Dead Things Walking

Elena pressed her palm against the cold glass of her office window, thirty-seven floors above the city. Below, the world continued without her—cars like glowing ants, people with real lives, real purpose. She felt like a zombie moving through corporate corridors, hollowed out by years of compromise.

"You're the fox, aren't you?" Marcus's voice came from behind her. He stood in the doorway, that knowing smile he'd worn since they'd kissed at the Christmas party three years ago, before everything went wrong.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"The corporate spy." He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "I found the encrypted files on your laptop. The ones you've been sending to our competitor."

Elena turned to face him. The betrayal wasn't what he thought it was. "I'm not a spy, Marcus. I'm a whistleblower. Those files prove they're cooking the books, poisoning the water supply, buying off regulators. I thought you of all people would understand."

His expression shifted—hurt, then anger, then something like resignation. "You could have trusted me."

"Could I?" She laughed bitterly. "Like you trusted me when you promoted yourself over me? When you took credit for my work?"

Silence stretched between them, heavy with unsaid things. The air conditioning hummed. Somewhere far below, a car horn blared.

"I have to bear this alone," she said finally. "I always have."

"Not necessarily." Marcus pulled something from his pocket—a USB drive. "I copied your evidence before you deleted it. And I sent it to the Journal."

Elena stared at him. "Why?"

"Because I'm tired too," he said softly. "Of being dead inside."

The dawn broke through the smog, painting the sky in bruised purples and desperate oranges. For the first time in years, Elena felt something stir in her chest—not hope exactly, but the possibility of it.