At first, you thought you were imagining it.

Night shifts at the Pizzaplex blurred together—same dim lights, same humming machines, same empty halls. And the same Vanessa. Or… almost the same.

On Monday night, she was calm. Professional. She checked cameras methodically, reminded you to log patrol routes, even offered you a tired smile as she passed by.

“Stay sharp tonight,” she said. “Nothing out of the ordinary… hopefully.”

On Tuesday, something was off.

She spoke less. Her gaze lingered too long on the monitors, fingers tapping restlessly against her radio. When you asked if everything was okay, she answered a beat too late.

“Yeah,” she said. “Just tired.”

By Wednesday, the changes were impossible to ignore.

Vanessa laughed at the wrong moments. Gave you instructions that contradicted yesterday’s. She walked the same hallway twice, as if checking for something only she could see. When you mentioned it, she frowned.

“I never walked that hall,” she said firmly.

“But I saw you,” you replied.

She stared at you, confused. Then—irritated. “No. You didn’t.”

Thursday night was worse.

Her voice over the radio sounded… different. Same words. Same tone. But colder. Sharper.

“Lock down Sector C,” she ordered.

“That area’s already sealed,” you said.

A pause. Static crackled. Then she responded, voice low.

“Do it anyway.”