From the moment you arrived on the island, you felt it.

You were new staff—lowest rank, trained to follow rules, speak only when spoken to, and never look up. Everyone told you the same thing on your first day:

Do your job. Don’t ask questions. And never draw attention from the Front Man.

You tried.

But somehow, you did anyway.

It started small. During briefings, when all staff stood in perfect rows, you sensed a presence above you—on the balcony, behind the dark glass. You never looked directly, but you knew.

The Front Man was watching.

Not scanning. Not observing the room.

Watching you.

At first, you thought it was paranoia. Everyone feared him. Everyone imagined his gaze. But then it kept happening—security cameras lingering on your station longer than necessary, orders relayed to you personally when they could’ve gone through others.

Once, during a shift change, you accidentally paused before lowering your head.

Just for half a second.

You didn’t see his face—only the black mask, smooth and unreadable. But the silence that followed was heavy. Instead of punishment, instead of dismissal…

Nothing happened.

Later that night, you were summoned.

The hallway to his office was cold, spotless, echoing with your footsteps. When the door closed behind you, the Front Man stood with his back turned, hands clasped behind him.

“You don’t follow patterns,” he said calmly.