Dead Drop

Elena had been working for Helios Corp for six years, long enough to recognize the zombie shuffle in the hallway—that particular glazed-eyed gait of employees whose souls had been extracted through payroll deductions. She saw it in the mirror sometimes, usually around 3 PM when the fluorescent lights buzzed like dying insects.

That Tuesday, she noticed him: the new guy from IT, lingering near her desk more often than necessary. A spy. She'd know—she'd been one herself, hired by a competitor to steal Helios's proprietary algorithms three years ago. The irony wasn't lost on her. Now she was the target.

She started running different routes to work, varying her patterns like she'd been trained. But there was something oddly familiar about his surveillance techniques. Too methodical. Too textbook. He was making amateur mistakes—checking his phone too frequently, positioning himself where the ceiling cameras caught his profile.

The fourth night, she confronted him in the parking garage. 'Who sent you?'

He jumped, dropping his backpack. A calico cat leapt out and darted between the parked cars, its bell jingling absurdly in the concrete silence.

'That's my sister's cat,' he said, bewildered. 'I was just—I wanted to ask you out.' His face flushed. 'I'm not very good at this.'

Elena stared at him. The spy who wasn't a spy. The corporate zombie who'd somehow retained enough humanity to risk rejection. In that moment, she realized she'd been running from the wrong thing—not corporate espionage or professional exposure, but from the possibility of something real.

'The cat,' she said. 'What's its name?'

'Barnaby.' He smiled, tentative. 'Coffee? Tomorrow morning?'

'Yes,' she said, and for the first time in three years, didn't check for surveillance cameras before walking to her car.