Lin noticed it at 7:42 a.m.
Not the noise.Not the crowd.Not the rain pressing against the glass like it wanted inside.
The screen.
It wasn't supposed to be open.
His laptop sat on the kitchen table, lid half-raised, glowing softly.Lin was certain he had shut it down the night before. He always did.
No sleep mode.No background apps.Power off. Habit.
Yet there it was.
A single window. Black background. White text.
No logo.No cursor.No blinking prompt.
Just a list.
At first, he assumed it was junk code. Something left behind by a script he'd forgotten to kill. He stepped closer, coffee still untouched in his hand, eyes narrowing as the words sharpened into focus.
Names.
Hundreds of them.
No photos.No details.Just names arranged in a clean vertical column, evenly spaced, unnervingly tidy.
Some were crossed out.
A thin gray line ran through them, as if someone had struck them from existence with careful restraint.
Lin scrolled.
The list moved smoothly, almost eagerly.
Most of the names meant nothing to him.Until one did.
He stopped scrolling.
His breath caught—not sharply, not dramatically—but enough to register.
LIN CARTER
The letters were identical to the rest. Same font. Same spacing. Same weight.
But beside his name, there was something different.
A small symbol.
A hollow circle.
Not crossed out.
Not confirmed.
Just… waiting.
Lin stared at it longer than was reasonable.
This wasn't funny.This wasn't clever.And it definitely wasn't something he would have made himself.
He searched for the window controls. Nothing. No close button. No minimize. No taskbar.
He tried Alt + F4.
Nothing happened.
The coffee in his hand had gone cold.
A new line appeared beneath his name.
Not animated.Not dramatic.
Just… there.
Status: Pending
Lin swallowed.
Pending what?
Another line followed, slower this time, as if whatever was typing needed to think.
Replacement probability: 12%
Twelve percent.
Low. Harmless. Almost reassuring.
He exhaled despite himself.
A prank, then. Some elaborate virus. Something designed to scare before asking for money.
Except—
The percentage changed.
11%
Then:
10%
Lin hadn't touched anything.
He hadn't clicked.He hadn't moved.He hadn't even blinked.
Yet the number adjusted, calm and precise, as if responding to a decision he didn't remember making.
His phone buzzed on the counter.
A message from his coworker, Daniel.
Did you hear about Mark?
Lin frowned and typed back.
Hear what?
The reply came almost immediately.
He didn't show up today. HR says he resigned last night.
Mark.
Lin's fingers paused above the keyboard.
Mark sat two desks away. Had complained just yesterday about deadlines and coffee quality. Had laughed at lunch. Had complained about rent.
Resigned?
Another message appeared.
Weird thing is, nobody remembers his farewell email. HR says it's on record, but no one can find it.
Lin looked back at the screen.
He scrolled.
Slowly.
Halfway down the list, he found it.
MARK EVANS
Crossed out.
A thin gray line.
No status.No probability.No explanation.
Just erased.
Lin's stomach tightened.
The list didn't react.
No warning appeared.No alert sounded.
It was as if it had always expected him to notice.
A final line appeared at the bottom of the screen, quieter than the rest.
Smaller.
Almost polite.
Do not interfere with the replacement process.
Lin stepped back.
For the first time since waking up, he felt it clearly—
Not fear.
Not panic.
But the distinct, suffocating sense that something had already made a decision about him.
And it was only a matter of timebefore his name was crossed out too.