The Coffee Spill

Marcus doesn't carry a briefcase to the foundation office. He carries a slim, carbon-fiber laptop sleeve and his phone, which never leaves his palm. He treats that device like a vital organ, a glowing rectangle of glass that holds the leverage of the Vance dynasty.

I arrive at the foundation headquarters at 8:45 AM. The building is a monolith of brushed steel and tinted glass, a monument to the philanthropic lies Eleanor tells the world. My badge chirps as I pass through the turnstile. I’m just the wife bringing her husband’s legal counsel a morning "thank you" for his hard work on the development board.

I find Marcus in the glass-walled conference room. He’s alone, pacing the length of the marble table, his voice a sharp staccato as he dictates a memo into his headset. His phone sits on the table, face up, the screen occasionally lighting up with notifications from encrypted messaging apps.

"Marcus," I say, pushing the door open with my elbow. I’m holding a cardboard carrier with three steaming lattes. "I know it's a hellish morning, so I thought I’d play the dutiful sister-in-law."

Marcus stops pacing. He adjusts his glasses, his eyes narrowing behind the lenses. He’s still suspicious from our encounter in Eleanor’s office, but the smell of high-end espresso is a powerful neutralizer.

"Clara. You're early. I thought you were handling the school drop-off today."

"I delegated," I say, offering a breezy, artificial laugh. "Mia had a project, and the carpool was happy to take her. I needed to get out of the house before Eleanor decided I needed a hobby."

I walk toward the table, my heart a frantic hammer against my ribs. The cloner is in my left palm, concealed by a silk scarf draped over my arm. I just need him to move. I just need five seconds of separation between the man and the machine.

"Black, right?" I ask, reaching for the cup at the end of the carrier.

"Extra shot," Marcus says. He looks at the cup, then at his phone. He hesitates for a second, then gestures toward the credenza behind him. "Set it there. I need to grab some sugar. This board meeting is going to be a bloodbath."

He turns his back.

I move with a fluid, terrifying speed I didn't know I possessed. I set the coffee carrier down next to his phone. I drop the silk scarf, and underneath it, I press the cloner flat against the back of his device.

The cloner vibrates—a tiny, haptic pulse that feels like a lightning strike through my fingers.

`SIGNAL ACQUIRED. INITIATING PAYLOAD.`

"Clara? Everything all right?" Marcus’s voice is closer now. He’s finished with the sugar.

"Perfect," I say, sliding the scarf and the cloner back into my bag just as he turns around. I pick up my own cup, my hands steady only because of the sheer volume of adrenaline coursing through me. "I should let you get to your bloodbath. David is waiting for me at the architect's office."

I walk out of the conference room, my breathing shallow, my vision tunneling. I don't look back until I’m in the elevator. I pull the cloner from my bag. The tiny LED light is glowing a solid, predatory blue.

It only took ten seconds to install Sarah's spyware payload.