The Sphinx in the Glass

The riddle had sat on Elena's desk for three weeks—a small crystal sphinx paperweight, its glass eyes catching the morning light. It was a leaving gift from Marcus, the man who'd unravelled her department's protocols and her heart in equal measure. Now she understood its symbolism: the sphinx asks questions, and those who fail to answer are devoured.

The corporate spy had moved through their offices like a fox through a henhouse—efficient, invisible, leaving only feathers behind. Elena had admired his quiet brilliance, his way of listening more than speaking. She'd thought it was intimacy. It was reconnaissance.

The audit report landed on her desk at 4 PM. Marcus Chen, real name unknown, had siphoned research to a competitor. Elena traced his path through the building: security badges accessed, meetings overheard, the junior analyst he'd dated for "project updates." The fox had been hunting in plain sight.

She remembered their last dinner, the way he'd asked about the encryption protocols. "Just curious," he'd said, smiling. "You're like a sphinx, El. Always with the riddles." She'd laughed, poured more wine. The spy had toasted to their "beautiful puzzle."

Her phone buzzed. Unknown number. She answered anyway.

"The sphinx's riddle wasn't about monsters," Marcus's voice came through, calm as ever. "It was about what changes as you grow up. The answer: a human who crawls on four limbs, walks on two, then uses a cane."

"Why tell me this?"

"Because you're the only one who actually solved it. You noticed what I was. That's rare." The line clicked dead.

Elena placed the crystal sphinx in her drawer. She'd be the one who devoured, this time. The fox might be cunning, but even sphinxes have teeth.