The Sphinx in the Server Room

Rain streaked the conference room windows when Elena told me about the promotion. I'd been running this department for two years—**running** myself into the ground, really—while she took credit for my work. We'd been **friends** since college, or so I'd thought.

"The Sphinx project needs someone with your technical expertise," she said, not meeting my eyes. The new AI—our company's **sphinx**, the riddle-generating machine we'd poured eighteen months into—was finally demo-ready. Tomorrow. She'd be presenting it to the board.

**Lightning** cracked outside, illuminating her guilt.

That evening, I went for my usual run, rain soaking my shirt. By mile three, it hit me: Elena couldn't present Sphinx. She didn't understand the code. She needed me.

I didn't go back to the office. I went to her apartment instead. We drank wine and she confessed everything—her imposter syndrome, her father's expectations, the way she'd frozen when the board asked technical questions. She wasn't malicious; she was drowning.

"You're the only one who knows it inside out," she said, tears in her eyes. "Please."

So I spent the night walking her through every algorithm, every decision point. When the sun rose, she hugged me at the door. "You're the real friend here, not me."

She got the promotion. I got transferred to a dead-end team. But sometimes sphinxes do more than ask riddles—sometimes they answer the ones you didn't know you were asking. I learned I could survive the lightning. I learned to stop running toward people who'd only ever let me down.