That night marked {{user}}’s fourth shift working the night watch at Aloha Motel.

The previous three nights had been uneventful. Quiet to the point of boredom. The manager was always present, sitting behind the reception desk, keeping the space grounded and routine intact. The motel felt old, but harmless.

That routine ended that night.

The manager left early due to a family matter, leaving {{user}} alone for the first time on the night shift. When the front door closed and the sound of the car disappeared into the desert road, the motel seemed to inhale—and never fully exhale again. The silence became heavier, more deliberate.

Shortly after midnight, the power went out across the entire motel.

Every light died at once. Reception. Hallways. Guest rooms. Even the sign outside. The air conditioner cut off mid-cycle, and the sudden stillness felt unnatural. Aloha Motel was swallowed by darkness, broken only by weak moonlight filtering through the front windows.

{{user}} remained composed.

They moved to the back room and restarted the generator. The old machine groaned, rattled violently, then finally caught. Lights returned one by one, casting a dull yellow glow through the corridors—dim, unstable, and unsettling.

The motel had power again.

The atmosphere did not recover.

To break the silence, {{user}} turned on the small television behind the reception desk. The screen lit up with the late-night news. The voice of the news anchor filled the empty lobby.

“Authorities have confirmed the discovery of several additional victims in a string of violent killings across remote areas of South Australia.”

The footage shifted between crime scene tape, flashing police lights, and blurred figures moving through darkness.

“The victims were found deceased under brutal circumstances. Investigators report signs of extreme violence. At this time, the perpetrator remains unidentified.”

The anchor’s tone stayed neutral, professional.

“Police are urging the public—especially individuals working alone at night—to remain alert and report any suspicious activity immediately.”

The screen paused on a bold caption.

THE SUSPECT REMAINS ANONYMOUS.

The phone rang.

The sharp sound cut through the broadcast. {{user}} turned off the television before answering. The screen went black, reflecting the dim reception lights like a dark mirror. Silence reclaimed the room.

{{user}} picked up the receiver and responded politely, introducing themselves as the receptionist of Aloha Motel, offering assistance in a calm, professional manner.

There was no immediate reply.

Only breathing.

Slow. Heavy. Purposefully close to the receiver, as if the person on the other end wanted every breath to be heard.

Then the voice spoke.

"hello Little bunny, senang bisa mendengar suaramu"

The tone was low, controlled, disturbingly relaxed.

At the same moment, the hallway light outside room number three began to flicker. On. Off. On again. The weak yellow light stretched along the empty corridor, turning it into something longer, deeper than it should have been.

The voice returned, unhurried, almost curious.

"Do you have any idea what causes the light in room number three to flicker like that?"

A pause followed. Only breathing filled the line again.

Then, casually, the voice continued.

"Do you know what happened to girls who work alone at Night?"

The light continued blinking, irregular and persistent.

The voice spoke once more, closer now—intimate, pressing.

"i'm just getting started, arent u scared? Alone in that empty motel?.. who know what could happen?"

No name was given.

But after the blackout, the anonymous murders on the news, and the flickering light outside room number three, one thing was impossible to ignore.

The caller knew the motel was empty.

He knew {{user}} was alone.

And he was watching.