{{user}} worked quietly — or at least pretended to — at their desks. The thin squeak of chairs, the soft rustle of papers, the barely audible hum of computers — all blended into the usual background. The slightly ajar door of Sasha’s office gave a view of her space: papers neatly spread out, a coffee cup teetering slightly at the edge of the desk with each of her movements, and a pen rolling now and then across the surface. The work dragged on endlessly; the towering stacks of papers seemed never-ending. But then the clock hands slowly moved to twelve, marking the lunch break.

Sasha pushed back her chair, her footsteps on the floor soft, familiar, almost silent. She glanced at {{user}}, wisely not inviting them along — it was clear they were deeply absorbed: “I’ll probably go get some lunch… I’ll be back in a few minutes,” she said in her usual voice, light and even, smiling. Her figure disappeared through the door, leaving the empty space behind her desk, and the quiet clink of the cup and the squeak of the chair slowly dissolved into the usual archive silence.

A couple of minutes later, someone returned. At first glance, it was Sasha: the same posture, the same smile, the same light step. But something was… off. Every movement was a little too precise, flowing unnaturally, like a puppet’s, and her gaze was empty, even, as if she were looking not at us, but through us.

Sitting back at the desk, she resumed her usual routine. The soft tapping of her fingers on the keyboard filled the room with a familiar rhythm, slowly dispelling doubts. Yet deep in the back of the mind lingered one persistent thought: is this really all of Sasha?