Dead Signals

Marcus felt like a zombie most Mondays, but this one was different. Forty-seven years old and still troubleshooting cable installations for a living, he'd mastered the art of moving through meetings while his mind drifted elsewhere. Until last night, when Elena had shown up at his door crying, carrying a backpack full of documents she shouldn't have had.

"They're going to kill me," she'd said, and Marcus had let his oldest friend crash on his sofa without asking what "they" meant. Now, watching her pretend to sleep while the morning news blared something about corporate espionage, pieces shifted into place.

"Spy," he whispered, testing the weight of it. Elena worked for the competitor. Those weekend padel games they'd shared for three years—the casual drinks, the complaints about spouses, the slow erosion of boundaries—had all been reconnaissance. The realization hit him like physical pain. What she'd stolen from his company would destroy careers. His career.

She stirred, eyes finding his. There was no apology there, just exhaustion and something else—affection, maybe, or its simulation. "You always knew I was bored, Marcus. You never asked why."

"Because I thought we were friends," he said, the word tasting foreign now. "I thought that was enough."

"It was," she said softly. "That's the problem."

The cable repair appointment in twenty minutes suddenly seemed absurd. Marcus could call security, become the hero who uncovered the breach. Or he could watch her walk away again, another loss in a lifetime of them. Standing in his living room, he understood what mattered: not the job, not the loyalty he owed to people who'd never remember his name, but the choice to still care about someone who'd weaponized his friendship. Sometimes the deadest things were the ones that still moved.