You know the type.

Mid-thirties. Hairline in retreat. Gut pressing against XL Dockers. Eyes carrying that particular glaze, the screen-glow burn that never quite fades. Fingertips worn smooth from a decade of keypresses. Spine curved to match the ergonomic chair HR ordered after the lawsuit.

Jerry.

You've stood behind him in line at Chipotle. You've held the elevator door. You've never once remembered his face.

The human placeholder. The RSVP that came back blank.

But Jerry has a ritual.

It starts at ...