The Lettuce Trap

Marcus found the bug in his potted spinach plant — a tiny transmitter nestled among the dark green leaves he'd been nurturing for months. His hand trembled as he pulled the device from the soil, his palm slick with sweat despite the office's aggressive air conditioning.

Six years of friendship with Elena, reduced to this. She'd been the one to suggest he bring plants to work, claiming it helped with his anxiety. She'd complimented his hair when he started letting it grow out after his divorce, even brought him that first spinach seedling from her garden.

Now he understood why their conversations always circled back to his department's restructuring plans. Why she'd started joining his coffee breaks just as senior leadership began whispering about layoffs.

He wasn't paranoid. He was a target.

Marcus's phone buzzed. Elena: 'Coffee? Usual spot?'

He stared at his reflection in the darkened monitor. Gray at the temples now, deep lines etched around eyes that had seen too many corporate reorganizations. He remembered the way she'd looked at him across the cafeteria last week, her smile not quite reaching those careful eyes, while she mentioned she'd heard rumors about his division's upcoming 'streamlining.' He'd thought she was watching out for him.

She was watching him.

The spinach plant sat on his desk, a testament to gullibility. He'd watered it daily. Pruned it. Talked to it during late nights at the office.

Marcus dropped the bug into his pocket and typed back: 'Can't today. Busy.'

He packed his things methodically. The spinach could stay — it had outlived its purpose. Some things, like trust, once uprooted, don't replant well. Outside, the city hummed with indifference. Marcus walked toward the subway, his hand curled around the surveillance device in his pocket, already calculating whom to trust with what he'd found.

Some friendships, he realized, are just long-term intelligence operations.