Dead Man Walking

The worst part about being a corporate spy wasn't the lying — it was the boredom.

Elena sat by the resort pool for the fourth consecutive day, wearing a swimsuit she'd bought specifically to look like just another guest enjoying a week in Cabo. Her target, Marcus Thorne from competitor acquisitions, played padel every morning at 10. He was fifty-three, balding, and apparently obsessed with a sport that sounded like a sneeze.

She watched him through sunglasses that cost more than her first car, documenting nothing of interest. He was terrible at padel. His partner — a woman young enough to be his daughter — laughed at every missed shot, touched his arm too often, and Elena found herself wondering if she was photographing infidelity or incompetence.

"You've been in that chair three hours," a voice said.

Elena turned. A man in his thirties, drink in hand, wedding ring tan line visible. "I'm decompressing."

"You're working," he said. "You have the posture of someone waiting for something that's not going to happen."

She almost denied it. Instead: "What gave me away?"

"The zombie eyes." He sat beside her without invitation. "I'm in M&A. I know the look. We're all dead inside, just some of us are better at hiding it."

Elena laughed, surprised. "I thought I was the spy."

"We're all spies." He gestured toward the padel court, where Marcus had fallen dramatically and the young woman was pretending to be concerned. "That's my boss, by the way. He's going to sell the company next month. He's not even good at hiding it."

She stared at him. "You're kidding."

"Why do you think I'm at the pool at 11 AM on a Tuesday?" He extended a hand. "David. Also decompressing. Also absolutely useless at padel."

"Elena." She shook his hand. "So we're both — what?Watching the slow collapse from different angles?"

"We're zombies, Elena." His thumb brushed her palm, lingered. "Just smart enough to know we're already dead."

Behind them, Marcus finally stood up, clutching his back. The young woman helped him to the sidelines. They were both laughing.

"They look alive," Elena said.

"That's the trick," David said. "Fake it long enough, you start believing it." He finished his drink. "Want to get dinner? No shop talk. No pretending we're not both watching the same ship sink."

"I'm leaving tomorrow," she said, though she wasn't.

"Tomorrow's not today." He stood up. "Pool bar at seven? Unless you have to file a report that says exactly what we both already know."

Elena watched him walk away, then turned back to the padel court. Marcus was attempting another serve. The ball went sideways. The young woman laughed, bright and genuine, and Marcus grinned like he'd forgotten everything he was supposed to be.

Maybe the zombies were the ones who couldn't admit they were already dead.

Elena picked up her phone. She opened her report, deleted everything, and typed: *No actionable intel. Recommend closing file.*

The pool bar at seven it was.