The Art of Drowning in Air

Marcus found himself swimming at 3 AM in the building's rooftop pool, the water cold enough to shock him out of another sleepless night. The city sprawled beneath him, lights flickering like dying stars, while cable news droned from a television mounted near the glass doors — some talking head dissecting the latest corporate scandal.

He'd discovered it three days ago: his oldest friend, the one who'd recruited him to the firm, had been feeding their proprietary algorithms to competitors for years. A spy in the house they'd built together. The irony tasted like copper in his mouth.

"You're overthinking again," Elena had told him last night, her fingers tracing the scar on his shoulder from their reckless twenties. "Just another day in the bull ring, right?"

She didn't know about the encrypted messages he'd found on the shared server. She didn't know he'd spent the past week assembling proof that would destroy two careers, end a twenty-year friendship, and possibly collapse the whole department.

Marcus cut through the water, lap after endless lap, his body moving through familiar rhythms while his mind replayed the last conversation with David — the deflected questions, the too-casual answers, the way David's eyes had shifted toward the exit when Marcus mentioned the audit.

The television showed footage of handcuffed executives being led into waiting cars. Someone had turned on their friends too.

He stopped at the pool's edge, gasping, water streaming down his face. Tomorrow morning, he'd send the files to legal. Tomorrow morning, he'd watch the closest thing he had to a brother crumble. But tonight, he was just swimming in circles, drowning in air, waiting for the courage to surface.