The Lightning Strike

Marcus sat in his apartment, the glow of six monitors illuminating his face. Corporate security analyst — a fancy title for being a professional spy. He watched employees move through the office building like fish in an aquarium, his own goldfish, affectionately named Employee of the Month, swimming lazy circles in the bowl beside him.

Outside, lightning fractured the sky. Each flash revealed something in his apartment he'd never noticed: dust on his bookshelves, the crack in his window, the baseball tickets from 2019 pinned to his corkboard — a reminder of the last time he'd felt something resembling joy.

He'd meant to use those tickets. He'd meant to ask Sarah to the game. Instead, he'd watched her walk away on a Tuesday, nothing dramatic, just the quiet erosion of two people who'd stopped trying.

On monitor 4, one of the junior analysts stayed late. Marcus zoomed in. She was crying at her desk. He should look away. It wasn't his job to monitor emotions, just behavior patterns. But something about the way she touched the small fish bowl on her desk made him keep watching.

She was lonely. He could tell — he was an expert in loneliness. She'd brought a fish to work because she needed something alive in her workspace. Just like him.

The baseball game on his TV played to an empty room. Bottom of the ninth, two outs. He used to love baseball. Used to love the way the stadium smelled like possibility. Now everything smelled like recycled air and surveillance.

Another lightning strike, closer this time. His goldfish darted across its bowl.

Marcus had a sudden, sharp thought: he was twenty-three years old and he had already become the kind of person who watched other people live their lives through cameras while his own goldfish swam in circles and baseball games played to no one.

He reached for the phone. Not to report the crying analyst. Not to document her emotional state as a "potential security risk."

He called information. Asked for the number of the woman who'd walked away on a Tuesday.

The phone rang. Lightning flashed. The goldfish swam.

"Hello?"

"Sarah? It's Marcus. I have tickets to the game tomorrow. Well, from 2019, but I think they're still good."

On the monitor, the analyst wiped her eyes and kept working. Marcus turned off the monitors.