Palm Readings at Midnight

The neon sign flickered above Elena's shop—*Mystic Palm Readings*—but she wasn't a mystic. She was a corporate spy, and her clients didn't know their destinies were being sold to the highest bidder.

Tonight's client was Marcus, VP of something-or-other at a tech conglomerate. He extended his hand, palm up, expecting enlightenment about his love life or career path. Elena traced the lines with practiced fingers, noting the tremor in his wrist. The man was terrified.

"You're at a crossroads," she said, watching his pupils dilate. "Something big coming. A promotion?"

"How did you—"

"Your head line." She tapped his palm. "It intersects with your fate line precisely where I'd expect a promotion to appear." Actually, she'd read the internal memo leaked to her yesterday. Marcus was being promoted to oversee Project Chimera, the bio-surveillance initiative that privacy advocates were calling "a load of bull" in the press.

He relaxed, shoulders dropping three inches. "I needed to hear that. My wife thinks I'm paranoid, but the corporate atmosphere lately... it's like everyone's watching everyone."

Elena's stomach twisted. She was watching him right now. The camera disguised as a crystal ball was recording every word, every gesture, every dilation of his pupils.

"The marriage line shows... complications," she continued, improvising now. "Trust issues."

"She hired a private investigator," Marcus blurted out. "Can you believe that? Thinks I'm cheating. I'm not. Who would I cheat with? I work seventy hours a week."

"People get lonely," Elena said softly. "Even when they're not alone."

The camera's red light blinked. Her handler would want this—admissions of vulnerability were leverage. But something in Marcus's defeated posture stopped her. He wasn't the enemy. He was just another exhausted middle-manager in the machine, same as she was.

"Your future," Elena said, making a decision, "holds a choice. The path you're on leads to more power, more money, but less of yourself. The other path... well, that's up to you."

She didn't mention the whistleblower packet she'd mail him tomorrow. Didn't mention the surveillance footage she'd accidentally-on-purpose delete.

Marcus paid cash and left, looking thoughtful.

Elena locked up, palm pressed against the cool glass door. Tomorrow she'd be fired for failing to extract usable intelligence. For the first time in years, she fell asleep excited about that prospect.