the door—blazer buttoned, but her skirt was shorter than usual, heels higher.