“Just send me a copy of your passport.”
Nothing is wrong with the request. Marisol Vega needs to verify a tenant, and this is how it has always been done: attach the scans, hit send, get the keys.
Here is what that costs. The copy lands in an inbox Valeria does not control. It is backed up twice before she finishes her coffee, forwarded to a colleague for the paperwork, indexed by a mail client that will happily surface it in five years, and still sitting there when Barton Realty is sold to somebody neither of them has met. She cannot see it, cannot count it, and cannot take it back.
None of that is a security failure. It is simply what a copy is once it leaves you: a thing with no end.