Corporate Espionage at the Salad Bar

Elena suspected her coworker Gary was a spy. Not the cool kind with martinis and European sports cars, but the mundane corporate variety — the kind who steals your lunch ideas and claims them as his own in team meetings.

The kitchen incident had confirmed it. She'd been microwaving her leftover pasta, watching the steam rise like her blood pressure, when Gary materialized beside her. He'd complimented her spinach and feta wrap with suspicious specificity, noting how she'd added just enough lemon to brighten the earthy greens. Two days later, he'd presented nearly identical meal prep to the office as his own genius discovery.

Today, Elena watched Gary from her desk, his fingers dancing across his iphone with practiced ease. Probably texting his handlers about her quinoa bowl. The office air conditioning hummed, inadequate against the summer heat, and she sipped her water slowly, plotting revenge.

The building's old pipes groaned. Suddenly, the ceiling sprinkler system erupted directly above Gary's desk, dousing him and his devices in a torrential indoor rainstorm. His iphone — still clutched in his hand — sparked and died. As Gary stood there dripping, his carefully styled hair plastered to his forehead like a wet cat, something green and leafy floated past him in the spreading puddle.

A single wilted spinach leaf.

Elena laughed so hard she spilled her own water. Someone must have sabotaged the building's old fire suppression system. Probably the same person who'd been anonymously leaving negative reviews on Gary's lunch posts in the company Slack. Gary's soaked laptop screen flickered once and went dark, taking weeks of stolen meal prep ideas with it.

"Corporate espionage," Elena whispered to no one, raising her water glass in a toast to the unknown hero who'd orchestrated the most satisfying workplace accident she'd ever witnessed. "It's a dangerous business."