Last Call at the Oyster Bar

Elena pressed her back against the cold tile of the hotel bathroom, the **running** water from the sink drowning out the conversation she'd been paid to capture. Through the cracked door, she watched him—Mark, the target—sitting at the bar, his dark hair glistening under the amber lights. He looked exactly like the man who'd broken her sister's heart three years ago.

The corporate **spy** gig was supposed to be simple. Document the meetings, photograph the documents, report back to the pharmaceutical company that had hired her. But tonight, watching Mark laugh with the competitor's executives, Elena felt the familiar weight of moral fatigue settling in her chest like wet cotton. The water in the sink splashed over her hands, shocking cold, grounding her in the moment.

She thought about quitting. About the article she'd been writing in her head for months—a tell-all about the industry that treated human secrets like commodities. But the bills were real, and her landlord wasn't accepting existential crises as payment. The bathroom mirror fogged up, and she wiped it with her wrist, staring at a woman she barely recognized anymore.

Mark's glass of **water** sat untouched on the bar. He was leaving. Elena turned off the tap, dried her hands on the rough hotel towel, and slipped out the side door. The night air hit her face as she made her way to the parking garage, recorder in pocket, another night's work complete. Tomorrow she'd make the drop. Tomorrow she'd update her resume. Tonight, she just wanted to sleep.