Since I started working the night shift, I've noticed something off about the company.

This isn't some dramatic opening line, but a statement of fact. For someone like me, facts are the foundation of everything. My name is Alex, a data analyst. My job is to transform chaotic raw data into clear, organized, actionable insights. I despise chaos and worship logic. So when the company opened positions for night shifts, I jumped at the opportunity.


The office at eleven o'clock at night is my sanctuary. Gone is the daytime noise, the meaningless chatter, the surprise meetings… all that inefficient racket vanishes. On the entire 37th floor, only the light above my workstation glows, casting a focused, milky-white halo. Beyond this halo stretches an immense, silent darkness. Desks, computers, ergonomic chairs—they all stand at attention like well-trained soldiers. Everything in perfect order.

I live for this feeling.

I rose and walked toward the pantry. I'd spent a week calibrating the coffee machine—water temperature, grind size, extraction time—each parameter set to its theoretical optimum. Using an electronic scale, I measured exactly 18 grams of coffee beans. As the machine hummed rhythmically, a rich aroma filled the air. This wasn't just about staying alert; it was a ritual—a ceremony of precise steps to launch another efficient night.


Back at my seat, coffee in hand, I slipped on noise-canceling headphones without playing any music. I just needed them to block out the last whispers of environmental noise, like the low hum of central air. On my triple monitors, the left displayed the original database, the center my processing scripts, and the right real-time generated charts. Data streams flowed like docile rivers under my fingertips, being guided, diverted, categorized. My world contracted until nothing existed but the logic and order on screen. Pure satisfaction.

Then something pierced through without warning.


A sharp, rapid mechanical friction sound mixed with the hissing of paper being dragged. It came from somewhere distant, cutting through my noise-canceling headphones like an awl stabbing into my perfect silence.

The printer.

I frowned and removed my headphones. The source was clear—Marketing Department, two zones away, at least fifty meters distant. Those people were always so careless. Probably some intern who'd sent a print job in the afternoon and forgotten to collect it before leaving. Now the system was finally processing the abandoned command due to some cache delay.

Irritation crawled up my spine. These random, chaotic events were exactly what I'd chosen the night shift to escape. I decided to shut it down and feed whatever it printed to the shredder.

I navigated through rows of dark desks. Computer screens loomed like black tombstones, chairs tucked neatly under desks, everything precisely as I'd left it during my end-of-day inspection. The silence felt thick here, making my footsteps echo unnaturally loud. The marketing department's multifunction printer continued its frantic work, the noise intensifying to something like a mechanical wail.

As I got closer, I caught a scent. Not the usual toner smell, but something acrid and pungent—like burning plastic mixed with the sharp bite of ozone. The printer's indicator light flashed manically, far faster than normal.

I approached the machine and peered at the output tray. No stack of documents—just a single sheet of paper. The A4 page had turned completely black and was still being saturated with ink. The print head shuttled back and forth, each pass forcing more ink into the already soaked fibers. The paper had grown heavy and warped from the moisture, ink seeping from its edges and pooling in the tray below—a small puddle of viscous black liquid.

My instinct was to stop it immediately. I jabbed the red "Stop" button, but the machine ignored me, continuing its bizarre task. I pressed it repeatedly, even held it down—nothing. Finally, I reached around to the power switch and killed it with a satisfying click.

Blessed silence returned.

With two fingers, I gingerly lifted the "paper"—though it could hardly be called that anymore. It felt more like a thin, heavy sheet of plastic—cold, slick, reeking of that burnt smell. I dropped it into the nearby trash bin.

Then my technician's instinct kicked in. I powered up the machine and checked the print history on its touchscreen—empty. Error log—no abnormal reports. Back at my workstation, I remotely accessed the company's print server backend and checked all network queues for this printer—empty. I even used admin privileges to scan the past twenty-four hours of print job logs—not a single task related to this device.

This defied logic. Every print job, successful or not, leaves traces on the server. That's an absolute, indisputable technical law.

I stared at the blank log, my mind racing to construct a reasonable explanation. Virus? Unlikely—our security protocols were military-grade, and viruses typically aim for destruction, not pointless printing jobs. Hardware failure? Possible. Perhaps some rare firmware bug in the printer's mainboard had misinterpreted a data packet as a print command, triggering an infinite data overflow.

Yes, that had to be it. A firmware crash. Extremely rare, but not impossible. An acceptable, logical explanation.

I exhaled deeply, feeling control return. Opening my email client, I drafted a detailed report to IT support, describing the incident, listing the device model and my troubleshooting steps. I concluded: "…initial assessment indicates device firmware crash resulting in uncontrolled command loop. Recommend hardware inspection or firmware reflash during business hours tomorrow."

After hitting send, the tension drained from my shoulders. I'd transformed an unexplainable anomaly into a solvable technical problem. Neatly boxed, labeled, and filed away. Order restored.

Back at my desk, I slipped my headphones on, ready to recapture my interrupted train of thought.

Just as I forced my focus back to the data, something flickered in my peripheral vision.

My mouse cursor. The little white arrow on my code-filled screen had shifted—ever so slightly but unmistakably—a few millimeters to the left. The movement was smooth, not the jerky motion of an accidental bump. More like… someone had gently nudged it with their finger.

I snapped my head around, eyes locked on the cursor.

It sat motionless in its new position, perfectly still, as if mocking my overreaction. My hand remained on the keyboard, nowhere near the mouse. Nothing on my desk could have moved it.

My heart stuttered.

I stared at it for a full ten seconds. The cursor seemed welded to the screen, utterly immobile.

Slowly, I raised my hand and rubbed my eyes. Visual fatigue, I told myself. Staring at a high-contrast screen for hours can cause temporary visual artifacts—a perfectly normal physiological response. I could cite the medical literature on it.

This explanation satisfied me.

I lowered my hand and refocused on the screen. The small white arrow sat innocently, as if it had always been in that exact position. Everything was normal.