Fidelity

I retrieve Buster's leash, the worn leather feeling like an old friend in my hands. At eight years old, my golden retriever's muzzle has frosted like my own hair, both of us carrying the weight of countless nights spent staring at monitors. Tonight's investigation drags on—someone inside Aethon Pharmaceuticals is feeding formulas to competitors, and the digital trail leads nowhere useful.

Buster whines at the door. I take him for his midnight walk, clearing my head. That's when I see it: Marcus's fedora, that ridiculous vintage hat he wears like a crown, sitting on a bench near the server entrance. The same Marcus I mentored for three years. The same Marcus who swore he'd never betray the team.

Back at my desk, I cross-reference the security logs with his keycard. The pattern emerges—late nights when data was copied, his credentials used. The hat wasn't left by accident; it was carelessness, arrogance from someone who thought he'd never get caught.

Corporate spying destroys more than stock prices. I've watched colleagues lose pensions, seen families crumble when layoffs follow breaches. Marcus knows this. We both survived the last one.

I call security from my personal phone. They find him at his desk, copying files to an encrypted drive. He doesn't struggle when they handcuff him.

"My daughter's medical bills," he says, meeting my eyes. "The experimental treatment isn't covered."

I nod. Some betrayals have reasons. That doesn't make them right.

That night, Buster rests his golden head on my knee, his unconditional devotion a sharp contrast to human complexity. I hang up my own badge tomorrow. Thirty years of corporate espionage, and the final lesson is simple: some loyalty is bought, some earned, and some—like a dog's love—exists without price or calculation.