I just wanted a normal morning: a lukewarm coffee, an easy support ticket, and absolutely zero supernatural nonsense. But, of course, the universe had other plans.
I slumped at my desk in the back row of the cubicle farm, headset snug over my ears, fingers hovering uselessly above my keyboard.
The floor smelled like a mix of stale carpet cleaner and desperation. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, humming with that low, nauseating buzz that somehow always felt louder when your soul was already tired.
Across the room, I spied Greg, our shift supervisor. He was already on his third protein bar of the morning, unwrapping it with the same grim determination most men reserve for defusing bombs.
Greg had the look of someone who'd once played high school sports (like golf), then turned all that athletic ambition into a beer gut and a spectacular collection of khaki cargo shorts. His neck was perpetually sunburned. His hairline was perpetually fleeing. His patience with me was, in his words, "somewhere under this stack of TPS reports."
I sat at my desk, headset on, trying to survive another call from a customer who should’ve never been allowed near technology.
"Okay, sir, let’s go through this again," I said into the headset, trying not to sound like I was actively dying inside. "Is your router plugged in?"
There was a long pause. Then—
"Mr. Mercer," the caller said.
Frowning, I glanced at my screen. I hadn’t introduced myself. Company policy said first names only—no last names. We were faceless, replaceable mononyms in the corporate hive.
"Uh… yeah?" I said cautiously.
"You've been ignoring the warnings."
My stomach dropped like an elevator cable had snapped. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, fully saluting.
STAY OUT OF IT.
THIS ISN’T YOUR PROBLEM.
No. Nope. I wasn’t doing this today.
“Sir, this line is for tech support, not ominous cryptic bullsh—”
I cut off my curse word that would likely impact my five-star rating as a single word popped up on my screen: “Run.”
Before I could react, the call cut out with a high-pitched screech, shredding my eardrums.
Every monitor in the office simultaneously blue-screened.
The comforting white noise of typing, mouse clicks, and phone chatter died a sudden, surgical death.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
I pulled off my headset. Turned around. And froze.
Everyone around me had frozen, too.
Greg had a protein bar half-raised to his mouth, frozen mid-bite. Susan, three desks down, still had a highlighter poised above a printed spreadsheet. Even the ancient ceiling fan, perpetually creaking and wobbling, had stopped mid-spin like the laws of physics had given up.
And then… I saw it.
A tall figure stepped into the office from the side hallway.
He wore a maintenance jumpsuit—dark gray, with a stitched patch that read Metro Copier Services.
Normal enough, except nothing about him was normal.
His body moved like a marionette with tangled strings: wrong angles, too-fluid joints, a step that stretched just a little too far with each stride. His face was blank and wrong, mouth slightly ajar like someone had forgotten to finish molding it.
He wasn’t looking at me. Yet.
My pocket buzzed.
ELLY: DO. NOT. MOVE.
Naturally, I moved immediately.
My heart punched against my ribs. I tried to act casual (laughable). I risked a glance at the stairwell doors—locked, of course. The elevator floor indicator blinked, stuck between floors.
Buzz.
ELLY: Stop being an idiot and go left.
I blinked, then snuck left along the rows of dead monitors. My sneakers squeaked faintly on the cheap carpet.
The "repairman" didn't turn his head. But somehow, without moving his neck, he was closer.
My phone buzzed again so hard I thought it would launch out of my pocket.
ELLY: Nope. Nope. Nope!
ELLY: RUN, you moron!
I ran.
Chairs toppled. Greg’s protein bar hit the ground in slow, tragic descent. I weaved through the frozen sea of coworkers.
The world warped around me.
Doors that had been locked seconds ago thunked open by themselves. Lights above me popped and sizzled, showering sparks at just the right moments to obscure me from view.
The building’s PA system—broken for months—sputtered to life and started blaring a distorted remix of the fire alarm.
Cameras on the ceiling swiveled away like guilty dogs.
My phone buzzed with a new flood of messages:
ELLY: Duck.
The lights flickered out in my section, but went ultra bright elsewhere, drawing attention away from me.
ELLY: Fire exit. NOW.
The fire exit light blinked beckoningly.
ELLY: Trust me or die hard.
I ducked, weaving low under a sputtering security camera.
Behind me, I heard a sound—wet and sticky, like suction cups tearing free of glass. The "repairman" was moving faster now.
My pulse roared in my ears. I barreled through a side hallway, almost slipping on the polished floor, and slammed into a figure waiting at the stairwell.
I staggered back, fists up.
It was Elly.
She grinned, teeth flashing, hoodie strings bouncing. "Took you long enough."
I gasped, wheezing. "How—how did you—?"
She tapped her temple and wiggled her fingers in the air, like casting a lazy spell. Her phone was still in her other hand, screen dark.
"I’m on Elfnet," she said brightly. "Way better than your crummy human Wi-Fi."
My brain tried to process that and failed spectacularly.
"You—hacked the office?"
Elly snorted. "Hacked? Nah. I just... encouraged the building’s infrastructure to like me better."
As if to punctuate her point, the emergency lights above us winked out one by one in a neat, polite cascade.
"And the alarms?" I said, my voice half a shriek.
She winked. "Just told them it was Happy Hour somewhere."
Behind us, heavy footsteps squelched closer.
The lights flickered again—briefly illuminating the "repairman’s" face.
For the first time, he smiled. It was all teeth. Way, way too many teeth.
"Okay, talk later," Elly said, grabbing my wrist with surprising strength. "Run now."
And this time, I didn’t argue.
