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Lena

A fter the strange events of yesterday, I make sure to arrive ten minutes early. Not to impress anyone—just to avoid the kind of mistake that gets you escorted back out the front gate.

It’s my first full day working here. If “here” even qualifies as a workplace. Yes, there’s a desk. A login. A system of access points so restricted it feels more like parole than employment.

But the truth is—I don’t know what this is.

I haven’t seen Ellis since the dinner.

Technically, I was promoted. That’s what the email said. A new title, a new assignment, and an address dropped into my inbox like a trapdoor.

I’ve barely seen anyone. Not my boss. Not Andra. Just a silent house that opens when I badge in and doesn’t say a word after.

The space they’ve given me looks like it was pulled from a showroom floor. Minimalist. Gleaming. Not a paperclip in sight. The desk is white, narrow, and has drawers that won’t open. There’s no paper, no keyboard dust. If I dropped a crumb, I swear the house would eject me on principle. The chair adjusts itself when I sit. That’s new.

The computer screen lights up without being touched, and for a second it feels like it’s watching me.

I spend the first hour clicking through files I don’t understand. My login works, which I guess means I belong here. But no one told me what I’m supposed to be doing.

My inbox is light. Three emails. All logistics. All perfectly professional. I respond with the kind of phrasing that sounds helpful without offering anything specific.

I’m not sure what I’m contributing yet. The documents are still dense with language that makes you feel stupid for asking. I open one titled “Q2 Confidence Index Drift Factors” and try to decipher what a “non-linear subjective recalibration node” actually is. After five minutes, I close the file and tell myself understanding can be Phase Two.

No one checks in.

The house is just as quiet as yesterday. No footsteps. No voices. Not even the fake kind of workplace noise you get from someone aggressively typing to prove they’re alive. I remember the sound I heard yesterday—the soft click of the door closing—the sense that someone was behind me, and for a moment, I wonder if I imagined it. Household staff or a pet, maybe. Though I haven’t seen any. Or the house adjusting itself. Either way, I convince myself there’s nothing to it.

I glance toward the hallway. Still no sign of Andra. No sound of my boss’s door opening. If he’s even here.

Around noon, I stand to stretch. Then I visit the restroom. Come back to the same blinking cursor.

And that’s when I see it.

A piece of paper. Folded once. Left on the corner of my desk—just beneath the edge of the monitor, like it meant to be overlooked.

Except it wasn’t there before. I would’ve noticed it.

I pick it up.

There’s no name. No letterhead. Just a single line, handwritten in slanted script.

Don’t trust them to let you leave.

That’s it.

I stare at it for a full ten seconds before I move, but not because I’m afraid. Because I’m trying to decide what this is.

A prank? A mistake? Some kind of onboarding test?

The handwriting doesn’t help. It’s too neat to be rushed, but too strange to be corporate.

I glance behind me. Nothing. Just glass, stone, silence.

It’s not a threat. Not exactly. It’s not even a warning, not the dramatic kind. There’s no RUN NOW or DANGER AHEAD scrawled in blood.

Just... don’t trust them.

Not they won’t let you leave.

Not you’re in danger.

Just that one line.

I read it again.

And it’s the specificity that gets me. Because someone left this. Here. For me. On a desk I was only assigned yesterday. In a house no one was supposed to know I’d be working from.

I look around again.

Nothing.

The air feels still. Still and expensive. The kind of stillness that assumes you know how to behave.

I fold the paper and tuck it into the inside pocket of my notebook. The one I brought from my last job. It still smells like coffee grounds and desperation.

Then I sit down. Position my hands on the keyboard like I never stopped typing.

Because this is the first real job I’ve had in a long time. The first one that didn’t involve driving around with a trunk full of broken-down grooming supplies, hoping someone’s doodle wouldn’t bite me before I got paid.

This job is quiet. Clean. Good pay. Benefits after ninety days. Benefits I desperately need. Especially the health insurance.

So whatever this note is?

It’s none of my business.