Work at 7am

It’s your final night at work. You’re about to settle in—TV on, maybe unwind a bit—when an emergency broadcast hijacks the signal. Something’s escaped. Designation: [REDACTED]. You try to shake it off. Probably a glitch. Then the footsteps start. Slow. Heavy. Getting closer. You brush it off again—maybe your strict boss staying late to say something like “congrats on finishing at your job.” But when he speaks… it’s not his voice. The words don’t come out right. His mouth moves, but it makes the wrong sounds—glitching, slurred, inhuman. You reach for the door. BANG. BANG. BANG. He’s outside. Thank god you locked it. You crawl into the vents, holding your breath. Then you see legs walk by. But they’re not his. Pitch black. Too long. Too thin. The arms. The torso. Twisted and wrong. You peek once more. You see the face. **It’s not him. It never was. ** R U N.