The Bottom of the Ninth

Marcus sat in his car outside the stadium, feeling like a **zombie** — three years of corporate espionage had drained him of everything that once made him human. His phone buzzed with instructions from the agency: acquire the baseball analytics algorithm tonight, or his cover as a minor league scout would be blown, along with his safety.

He checked his reflection in the rearview mirror. At forty, he'd learned to **bear** the weight of secrets that would destroy lives. His wife thought he sold insurance. She thought his late nights were client meetings. She thought the gun in his safe was for home protection.

But tonight was different. The target, Elena Rodriguez, sat two rows down. She was the best data scientist in the league, and Marcus had spent six months becoming her friend, her confidant, drinking with her after games, listening to her talk about her dying mother. Now he had to destroy her career.

**Baseball** had always been his refuge as a kid — the crack of the bat, the roar of the crowd, the way time seemed to suspend between pitches. Now it was just another hunting ground.

Elena turned, caught his eye, and smiled. He remembered the night she'd told him she trusted him. Marcus's hand shook as he reached for the device that would copy her work from her phone. He was a **spy** who'd forgotten how to stop lying.

The bottom of the ninth. Two outs. Full count. The crowd held its collective breath. Marcus watched Elena watch the field, her face illuminated by stadium lights, and realized he couldn't do it. Couldn't betray the only real friend he'd made in years.

He turned off the device. The agency would come for him eventually. But tonight, under the stars and the floodlights, he'd pretend to be human again.