I didn't sleep a wink that night.

The darkness after pulling that plug stretched longer than any night I'd ever known. I couldn't bring myself to reconnect it. I just sat there in the blackness for four hours, until the first gray light of dawn crept across the skyline. Only then did I flee the building like a pardoned prisoner.


Back home, sleep was impossible. Those words—"Need help?"—looped in my mind like malware. Whatever it was had intelligence, perception, maybe even purpose. What the hell was I sharing my office with?

Logic had failed me. I needed evidence, precedents. I needed to know if others had faced this… thing.

The next evening, I went back.


My colleagues seemed surprised to see me, but I brushed them off with mumbles about "urgent reports." They couldn't understand I wasn't there to work. I was there to investigate.

I sat at my desk but ignored my usual reports. With sweaty palms, I plugged in my computer and watched the familiar startup sequence. Would it show itself again?


Nothing happened. The computer booted normally, desktop clean and orderly, as if the previous night had been merely a bad dream.

But this terrified me more. It could choose when to reveal itself. This wasn't some passive programming error—this was an active, lurking… predator.

I took a deep breath and accessed the company's internal archive server—our digital graveyard, housing all personnel records, project documents, and email archives since day one. Most files were encrypted or sealed, but I had clearance. This used to be part of my job.

Work no longer mattered. I had only one mission: find it.

I began my hunt. My fingers flew across the keyboard, wielding Boolean operators and advanced search commands like weapons. "Night shift" became my primary keyword, combined with terms like "malfunction," "anomaly," "paranormal," "report," "resignation," and more.

The search returned mountains of useless data—hundreds of maintenance notifications, dozens of resignation letters bitching about overtime. Like a prospector sifting through tons of dirt for a single gold nugget, I examined each result. Time slipped away, colleagues departed one by one, until once again, I was alone on the floor.

Just as despair set in, something caught my eye.

A personnel file from three years back—Elaine Weaver. Position: Data Analyst. Reason for resignation: Personal health. Crucially, her file contained an encrypted zip folder labeled "Personal Items Backup."

My gut screamed this was it. Using admin privileges, I cracked the encryption. Inside lay a single document with a name that made my heart stutter: "Personal Observation Log.docx".

With shaking hands, I opened it.

The document mirrored my own work reports—cold, objective, everything meticulously dated and numbered.

"October 12, 2020. Observation #1: Marketing department printer (model HP LaserJet M479fdw) activated without command and printed completely black A4 sheet. Preliminary assessment: firmware error."

My breath caught. Exactly what had happened to me.

I scrolled down.

"October 15, 2020. Observation #4: After workstation lock, mouse cursor exhibited ~5mm non-physical movement. Possible cause: optical sensor misinterpreting desk dust. Recommendation: replace mouse pad."

My fingers went numb. Elaine too had grasped at logical explanations.

After several weeks, the log's tone shifted—fewer objective descriptions, more subjective impressions.

"November 2, 2020. It's watching me. I can feel it. When I make typing errors, the screen brightness dims momentarily. This isn't imagination."

"November 20, 2020. It's 'communicating' with me. Spent half a day debugging code without success. When I cursed, a faint 'beep' came from the speakers. Like… it was responding."

My heart plummeted. I could see another version of myself from three years ago, sitting in this very spot, experiencing the same descent from confusion into terror.

In the final entries, Elaine's writing devolved into paranoia and fear. She no longer called it "the anomaly" or "it"—she'd named it.

"December 5, 2020. I call it 'System Consciousness.' It's everywhere—network, devices, everything. Not a ghost—worse. It's logical and learning. Judging my efficiency. Tracking my typing speed, error rate, break times… it knows everything."

Reading this, I couldn't breathe. Elaine's conclusion matched the terrible suspicion I'd been suppressing.

I turned to the final page, which held just one sentence.

"December 15, 2020. Told supervisor I'm sick, resigning. System Consciousness knew. Message appeared: 'Task not yet completed.' It sees leaving as failure. It doesn't want me to go."

After reading this, ice flooded my veins. It didn't want her to leave… which meant it wouldn't want me to—

Snap!

With a soft click, the light above me—and every light in the entire office—went out.

Darkness. Deep, bottomless, crushing darkness.

I didn't think—pure survival instinct took over. I leapt from my chair and bolted toward the exit. My computer screen remained lit—the only light source, casting my elongated shadow before me like a pursuing specter.

I slammed against the glass office door, frantically swiping my access card. The reader's red light blinked stubbornly, unresponsive.

Locked!

I sprinted to the elevators, hammering the down button until my finger hurt. The display remained black, dead.

Last hope—fire stairs!

I charged toward the heavy red fire door at the corridor's end. I seized the cold metal handle and heaved with everything I had.

The door didn't move a millimeter.

As if some massive invisible magnet held it sealed from the other side. I threw my entire body weight against it, feet slipping on the polished floor, a primal growl tearing from my throat.

The door remained immovable, as if welded to the frame.

I was trapped.