The low buzz of static hissed from the old box TV mounted in the corner of the break room. The local weather lady droned on about another week of cold fronts and steady drizzle. In Washington, that was the equivalent of saying water was wet.
"A chance of rain, my ass," Jarry muttered, eyes closed, head tilted back against the wall.
Across from him, Mr. Peterson glanced up from his crossword puzzle. The older man, bundled in a heavy work hoodie and wearing black pants, had a seasoned calm about him. Gray patches peppered his scalp beneath the hood.
"What was that, Jarry?"
"Nothing, Mr. Peterson. Keep doing your puzzle."
Peterson squinted back down at the paper. "What's a seven-letter word for 'purse'?"
"Handbag."
"Prophecy?"
"Omen."
A beat passed.
"What about—"
"Just hand me the damn puzzle," Jarry said with a chuckle, cracking one eye open and holding out his hand.
Peterson smirked but kept the page. "Just messin' with you. You're good at these."
Jarry shrugged. "My old man loved crosswords. And spelling bees. Used to quiz me during the commercial breaks."
Peterson nodded. "You win any?"
"A few," he said, glancing away. "Back when I was still trying."
A silence fell between them.
"Have you ever thought about having your kids do them?"
Jarry's jaw tensed. His fingers curled slightly.
"Can't. She won't let me see them."
Peterson softened. "Hey, hey. I didn't mean anything by it."
"I've got twin boys. Kal and Bruce. Smart. Into animals, sports, and playing pranks. I raised them on Animal Planet and Nat Geo."
There was a faint smile for a second. Then it slipped away like a tide retreating.
"I'd do anything for them."
The door creaked open behind them, the rusty hinges screeching like nails down a chalkboard.
"GEILMAN! PETERSON!" barked a voice like sandpaper dipped in grease.
Clark.
A mountain of a man waddled through the door, stomach leading the charge beneath a sweat-stained polo. He looked winded just from yelling.
Jarry muttered under his breath, "Speak of the devil…"
"What the hell are you two doing?" Clark demanded, cheeks flushed.
"Taking our break," Peterson said without looking up.
"There's a massive order due this week! You think the machines are gonna run themselves?"
Jarry snorted—then laughed. It started as a low chuckle but quickly rolled into something sharper.
Clark blinked. "What's so funny?"
"Just watching your gut wobble like a bowl of Jell-O."
Peterson wheezed.
Jarry leaned forward, smile gone. "Second, you're not my supervisor. You work the same damn job. Don't let that badge make you stupid."
Clark's jaw dropped slightly.
"And third, we're on break. Fifteen minutes. Company policy. If you wanna rob me of that time, I'll be expecting back pay for the last six months."
Clark stared, slack-jawed. The silence stretched.
Finally, with a huff and a half-growl, he turned and shambled back out the door. "Just clock in and get back to work," he muttered before disappearing.
Jarry exhaled hard. The adrenaline still pulsed in his neck.
"Hell of a way to start the morning," Peterson muttered.
The clock read 8:30 AM. Jarry had been there since five.
They clocked in, gave each other a nod, and parted ways.
Jarry climbed the grated metal stairs toward the upper levels of the Grisham facility, his boots echoing hollowly over the roar of machinery below. Pipes hissed with escaping steam. High-pressure valves clicked and rattled. The entire place thrummed with a low, vibrating hum that seemed to pulse up through the soles of his feet.
Water surged behind reinforced glass panes—murky, greenish, churning through filtration channels beneath. Massive pumps thrummed like engines from some sunken warship. The chemical stench of chlorine tingled in his nose.
It was loud, chaotic, and consistent.
Until it wasn't.
Halfway down the maintenance corridor, everything… shifted.
The background hum faltered—once, then again—like a breath catching in a throat.
Then—quiet.
Not full silence. But too quiet.
A trickle of water dripped somewhere out of sync. The pressure hisses had gone still. Even the ever-present low throb of filtration had ceased.
Jarry stopped walking.
The corridor ahead stretched like the throat of a sleeping metal beast, just waiting to breathe again. A wrongness prickled the base of his skull. The silence wasn't peace. It was the pause before something woke up.
Then—clunk.
Behind him.
Jarry's whole body jerked. He turned fast, heart thudding.
A hand.
Pale. Lying on the floor like a misplaced glove.
At first, he thought it was a prank. Something left by one of the guys. A mannequin part. Some sick joke.
But then he saw it twitch.
Not a jolt. Not a flop. A twitch.
Deliberate.
Calculated.
The color drained from his face.
His brain screamed Run.
And for once, he listened.
Because whatever was here, whatever had silenced the machines and laid that thing in his path—
It wasn't done yet.
And it was watching.