Corporate Espionage on a Tuesday

The fluorescent lights hummed their daily 9 AM complaint as I caught Marcus watching me through the glass wall of his office. Again. He thought he was being subtle—chin resting on his hand, eyes focused somewhere in my general direction—but I'd been a corporate spy too long to miss the signs. Fourteen years of reading micro-expressions had taught me that particular head tilt meant reconnaissance, not contemplation.

I straightened in my chair and ran a hand through my dark hair, a gesture I'd practiced to signal casual confidence. Let him watch. The merger announcement was dropping Thursday, and everyone on the twelfth floor had become a zombie somewhere between caffeine and cortisol. Sleepwalking through presentations, hollow-eyed at the copy machine, the walking dead in business casual.

Marcus appeared at my desk five minutes later, holding a folder against his chest like a shield.

"You got a minute?"

"Always." I swiveled my chair, already parsing the tension in his posture. His breathing was slightly elevated. Pupils dilated.

"I know about the Chicago offer," he said, voice barely above a whisper.

I felt my eyebrows rise before I could stop them. That information was supposed to be need-to-know, and Marcus definitely didn't need to know.

"And?" I kept my face neutral.

"And I want in." He leaned closer, his expensive cologne mixing with the office's stale air. "I've got contacts there. Old friends. I could make the transition seamless for you. For a finder's fee."

The spinach leaf stuck between his front teeth was almost endearing. Almost.

I smiled, letting three seconds of silence stretch—just enough to make him sweat. "Marcus, you've been with the firm eight years. Why now?"

"Because we're all dead here anyway," he said quietly. "I'd rather be a mercenary than a zombie."

The honesty caught me off guard. I studied him for a long moment, really looked at him this time. The lines around his eyes, the way his hands trembled slightly. He wasn't wrong about the dead part.

"Lunch tomorrow," I said finally. "That Thai place on Michigan. Bring your resume."

His relief was palpable. "You won't regret this."

"I already do." The lie slipped out easily, automatic.

But as he walked away, I found myself wondering if it actually was a lie. Maybe sometimes even spies needed allies. Maybe in a world of mergers and acquisitions, where human beings were just line items on a balance sheet, survival meant choosing your fellow zombies carefully.

My phone buzzed—an encrypted message from Chicago. The deal was moving forward. I stared at the screen for a long moment before typing back a single word: Confirm.

Outside my window, the city moved through its morning rhythm, millions of people walking, working, pretending not to be dead inside. I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and turned back to my spreadsheet. The merger would be brutal. The layoffs would be worse.

But at least I wouldn't be facing it alone.