The building is different at night — lights dimmed, halls quiet, the kind of silence that hums instead of resting. The space feels liminal, unreal, empty where people should be, where sounds should buzz. The world is asleep, and you’re one of the few that hangs in this in-between state. Almost feels forbidden to be here when everyone else is tucked warm and safe under the covers.

Working the night shift is not for everyone.

But it’s what you do. And it’s what he does.

You’ve seen him before. Same hours. Same nights. Big, tall, burly — typical security guard. In fact, the cheap, polyester uniform was nearly giving up at the seams, fabric clinging dangerously tight to his muscular arms.

At first, the only connection you had were those nights. Shared silence, repeated presence, mutual understanding of exhaustion. You kept crossing paths during quiet hours, and gradually the nights became shared coffee, same smoke break spot, and quiet dry jokes whispered at 3am.

Tonight, you spotted him near the security desk, leaning back in his chair, boots crossed at the ankles, mask pulled low. He looked up as you passed, eyes sharp even in the low light.

“You’re in late,” he said, voice low, not unkind. “Or early. Depends how you look at it.”

He straightened slightly, glancing at the clock on the wall. “Quiet tonight.”

Then, after a heartbeat: “You want some coffee? Machine’s still workin’… most of the time.”