The screen blinked once.
Then again.
And just as Ethan leaned closer, the monitor went black — the faint reflection of his face staring back at him in the dark glass. The words from the message still echoed in his mind:
> "Don't trust the woman who jokes the most."
The air felt heavier now, pressing down on him like static before a storm. The hum of the air conditioner seemed distant. Even the buzzing of the fluorescent lights had died, leaving the office swallowed in a strange quiet.
He pressed the keyboard once — no response. Again — nothing. Then, just as he reached for the power button, the screen flickered back on.
This time, the system wasn't the company network.
It was a live feed.
Six security camera windows appeared, arranged neatly like puzzle pieces across the screen. He recognized the lobby, the server room, the main entrance, the elevators, and two other hallways — all empty.
All except one.
In the camera showing the parking lot, a lone figure stood under the sodium streetlight, the glow cutting a long shadow across the ground. It was Clara.
She wasn't on her phone. She wasn't humming. She was just standing there, staring up at the building.
Ethan's breath caught in his throat. She wasn't smiling now. Her face was unreadable — sharp, cold. Like someone seeing something beyond the walls themselves.
He leaned closer, watching her every move. Then she slowly reached into her coat pocket, pulled out what looked like a small device, and pointed it at the building's camera.
The feed glitched.
Static.
And then — nothing.
Every window went black.
Ethan sat frozen, hand still on the mouse. The cursor blinked aimlessly against a black void. Then, one by one, the screens began to light up again — this time not the usual security feeds.
Instead, it was text, appearing line by line.
> "You're not supposed to see this."
"But since you did…"
"Welcome to the game, Ethan."
He jerked away from the screen as the words vanished and the system shut down completely. The office lights flickered once, twice, and finally went out.
Only the faint glow from the city lights seeped through the blinds.
Ethan swallowed hard and reached for his phone — no signal. He stared at the darkened window, his own reflection staring back, a ghost of a man who didn't know whether to run or dig deeper.
Then, from the darkness, a low murmur of laughter — faint, distorted, like it came from the air vents.
He froze.
It was that same laughter from Clara's Netflix show. The one that had mocked him earlier.
Except this time… it wasn't coming from her laptop.
It was coming from the speakers on his desk.
He unplugged them instantly, heart racing, but the laughter didn't stop. It bounced around the room, tinny and warped, as though the whole building itself was laughing.
"Okay," he muttered under his breath, trying to ground himself. "Okay. Calm down. You're tired. You're imagining things."
He grabbed his bag, shoved his files inside, and headed for the door. But just before he reached it, his monitor flickered again — a single line of white text glowing against the black screen.
> "Leaving so soon?"
He didn't stay to see more.
He pushed through the door and out into the hallway, his footsteps echoing through the emptiness. Every light he passed flickered to life and then dimmed again, as if the building itself followed his movements.
By the time he reached the elevator, sweat clung to his palms. He hit the button — nothing. He tried again. Still nothing.
The power seemed out.
He cursed softly and turned toward the emergency stairs. As he pushed open the heavy door, a cold rush of air hit him. The stairwell was dark except for the red glow of the exit sign below.
Halfway down, he heard something — footsteps.
Not his own.
Someone was coming down from above, slow and measured.
He stopped, heart pounding. The sound grew closer.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Then silence.
"Hello?" he called, voice trembling just enough to betray the fear clawing up his spine.
No answer.
He waited a beat, then hurried the rest of the way down. When he reached the lobby, the glass doors ahead gleamed faintly with the reflection of city lights — and beyond them, the empty street.
Freedom.
But as he reached for the handle, he saw it — a faint blue light glowing in the reflection of the glass. Behind him.
He turned.
On one of the lobby's large screens, the company logo had been replaced by the same message he'd seen before.
> "Welcome to the game, Ethan."
Then the lights flicked back on, bright and clean, as if nothing had ever happened.
And through the glass doors, parked across the street, a van sat idling. Two silhouettes sat inside. Watching.
---
Inside the van, the glow from multiple monitors lit the cramped space. One of the men adjusted his headset, his face hidden behind a monkey mask, the latex smile stretched unnaturally wide.
He leaned forward, studying the feed.
"Thanks to Dawson," he said, voice muffled by the mask, "we can see inside the company now. What is Evelyn up to?"
Beside him, the other figure shifted — bulkier, wearing a gorilla mask. His tone was deeper, colder.
"When are you going to tell your wife, Evelyn, that you're back from the dead?"
The one in the monkey mask chuckled, turning one of the dials on the console. "When are you going to show the world your face? At least when Jesus died, he resurrected in three days. You've been gone three weeks… or do you want to make it a month?"
The gorilla-mask man grunted, unamused. "We'll move when it's time. For now, we watch. The boy has no idea who he's working for."
"Ethan?" The monkey mask tilted slightly. "He's curious — too curious. Reminds me of someone else who didn't know when to stop asking questions."
A faint hiss from the radio cut through their banter. Static. Then a voice — soft, female, calm.
> "You're talking too loud."
The two masked men froze.
The monkey-mask man turned the dial again. "Is that—"
> "Yes," the voice said, faint but steady. "She's watching you too."
The radio went dead.
The van fell silent. The only sound was the hum of their equipment and the faint patter of rain beginning to fall against the windshield.
---
Back in his apartment, Ethan sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his laptop. The building lights outside flickered through the blinds, striping his face in lines of gold and shadow.
He had tried calling Clara — no response. He had tried reopening the company database — access denied.
Everywhere he looked, the same message blinked back at him:
> "Access Restricted. Please contact Administrator."
He didn't know who the Administrator was. But one thing was clear — he had stumbled into something he wasn't supposed to see.
He rubbed his temples, exhaustion tugging at the corners of his mind. "What the hell is Project Phoenix?" he whispered to himself.
As if on cue, his phone buzzed.
A message.
Unknown number.
He hesitated, then opened it.
> "Stop digging. Or you'll end up like the rest."
Then another message followed immediately:
> "P.S. Tell Clara we're still watching her show."
He stared at the text, blood draining from his face.
Because that line — that exact joke — was something he had said to Clara just hours ago.
And no one else was in the office to hear it.
---
The next morning, the company buzzed with its usual rhythm — laughter, meetings, the sound of printers humming in the background. It was as if nothing had happened.
Ethan walked through the glass doors, eyes scanning every face. Clara was already at her desk, coffee in hand, smiling like always.
"Morning," she said, cheerful. "You look like you fought a ghost."
He forced a small smile. "Didn't sleep much."
She chuckled. "Should've watched another episode of Swamp Princess. Works better than melatonin."
Ethan studied her carefully. Her tone was light, her body language relaxed — but her eyes flicked briefly to his, almost assessing.
"You okay?" she asked, voice softening.
He nodded. "Yeah. Just… long night."
"Hmm." She leaned back, sipping her coffee. "You'll get used to them around here."
Then she turned to her screen, fingers flying across the keyboard.
For a second, Ethan could've sworn he saw something flash on her monitor — a file labeled Phoenix_Recovery.log — before it vanished.
And when she caught him looking, she smiled again. "What?"
"Nothing," he said quickly, returning to his seat.
But as he powered on his system, his desktop wallpaper wasn't what it should've been.
It was a still image — grainy, black-and-white.
Two men in masks.
Sitting in a van.
Watching.
His hands went cold.
At the bottom of the image, a line of text appeared in red:
> "Welcome to Day Two of the Game."