The Watcher’s Shift

Marissa sat hunched on the sagging couch, knees pulled to her chest, her cracked phone screen glowing faintly in the darkened room. The apartment stank of damp laundry and stale coffee grounds, the kind of bitterness that clung to the walls. Unopened mail littered the table — past-due rent, shutoff warnings for water and electricity, a pink eviction notice that sat dead center, glaring like a wound.

Her stomach ached with hunger. The fridge was empty, her bank account was overdrawn, and her landlord’s last text still flashed in her mind: “Three days. Then you’re out.”

She scrolled job boards with half-lidded eyes, brain foggy from lack of sleep. "Night work. Discreet. Cash. $1,000 per shift. No experience needed."

Her thumb hovered. One thousand dollars? That would buy her time — a week, maybe more. She clicked. No description. Just an address. Midnight.

Her lip ring pressed hard between her teeth as she chewed on it, brow furrowing. Scam? Or worse? But the gnawing pressure in her chest pushed her forward: no power, no water, no apartment if she didn’t pay up.

She pictured her mother’s weary voice, her best friend Kelly’s last warning: "Ris, you always go for the worst shortcuts."

With shaking hands, she grabbed her hoodie, stuffed her pocket knife into her backpack, and headed out.

The city streets shimmered under the flicker of failing neon lights. Marissa’s boots scraped across cracked pavement. She caught her reflection in a dusty window — unwashed black hair, hollow eyes bruised with exhaustion, piercings flashing in the light. She looked like she belonged here, in the shadows, but inside she felt paper-thin.

On the subway, she typed quickly: "Hey, heading to a late-night gig. Sketchy. Here’s the address. Just in case." No reply. Kelly was probably asleep, curled up safe beside her boyfriend.

The train rattled through dark tunnels. Marissa gripped the metal pole, knuckles straining white. She thought about turning back — but her body stayed frozen, clinging, swaying with the motion.

The warehouse loomed at the river’s edge: rusted metal walls, barbed-wire fences, shattered windows. A pale yellow bulb buzzed above the door, casting shadows that twitched with every flicker.

She lingered outside, bouncing on the balls of her feet, nerves jumping under her skin. “You need this,” she whispered under her breath. And she pushed the door open.

A cool, chemical-scented draft met her.

“Marissaaa…”

She flinched.

From the shadows, a man emerged. Tall, thin as a wire, dressed entirely in black. His pale skin almost glowed, and his sharp cheekbones cast deep hollows under the light. His gloves glistened like wet leather. His voice came soft, almost sing-song, like the words were being tasted as they left his mouth.

“You’re on time. I love when they’re punctual.”

Marissa’s throat tightened. “What’s… the job?”

He smiled. It was a strange, too-slow curl of his lips, like watching a spider unfold its legs. “Sit. Watch. That’s all. You sit, you watch… and you get paid.”

Her gut twisted, but her feet stayed rooted. Bills. Eviction. Hunger.

He handed her a black hoodie. “Put it on, little one. Don’t want the others to see your pretty face just yet.”

The fabric smelled faintly acrid, like bleach and something older — mildew, or rot. She shivered but slipped it over her jacket, feeling its heavy weight.

“Follow.”

He led her down a long, narrow corridor, where the peeling paint curled like dead skin and wires dangled from the ceiling, twitching faintly. Each step echoed. Marissa’s breath caught in her throat as they passed heavy metal doors, unmarked and silent, lining the hall like sentinels.

At the end, the man pushed open a thick steel door.

Inside, a single chair, a table, and a figure bound tight, head covered by a black hood.

Marissa’s lungs drew in a shaky, shallow breath. “What… is this?”

The man tilted his head, an odd, bird-like motion, eyes gleaming with something sharp. “Just watch him. Don’t let him move. We’ll handle the rest.”

Before she could speak, he was gone, the door closing with a sound like a coffin lid.

The air in the room was cold and slightly metallic, like a hospital room left to rot. Marissa rubbed her arms, pacing slowly, her boots rasping over the concrete. Her phone flashed No Signal. She sat on the edge of the chair, heart racing — not pounding, but fluttering erratically, like a bird trapped under her ribs.

Minutes crawled. The overhead light buzzed softly, flickering in and out. The bound figure’s faint breathing rasped through the room.

Marissa hugged herself tighter, memories flashing up — nights as a child when she’d hidden under the blankets, convinced the shadows were watching. Her mouth was dry, her skin prickled, her nerves frayed raw.

Suddenly, the figure lurched, jerking violently.

She jumped, pulse hammering in her ears. “Hey! Are you okay?”

The bag slipped slightly. Pale skin. Sunken, wide eyes.

“Please…” the man rasped, voice raw and cracking. “Help me.”

Marissa stumbled back, her throat closing. Leave. Run. Go get help.

“I… I was told to stay here,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“I don’t know—”

Tears slid down his face. “Please.”

She turned to the door, heart jittering so hard she felt lightheaded. She grabbed the handle. Twisted. Locked.

“Let me out!” she shrieked, pounding her fists against the door.

“Somebody, please!”

Silence.

She turned back, slowly.

The figure stared at her now, eyes locked onto hers.

“Marissa,” he whispered.

Her breath caught sharp in her throat. She hadn’t told him her name.

The air around her turned cold — not just cold, but freezing, like all the heat was being sucked from the room. His lips stretched into an impossible, inhuman smile, the corners pulling far too wide.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he murmured, his voice doubling, echoing unnaturally in the small space.

The lights flickered. Buzzed. Died.

Marissa’s scream tore through the pitch black.

Hands clamped down on her arms. She kicked, thrashed, scratched at unseen faces. A sharp sting at her neck. Ice flooded her veins. Her body sagged, the world spinning, twisting sideways.

Her last conscious thought, a whispered gasp: “This… isn’t… what I signed up for…”

Then nothing.

When Marissa awoke, the warehouse was gone.

She lay on a soft bed, but it wasn’t hers. The room was small, white, too clean — the kind of sterile that stung her nose. The air buzzed faintly, like machines humming just out of sight. Her ankle throbbed; when she moved, something tight snapped her leg back, sending a jolt of pain through her muscles.

Her mouth was dry. The air tasted faintly metallic.

Her pulse thundered, ragged and unsteady. She sat up, head spinning.

A screen flickered on.

The man in black smiled from the monitor. His fingers drummed idly on the desk, his voice still that unsettling sing-song: “Good morning, Marissa.”

She slammed her fists against the wall. “Let me out!”

He tilted his head, that too-slow smile creeping wider. “You’re out, little one. In a way. You passed the first test.”

Her throat tightened. “What… test?”

He leaned closer to the camera. “We wanted to see if you’d fight. If you’d break. You were delightful to watch.”

She pressed trembling hands to her temples. “Why me? I just wanted a damn job!”

The screen flickered. The walls around her shifted, the sterile panels sliding away to reveal rows of small rooms — stacked high, each with a figure inside. Men. Women. Some screaming. Some silent. Some curled up like broken dolls.

Marissa’s vision swam. “No… no, no…”

He spoke softly, his voice wrapping around her like cold silk. “You’re part of something bigger now. Something important.”

Her screams echoed back at her, swallowed by the walls.

The man’s voice dropped, soft, almost tender. “We always get what we pay for.”

The floor beneath her pulsed. Sharp pain burst in her skull, a white-hot crackle inside her head. She screamed — the sound shredding from her throat — as the world tilted, dimmed, and vanished.

The lights went dark.