The Riddle at Midnight

The padel court echoed with the hollow thwack of rubber against glass—merciless, rhythmic, like a heartbeat refusing to quit. Elena played naked under the floodlights, her skin gleaming with sweat and something else. Fear.

"You're running from something," the Sphinx had said that morning. Her real name was Margaret, the company's new CEO, but everyone called her the Sphinx behind her back. She never gave answers. Only riddles wrapped in corporate jargon.

Elena missed. The ball caromed wild.

Margaret stood at the fence, watching. "Your husband's dog has been barking all week, Elena. Neighbors are talking."

Elena's spine stiffened. "Buster's old. He barks at nothing."

"He barks at what he can smell on your clothes." Margaret's smile was terrible, knowing. "Lover's sweat. Guilt. The particular musk of someone running toward the thing that will destroy them."

Elena had been running for months now—late nights at the office, early mornings at the padel club, a man who made her feel something dead inside her marriage stirring to life. But the Sphinx saw everything.

"The riddle," Margaret said, stepping onto the court, barefoot. "What walks on four legs at lunchtime, two legs at dinnertime, and three legs when the marriage falls apart?"

Elena's breath hitched. "A man."

"His dog walks on four legs. His lover walks on two. And his cane, when he discovers the affair and beats you bloody in the parking lot." Margaret circled her like a predator. "That's three legs, Elena. The third leg is what you'll lean on when you're too broken to run."

Elena swung her racquet. Connected with nothing.

The headlights flared across the court—Elena's husband, home early from his business trip. Buster in the passenger seat, barking his head off.

Margaret's laughter was soft as damnation. "The answer was never the riddle, darling. The answer was that you were always the thing being hunted."