Foxfire in the Glass House

I never intended to become a corporate spy. It started with reading emails on the sly, then escalated to photographing documents on my phone. Now I sit in rented cars outside competitors' offices, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

The woman in the apartment across from me—I call her Fox, though I don't know her real name—leaves her curtains open. I watch her sometimes, red hair cascading like autumn fire as she moves through her domestic rituals. She's become my tether to humanity, the only innocent thing in my grayscale world of secrets and spreadsheets.

Tonight's assignment: infiltrate Henderson's annual gala and photograph their prototype. The CEO, a bull of a man named Marcus, crushed my father's startup fifteen years ago. Now I'm the one crushing dreams, wearing stolen credentials like a second skin.

The ballroom blusters with expensive perfume and old money. I'm nursing my third champagne when Fox walks in—red dress, red lips, the man I'm supposed to destroy on her arm. Our eyes lock across the room. Recognition? Or am I projecting?

Later, in the bathroom stall, I upload the photos. My hands shake. Bull markets don't care about collateral damage. Spies don't get happy endings.

Fox finds me by the elevators. "You're Henderson's spy, aren't you?" She doesn't whisper it. She states it like she's commenting on the weather.

"How long have you known?"

"Since Tuesday." She touches my wrist, her fingers cool. "I was going to turn you in. But then I watched you watching me. You're not like them."

"Like who?"

"The bulls." She nods toward Marcus, holding court near the band. "They trample everything. You... you're just trying to survive."

The elevator dings. She steps in, turns. "Come upstairs with me. We can both disappear tonight."

I should delete the files. Should run. Instead, I step into the elevator, leaving the spy outside. For once, I choose to be seen.