The Sphinx of Cubicle 4B

The corporate pyramid rose twelve floors above Chicago, each level a diminishing circle of privilege. Elena had reached the seventh floor—middle management purgatory—where the air always smelled faintly of someone's reheated lunch and the coffee pot was perpetually empty.

She found herself in the breakroom again, staring at a wilted spinach leaf stuck between her front teeth in the mirror. Three months since David left, and she was still eating like a medieval plague survivor, surviving on sad takeout and whatever green thing she convinced herself was self-care.

"You're going to wear a groove in that glass," said Marcus from 4B. The man was a sphinx in muted tones—inscrutable, ensconced in riddles of his own making. Nobody knew what Marcus actually did. His department didn't appear on org charts. He just appeared at company functions and in breakrooms, dispensing cryptic wisdom that usually turned out to be devastatingly accurate.

Elena wiped the spinach away. "Just thinking about the restructuring."

"The pyramid is always hungry," Marcus said, spinning his coffee cup. "It consumes its own children. You should be careful."

"Careful?"

He leaned closer. His eyes were kind, but tired. "There's a spy in the building, Elena. Someone feeding competitor intel about the merger. HR's been quietly interviewing staff since Tuesday."

The blood drained from her face. "Why are you telling me?"

"Because you're on their list. Someone mentioned your late nights accessing the shared drives after David transferred to Anderson Consulting."

"David's my ex-husband, Marcus. We've been divorced for three months."

"Anderson's the company we're merging with. Or trying to." He sipped his coffee. "Love and business, Elena. The oldest cable that tangles."

She stared at him. David was at Anderson? He'd told her he was taking time off to "find himself." The same man who'd left her a note about "growing apart" while forwarding his calls to his mother's house in Akron.

"You're not on the list," Marcus added gently. "But you're the variable. HR thinks you might still be talking to him."

"I haven't."

"I know." He touched her shoulder—brief, warm. "I also know David Anderson is the CEO's nephew. The 'merger' was arranged before it began. The spy hunt is theater, Elena. The pyramid needs its sacrifices to look busy."

She thought of spinach, of wilted things pretending to be fresh. Of corporate theater and marriages that ended with forwarded calls and vague notes about growth.

"What do I do?"

"Eat something green that isn't dying," Marcus said, already walking away. "And remember: the sphinx only ate those who couldn't solve their own riddles."

Elena looked at her reflection. The spinach was gone. She was still standing in the middle of the pyramid, but for the first time in months, she could see all the exits.