The office was almost empty.
The hum of the air conditioner was the only thing keeping Ethan company as the clock crept toward 9:47 p.m. The day's meeting had drained him — the cold stares, the too-perfect smiles, and that uneasy silence that seemed to follow him through every corridor.
Everyone had long gone home.
Everyone except Clara Brooks.
She sat diagonally across from him, legs crossed on her chair, her screen glowing with some show on Netflix. A half-empty can of soda sat beside her keyboard, and the crunch of potato chips filled the quiet.
Ethan sighed, trying to stay focused on the ledger in front of him. Numbers blurred into each other — the same mysterious entries, the same encrypted columns labeled "Project Phoenix."
He blinked hard, trying to shake off the fog in his head. And that's when it came —
A soft, distorted voice drifted through the open office.
> "I know who you are.
I know what you do.
And I know how you live.
So now… the thing you'll find hard—
I know your name, Ethan."
His heart slammed into his ribs. He looked around wildly — every workstation empty, lights dimmed. He stood, eyes darting between cubicles.
"Who's there?" he called, voice trembling just enough to betray his nerves.
Then he heard a laugh — a light, careless laugh.
He turned toward Clara's desk. She looked up at him, a spoon of ice cream halfway to her mouth.
"Oh my God, that scared you?" she said between laughs. "Relax, it's just Netflix."
Ethan blinked, confused. "What?"
She turned her laptop so he could see the screen — the title "The Life of a Swamp Princess" glowed in pink cursive letters. On it, an actress with glittery makeup was pointing dramatically at the camera.
The same creepy voice echoed again from her speakers:
> "Maggie Soccer knew the truth— and the truth always hurts!"
Clara grinned. "See? Totally harmless. It's this silly drama about a royal influencer who pretends to live in a swamp to 'find herself.' I love it."
Ethan exhaled, shoulders dropping, trying to laugh along but still shaken. "You've got… interesting taste."
"I know." She winked. "It keeps me sane in this graveyard of spreadsheets."
He managed a faint smile and sat back down, his mind still half on that voice, half on the ledger in front of him.
For a few minutes, neither of them spoke. Clara kept watching her ridiculous show, giggling occasionally, while Ethan stared at a single line on his monitor that hadn't been there before:
'Project Phoenix – Access Denied. Last opened: 10:02 p.m. by user C.Brooks.'
He glanced up at Clara.
She was still laughing at her show.
But this time, Ethan wasn't sure if it was funny anymore.
Ethan's eyes stayed locked on the monitor.
The words "Last opened by user C.Brooks" glowed faintly, mocking him.
He checked the time. 10:02 p.m.
Clara's laughter echoed through the empty office again — sharp, bright, and completely at odds with the chill crawling up his spine.
It couldn't be her. She hadn't even touched her computer in the last ten minutes. She was too busy spooning ice cream and making sarcastic comments at the princess on her screen.
"Come on, Maggie," Clara muttered, her voice full of mock outrage. "You can't trust a guy named Duke Roderick. He literally lives in a swamp."
Ethan forced a small smile, pretending to focus on his screen, but his fingers itched. He clicked into the system's access log.
The same entry blinked again.
User: C.Brooks – Clearance Level 7 – Ledger Access Authorized
Clearance Level 7?
She was a senior accountant — but Level 7 was for board members only.
He turned slightly in his chair, watching her reflection in the glass partition. She looked carefree, hair messy, spoon dangling from her lips as she hummed along to the end credits.
"Hey, Clara," he said casually.
She looked over, smiling. "Yeah?"
"You still working on something?"
She tilted her head. "Nope. You think I'm the type to do overtime voluntarily?"
He hesitated. "It's just—uh, the system logged your account. Said you accessed something at 10:02."
Her brow furrowed slightly, then she snorted. "At 10:02? I was arguing with Netflix, not hacking spreadsheets. Maybe the ghosts here are big fans of me."
Ethan smiled faintly, but his mind was racing.
He turned back to his monitor and refreshed the screen.
The log was gone.
Erased.
He blinked, heart thudding faster. "What the—"
Clara was suddenly behind him, leaning over his shoulder. Her scent — vanilla and faint coffee — caught him off guard.
"What's wrong?" she asked lightly, peering at the screen.
He quickly minimized the window. "Nothing. Just… numbers acting weird."
She studied his face for a moment, then smiled — a slow, knowing smile. "You should stop staying so late. This place does things to people after hours."
He turned to look at her, half unsettled, half curious. "Like what?"
Clara shrugged. "Depends on who you ask. Some say the system runs itself at night. Others say it's just guilt."
"Guilt?"
She met his eyes — still smiling, but her voice softened. "Yeah. This company's built on a lot of it."
Before he could ask more, her phone buzzed. She looked down, and for a fraction of a second, her smile faltered. She quickly locked the screen.
"Well, my drama's done. See you tomorrow, rookie."
And just like that, she grabbed her bag and walked out, humming the theme song from The Life of a Swamp Princess.
Ethan watched her go, the sound of her footsteps fading down the hallway. The office felt heavier once she left.
He turned back to his screen one last time.
The system had one new message waiting. No sender. No subject.
He clicked it open.
> "She's not lying. The system does run itself.
Don't trust the woman who jokes the most."
The cursor blinked beneath the message.
Then the entire screen went black.