The Sphinx in the Break Room

Marcus felt like a zombie. Three years of compliance auditing had hollowed him out, leaving a shell that showed up at 8:45 AM, memorized regulatory frameworks, and left at 5:15 PM with nothing left to give. The fluorescent lights didn't help. They buzzed with the same relentless frequency as his thoughts: *Is this it? Is this what I worked thirty years for?*

He adjusted his fedora—his one rebellion against the corporate dress code—and stared at the spreadsheet. Numbers blurred into meaningless patterns. Somewhere in this building, his estranged daughter might be wondering if he'd remembered her birthday next week. He hadn't.

"Nice hat, Marcus."

Elena from Marketing leaned against his doorframe, coffee in hand. She was forty-two, brilliant, and currently separated from her third husband. Marcus had been stealing glances at her since the holiday party, where she'd caught him staring at the divorce papers he'd been reviewing in the corner.

"Old-school," he managed.

"It works." She stepped inside, closing the door. "You look like you need to escape. I'm thinking Egyptian exhibit at the museum. Rumor has it they have a sphinx that actually answers questions."

He should have said no. Had files to review, reports to file, a life to not live.

"When?"

"Tonight. 7 PM. I'll pick you up."

The sphinx turned out to be a twelve-inch statue in the gift shop, not the ancient riddle-guardian he'd imagined. But they stood before it anyway, Elena's shoulder brushing his, and suddenly the question wasn't *What walks on four legs, then two, then three?* but *When was the last time you felt alive?*

She kissed him beside the replica artifacts, beneath fluorescent lights that felt somehow warmer than the office's.

"I'm not good at this," he whispered against her neck.

"Neither am I. But we're not dead yet."

Marcus walked home with his fedora pulled low, actually feeling the cold night air for the first time in years. His phone buzzed—a reminder about his daughter's birthday. This time, he typed a real message instead of an automatic transfer.

The zombie had stopped shuffling. The sphinx had offered no answers, only questions that mattered. And the hat stayed on his head.