Clara froze the moment she stepped onto the office floor.
Something was wrong.
Not the silence — Graywood was always quiet before eight.
Not the lights — half-awake, buzzing faintly like insects trapped in glass.
It was the absence.
She checked the time.
5:41 A.M.
Too early.
She exhaled slowly and set her bag down, fingers lingering on the strap as if letting go might trigger something. Her screen flickered to life on its own.
No login.
No password.
A single message typed itself across the internal chat.
> You are early.
Her lips parted slightly.
"…I'm never early," she whispered.
Her fingers hovered, then typed:
> Who is this?
The response came instantly.
> He is inside. Watch him.
Her stomach tightened.
He.
Not plural.
Not they.
Just he.
Before she could type again, the system blinked — and wiped the chat clean. No logs. No trace. Like it never existed.
Clara leaned back, heart pounding.
Inside where?
The office?
The system?
Or—
Footsteps.
She turned.
And every thought in her head shattered.
"Clara."
Ethan stood at the edge of the floor like he wasn't sure whether to run to her or bolt the other way.
His face was pale. His eyes were bloodshot. His movements sharp, frantic — like he'd been holding himself together with wire.
"You didn't come in yesterday," he said immediately.
No greeting.
No jokes.
Just accusation wrapped in relief.
"I went to your apartment," he continued, words tumbling over each other. "Your door was open. Your place was—" He stopped himself, swallowing hard. "What the hell is going on?"
Clara didn't answer right away.
She studied him.
Really studied him.
Something about him felt… off. Not broken. Not panicked.
Occupied.
"You went to my apartment?" she asked calmly.
That calmness snapped something inside him.
"Yes!" His voice dropped, sharp. "Clara, there were cameras. On your walls. Files about Evelyn. About Helix. About me. And then you just—" He spread his hands helplessly. "You vanished."
The hum beneath the office grew louder.
Ethan stepped closer. "Who was watching you? Who are those people? Why didn't you come to work?"
Clara stood slowly.
"I wasn't feeling well," she said.
Ethan laughed once — a short, hollow sound. "Don't do that. Not now."
"I'm serious."
"No, you're not." His voice cracked. "I almost died. Someone poisoned me. Someone's been watching my apartment. Someone is inside the system and you expect me to believe you just took a sick day?"
Silence fell between them like a held breath.
Clara's gaze flicked — just for a second — to the reflection in the glass wall behind him.
Ethan noticed.
"What are you looking at?"
"Nothing," she said too quickly.
He followed her eyes anyway.
Just glass.
Just reflections.
Just him.
She stepped around him carefully, as if avoiding touching him might trigger something invisible.
"Ethan," she said softly, "what you saw in my apartment… you weren't supposed to."
"That's not an answer."
"I know."
That scared him more than anything else.
"You knew I'd go there," he whispered.
She didn't deny it.
The office lights flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Clara lowered her voice. "Did anyone follow you here?"
Ethan stared at her. "What?"
"Did. Anyone. Follow. You."
"I don't know," he snapped. "I don't even know what's real anymore."
Her jaw tightened.
That was the wrong answer.
She turned back to her desk, typing quickly — too quickly — fingers flying as if muscle memory knew things her mind didn't.
Ethan grabbed her wrist.
"Don't shut me out," he said. "Not after everything."
She stiffened.
For a moment, something cold passed through her eyes.
Then it was gone.
"Let go," she said quietly.
He did.
Immediately.
Like his body obeyed before his mind caught up.
They both noticed.
Neither spoke about it.
Clara pulled her hand back, steadying herself.
"I didn't come in yesterday because something went wrong," she said carefully. "Something I couldn't stop."
Ethan swallowed. "And now?"
She looked at him.
Really looked.
And typed one final thing on her screen.
He didn't see what it was.
But the system did.
> Observation ongoing. Subject active.
She closed the laptop.
"Now," she said, forcing a small smile, "we act normal."
Ethan shook his head slowly. "There's nothing normal about this."
"I know," she replied.
And in the dark reflection of the glass wall behind them, something smiled—
just a fraction of a second too late.
The silence held for a beat too long.
Then—
click.
The overhead lights snapped on row by row, flooding the office in artificial daylight. The hum deepened. Louder. More human. More alive.
Footsteps followed.
Laughter.
The clink of a coffee cup.
A printer whirring awake.
The building exhaled.
Ethan flinched like he'd been caught doing something illegal.
Clara straightened instantly.
In seconds, the nightmare retreated into the walls.
"Morning!" someone called from the elevators.
"Ugh, why is it freezing in here already?"
"Did IT fix the login issue from yesterday?"
People poured in — coats shrugged off, bags dropped, screens lighting up. Desks filled. Chairs rolled. Conversations overlapped like nothing had happened.
Like nothing ever happened.
Ethan stood frozen between it all, breathing too fast, eyes darting from face to face.
None of them looked scared.
None of them looked like they knew.
Clara leaned in close, her voice low — gentle, controlled, dangerous.
"Smile," she whispered. "You're shaking."
"What?" he hissed.
She subtly nudged his arm.
He looked down.
His hands were trembling.
Hard.
He clenched them into fists, forcing his breathing to slow. Someone brushed past him without even glancing twice.
"Hey, Ethan!" a voice called. "You look like hell."
He swallowed. "Did… did you notice anything weird yesterday?"
The man laughed. "Weird? At Graywood? That's the brand."
Clara chuckled softly at that — too easily.
She turned toward her desk, posture relaxed now, fingers tapping her keyboard like nothing inside her was screaming.
Ethan followed her, lowering his voice again. "You didn't answer me. About your apartment."
She didn't look at him.
"I told you," she said quietly. "You weren't supposed to go there."
"That doesn't explain the cameras."
Her fingers paused.
Just for a fraction of a second.
Then she resumed typing.
"You shouldn't talk about that here."
He scanned the room.
Every monitor glowed.
Every camera blinked.
Every reflection stared back at him just slightly… wrong.
"I almost got killed," he said through his teeth. "And now you're acting like this is a normal Monday."
She finally turned to him.
Her smile was back — bright, familiar, practiced.
The Clara everyone else knew.
"I am acting like this is a normal Monday," she said. "Because if we don't, someone will notice."
"Who?"
She leaned closer, voice barely audible beneath the rising noise of the office.
"Someone who doesn't like attention."
A group laughed nearby.
The coffee machine hissed.
A meeting reminder chimed.
The world continued.
Ethan's stomach twisted.
"So what am I supposed to do?" he asked.
She studied him again — longer this time.
Her eyes flicked to the glass wall behind him.
Again.
"You're already doing it," she said. "You came in. You didn't run. You didn't scream."
"That's not bravery," he snapped. "That's shock."
She didn't disagree.
Instead, she reached for her mug — empty — and took a pretend sip.
Then, without looking at him, she murmured:
"If you feel like your thoughts lag behind your body… don't fight it."
His blood ran cold.
"What does that mean?"
"It means," she said softly, "if you start reacting before you decide to… someone else might already be helping you."
Ethan stepped back.
Behind him, the office lights reflected in the glass.
For a split second—
His reflection moved.
He didn't.
Then it corrected itself.
No one noticed.
No one ever did.
Clara sat down, logged into her system, and the screen flashed briefly before stabilizing.
Hidden in the corner, a line of text appeared — small, faint, not meant for human eyes.
> Live observation confirmed. Subject responsive.
She closed the window instantly.
Ethan stared at her.
"You're hiding something," he said.
She met his gaze.
"So are you."
The office buzzed around them — alive, busy, blind.
And whatever had followed Ethan into Graywood that morning settled comfortably among the desks, unseen.
Watching.
Waiting.