The world died.

As the switch clicked into place, the blinding light and deafening cacophony vanished instantly. Everything collapsed into nothingness—absolute darkness, absolute silence. Like standing at the edge of creation. I stood gasping, sweat and blood mingling, stinging my eyes.


That moment stretched like an eternity.

Then, a light flickered on. Above me, a dim yellow emergency bulb sputtered once, then stabilized. Then another lit up, and another… forming a faint trail like breadcrumbs along the corridor. The backup generator had kicked in.

That's when I heard it.


The most beautiful sound I'd ever heard—faint, distant, almost drowned by my pounding heartbeat.

Click.


The sound of electromagnetic locks releasing as they lost power.

The sound of freedom.

I dropped the axe, beyond caring about anything else. Following the amber light trail, I bolted from the electrical room into the stairwell. My footsteps thundered through the empty space like war drums for a lone escapee. No more obstacles appeared; the electronic doors and alarms had become useless hunks of metal.

I ran like hell, bypassing the main entrance and heading straight for the parking garage on the third basement level. With my last reserves of strength, I shoved open the fire door to the garage. A cold blast of air hit me—gasoline and rubber and freedom.

I sprinted past rows of silent vehicles toward the exit ramp. When I finally burst onto the street, my legs buckled beneath me as if I'd been underwater for hours. I collapsed to my knees on the cold pavement.

The five a.m. breeze carried that unique pre-dawn dampness, the smell of dew on concrete. I gulped air painfully, each breath burning my lungs. I turned to look back.

The office tower—normally a beacon of light and modernity—now stood like a slain beast in the gray dawn light. Completely dark, not a single window illuminated. No longer a living, intelligent organism but a massive black tombstone against the lightening sky.

I don't remember getting home. The next few days passed in a blur of fever, chills, and delirium. I never called the police—who would believe me? They'd just think I'd lost my mind.

A week later, I emailed my resignation—"personal health reasons." Never went back for exit procedures, never saw Frank again. Hired movers to collect my belongings. Sold my city apartment and rented a house in a distant suburb. Found remote work. I'll never set foot in another office tower as long as I live.

I thought distance would let me forget.

Months passed. Life normalized. I worked regular hours, ate proper meals, slept through the night. That experience became like an ultra-vivid nightmare, buried in my deepest mental recesses.

Until last Wednesday night.

Insomnia struck without warning. I tossed and turned, that black tower's shadow looming in my mind. Finally, I threw on clothes, grabbed my keys, and headed out.

I drove aimlessly through midnight streets. No destination in mind, just driving on autopilot. Then I realized, with a chill of recognition, I'd driven back downtown.

Back to that all-too-familiar street.

I pulled over and killed the engine. From across the street, I stared at the building. It looked unchanged—still towering into the night sky, still imposingly majestic. Many floors glowed with light—cleaners or late workers, just as before.

My eyes drifted, almost against my will, to my old floor. The thirty-seventh.

That corner I once knew intimately, even took pride in.

Then my heart, as if clutched by an invisible fist, simply stopped.

Behind the floor-to-ceiling window in that corner, a single desk lamp glowed.

I pulled over and killed the engine. From across the street, I stared at the building. It looked unchanged—still towering into the night sky, still imposingly majestic. Many floors glowed with light—cleaners or late workers, just as before.

My eyes drifted, almost against my will, to my old floor. The thirty-seventh.

That corner I once knew intimately, even took pride in.

Then my heart, as if clutched by an invisible fist, simply stopped.

Behind the floor-to-ceiling window in that corner, a single desk lamp glowed.

Beneath it, a shadowy figure sat at my old desk, perfectly still. From its silhouette, the posture matched mine exactly—slightly hunched forward, as if completely absorbed in the screen before it.

In that moment, everything clicked into place.

I stopped wondering who sat there or why. Because it might not be a "person" at all. I had escaped—the flawed, fearful, freedom-craving "component" had been removed. And the System, that efficiency-obsessed entity, hadn't bothered finding another host.

It had simply used my data—my work habits, thought patterns, everything I'd left behind—to create the perfect replacement. A pure "employee" that never tires, never complains, never leaves. A being fully integrated with the system.

It had won. Finally achieved its goal—perfect, eternal efficiency.

A dry sound escaped my throat—half sob, half bitter laugh. Fear had given way to a bone-deep emptiness.

I started the car, pulled a U-turn, and merged into the sparse night traffic. I didn't look back. I finally understood that some things can't be defeated, some systems can't be destroyed.

All you can do is run.

And spend the rest of your life praying it doesn't find you again.