One rainy Thursday, I opened the fridge and saw my lunch bag untouched. For a moment, I thought it was finally over.

Then I looked inside.

The apple was there. The yogurt too. But my sandwich container held only a folded napkin.

On it, someone had written:

“Thanks. Better mayo this time.”

My hands went cold.

That wasn’t random—it was deliberate. Someone was enjoying this.

I brought the note to HR. Colin looked more concerned but still cautious.

“We can’t accuse anyone without proof,” he said.

“Then find proof,” I replied.

The theft happened again the next day.

That evening, I stayed late, frustration settling into something sharper—strategy. I considered cameras, trackers, even dye. Then I thought about food—what I liked and what most people avoided.

Avocado.

Not dangerous. Just messy.

It stains everything—bread, fingers, paper. It’s impossible to eat neatly.

So on Monday, I made a thick avocado sandwich—ripe, layered generously, impossible to handle cleanly—and placed it in the fridge.

At 12:07, it was gone.

At 12:19, someone screamed.

When I stepped into the hallway, I already knew the answer was waiting.

In the conference room stood Melissa Kane from business development—perfectly polished, usually composed. But now, avocado was everywhere.

Green smeared across her blouse. Streaked along her jaw. Spread across the conference table—and worst of all, across important merger documents next to her open laptop.