Orange Season

The peeling of an orange echoed through the open-plan office like a violation. Sarah watched from her cubicle as James—senior analyst, possible mentor, almost certainly the person who'd copied her quarterly report—ate his afternoon fruit with methodical precision. He'd been doing it every day since she'd started six months ago, and she'd somehow convinced herself it was charming. That was before she found the digital footprint. Before she realized she was the only one running this race blind.

Corporate espionage wasn't supposed to feel personal. That's what HR had said during orientation, right after the nondisclosure agreements and before the team-building exercises. But knowing someone had accessed her files at 2:47 AM three nights in a row made her stomach twist in ways no compliance training could prepare her for. She'd started checking her locks twice. Started wondering if the IT guy's friendly smiles were reconnaissance.

James looked up, caught her staring. His orange rind fell onto his desk like evidence.

"You okay, Sarah? You look... tense."

"Fine," she said. "Just thinking about the merger."

The merger. Everyone was running scared, talking about restructuring and synergies and three months of guaranteed employment. Sarah had spent the weekend updating her portfolio, scrolling through job listings at companies where people might actually look each other in the eye.

"These transitions are hard," James said, wiping his sticky fingers on a napkin. "But opportunities too. Sometimes you have to know when to make your move."

Was that a confession? A threat? Or just the kind of meaningless corporate wisdom people dropped into conversations to sound profound? Sarah couldn't tell anymore. Paranoia had become her full-time job, and the pay was terrible.

Her phone buzzed. Unknown number.

"Meet me by the loading dock in five minutes. I have what you need."

Sarah's heart slammed against her ribs. This was it—the moment spy novels promised would be cathartic. Instead, she just felt tired. She was running on caffeine and three hours of sleep, her entire career reduced to waiting for anonymous texts and decoding the subtext of citrus consumption.

James stood up, grabbing his briefcase. Their eyes met again. Something passed between them—acknowledgment, pity, or perhaps just two tired people playing parts they'd forgotten they'd auditioned for.

"Good luck, Sarah," he said quietly. And she understood, suddenly and horribly, that everyone in this office was running from something, and some of them had gotten very good at making sure others did the running for them.