Persona-lity Novel | Part 2, Chapter 23: Initiation

Conference Room B, 6:45 AM.

The team arrived in intervals. Marshall first, eyes bloodshot. Then Sandy, picking at her cuticles. Mika with her phone clutched like a lifeline. The new recruits—Marcus Chen in his pressed shirt, Sophie Moreau with her leather notebook, David Park recording everything on his phone, Nina Torres with cameras slung across her body.

And Rowan's empty chair.

Nobody mentioned it.

Delaney entered at exactly 7:00 AM, carrying a cardboard box.

She set it on the table. Looked at each of them in turn.

"Close the door," she said to Marshall.

He did.

The lock clicked.

Delaney opened the box and spread its contents across the table. Ties. Dozens of them in different colors, patterns, textures. Silk. Polyester. Striped. Solid. Blue. Red. Black. Gray. Paisley.

"Choose one," she said.

They stared at the array.

"Go ahead. Pick whichever one speaks to you. This is your choice. Your identity."

Marshall reached hesitantly for a navy blue tie. Sandy took a burgundy one. Mika chose gray. The new recruits selected theirs—Marcus a charcoal stripe, Sophie a deep green, David solid black, Nina a dark purple.

"Put them on," Delaney said.

One by one, they complied. Fumbling with the knots. Marshall's was crooked. Sophie's too loose. But they wore them.

Delaney pulled out scissors. Professional fabric shears, the kind tailors used. Sharp. Precise.

She stood at the head of the table.

"You all know why you're here," she began, voice steady. Clinical. "Exposing fraud. Documenting truth. Real journalism in a world of PR spin and manufactured narratives."

Nods around the table. Uncertain. Cautious.

"But real journalism requires commitment. The ability to separate yourself from distractions. From people who don't understand what we're doing. From relationships that make you second-guess the work."

She picked up the scissors.

"We are Cut Ties," she said. "That's what I'm calling this team. Because to do this work—real investigative work—you have to be willing to cut ties with everything that holds you back."

She walked behind Marshall's chair. He went rigid.

"With family who don't understand the hours."

The scissors opened. Closed around his navy blue tie—the one he'd chosen himself. One clean cut.

The severed fabric fell to the table.

Marshall's breathing quickened but he didn't move.

Delaney moved to Sandy.

"With friends who question your methods."

Cut. The burgundy tie dropped.

Sandy flinched.

Mika was next.

"With anyone who makes you doubt what you know is true."

Cut. Gray fabric fell.

One by one, Delaney circled the table. Marcus. Sophie. David. Nina.

Each cut precise. Ritualistic.

Each severed tie—chosen by its owner—falling onto the table.

When she finished, eight pieces of fabric lay scattered. All different. All chosen freely.

All cut the same way.

"This is your uniform now," Delaney said, returning to the head of the table. "Cut Ties. You chose these. You wear them proudly. It means you're serious. Committed. Part of something that matters."

She sat down. Folded her hands.

"From this point forward, you don't discuss this work with anyone outside this room. Not partners. Not parents. Not other journalists. What we do here stays here. We protect each other. We protect the work."

Marshall stared at his severed navy tie. The one he'd picked. His choice.

Sandy's fingers had gone white around the burgundy fabric.

Mika looked at her gray tie, then at her phone, then set the phone face-down.

"Now," Delaney continued, voice brisk. "Updates. Marshall—Detroit surveillance?"

Marshall swallowed. Picked up his phone with shaking hands.

Marshall

"The Fighter and Raul left the hotel at 4 AM. Driving back. We lost visual around Toledo."

"Find them. Nina—footage from Elena's apartment?"

Nina

"She painted all night. Yellow canvas. Then she destroyed it around 3 AM. Tore it apart. I got it all."

"Excellent. David—podcast episode ready?"

David

"Rough cut done. 'The Manufactured Fighter: How Combat Sports Sells Fake Heroes.' Drops Friday."

"Perfect. Marcus—your network?"

Marcus

"They want an exclusive interview. With you. About the investigation."

"Not yet. Sophie—article?"

Sophie

"Draft complete. 'The Cult of The Fighter: How Fans Enable Fraud.'"

"Good. Send it to me by end of day." Delaney stood. Walked to the whiteboard. Started mapping out next steps. "The Fighter is running. Good. Fear makes people sloppy. We maintain pressure. Marshall—I want eyes on them when they arrive. Nina—more apartment surveillance. Sophie—finalize the article. David—promote the podcast. Marcus—prep your network. We go public in one week."

"One week?" Mika's voice was small.

"One week. Enough time to finish this. To prove everything we've documented." Delaney turned to face them. "You all chose to be here. You all chose your ties. You all saw the truth. Now we finish what we started."

She picked up the scissors. Set them in the center of the table.

"Cut Ties," she said. "Remember what that means. No distractions. No doubts. No one pulling you away from the work. This is what real journalism looks like. And we—" She gestured to the room. "—we are the ones doing it right."

Around the table, eight people sat with their severed ties in front of them. The ties they'd chosen. Their personal selections.

All cut the same way.

All meaning the same thing.

Marshall stared at his navy blue fabric. He'd picked that one. He'd chosen it. And yet—

Sandy folded her burgundy tie. She'd liked that color. Had thought it looked professional. Now it just looked severed.

Mika touched her gray tie. She'd picked gray because it seemed safe. Neutral. But safety was an illusion here.

Sophie looked at her green tie. At the words in her notebook: "The Cult of The Fighter." At the irony that felt too close.

Marcus adjusted his collar where the striped tie had been cut. He'd chosen stripes. Thought they looked sharp. Now they just hung awkwardly. Unfinished.

Nina lifted her camera. Almost photographed her purple tie. Then lowered it.

David kept recording on his phone. Everything. Always. His black tie sat in front of him—the one he'd selected because black was classic. Professional.

All their choices.

All their agency.

All their illusion of control.

Cut.

"Meeting adjourned," Delaney said. "Same time tomorrow. And wear your ties. The cut ones. The ones you chose. It's our symbol now. Our identity."

She gathered the scissors and the empty box.

Left the room.

Eight people sat in silence.

Eight different ties on the table. All severed the same way.

Marshall was the first to speak, voice barely a whisper.

"We picked these."

Nobody answered.

Because yes, they had picked them.

From a box Delaney provided.

In a room Delaney controlled.

For a purpose Delaney defined.

They'd chosen.

And that made it worse.

Because they couldn't say they were forced. Couldn't claim they had no agency. They'd chosen their ties. They'd chosen to put them on. They'd chosen to stay when the scissors came out. And now they'd chosen to be Cut Ties.

A team.

A unit.

A family.

And families didn't question their choices. Even when those choices had been orchestrated from the start. Even when the box had been prepared in advance. Even when the scissors had been waiting all along.

They filed out quietly.

Back to their desks.

Back to the surveillance.

Back to the work.

Each one carrying their severed tie.

Their personal choice.

Their unique selection.

All identical in the end.

And in Conference Room B, the door locked behind them, the scissors sat on the table.

Waiting for the next initiation.

The next choice.

The next person who needed to believe they'd decided for themselves.

Because the illusion of choice was the strongest chain. And Delaney Schulz knew exactly how to forge it. One tie at a time.