My name is Chen Du, fresh out of college. I majored in marketing, sent out resumes for three months, interviewed at eleven companies—all rejections.
My rent was due, and I had only 2,300 yuan left in my bank account. Landlady Wang texted me: "Xiao Chen, time to pay next quarter's rent."
I stared at that message for a long time before replying, "Thanks, Sister Wang. I'll transfer it before the end of the month."
Closing WeChat, I kept scrolling through job apps. Filtering out all positions requiring experience, not many options remained: food delivery, courier, ride-hailing, and one more—night security guard at Lantingyuan Community, 5,000 yuan/month, housing included, no experience required.
Five thousand, plus free housing. For someone about to lose their apartment, it was like winning the lottery.
I went for the interview that afternoon. It was in the basement of the property office, a small poorly ventilated room with an enamel tea mug on the desk, its walls crusted thick with tea stains. Old Qian sat behind the desk, flipping through my resume twice, then looked up at me and asked, "Young man, how's your health?"
"Pretty good," I said. "I play basketball regularly."
"And your courage?"
"Decent. Not afraid of the dark."
Old Qian smiled—a strange smile, like he'd heard a joke and felt sorry about it. He set the resume down, fingers steepled, and said, "Night security's easy enough, mostly just patrols. 8 PM to 6 AM, walk the perimeter every two hours, including the underground garage. But there's one thing..."
He paused, leaning forward. The fluorescent tube overhead flickered, casting his face in alternating light and shadow.
"No matter what sounds you hear while patrolling, don't look back."
I froze. "What?"
"If you hear footsteps behind you, keep walking normally. Don't look back, don't run." Old Qian's tone was casual. "If the footsteps stop, you stop too. Wait until they start again before moving. Remember—when it stops, you stop; when it goes, you go."
My first thought was this old man was messing with me. I even smiled along. "What if the footsteps come from in front of me?"
Old Qian didn't smile. He picked up the enamel mug, took a sip, his Adam's apple bobbing, then set it down with a dull thud.
"Then you stand still until it's gone."
Silence hung for two seconds. The fluorescent light flickered again.
I sobered up. "Captain Qian, what does this mean?"
"Exactly what it sounds like." Old Qian stood up, rummaged in a drawer, and tossed me a navy blue uniform. "Start tonight. The last night guard quit, we're shorthanded. If you can't handle it, say so now."
To be honest, I had my doubts. But then I thought—5,000 yuan a month, free housing, saving 20-30 thousand a year. My parents were back in the county; Dad had heart surgery two years ago, leaving the family 70,000 yuan in debt. My little sister was in her third year of high school, top grades, teacher said she could get into a first-tier university, but we had no money for tuition.
These thoughts weighed heavier than any midnight footsteps.
I took the uniform. "I can do it."
Old Qian gave me a look, nodded, then pulled a black walkie-talkie from his pocket. "Channel 3. Keep it on during patrol. Call if anything happens."
The walkie-talkie felt heavy, its shell polished shiny from years of use. I noticed a label on the side with three characters scrawled in ballpoint: "Obey Orders."
"Who wrote this?" I asked.
Old Qian was already heading for the door, not looking back. "The last one."
That afternoon I packed my things from the rental. There wasn't much—one suitcase held my entire 24 years of life: clothes, laptop, a few books, and a red lucky charm my mom had given me, said to be blessed at the town temple for protection. I didn't believe in that stuff, but kept it anyway, tucked in the suitcase lining.
The security dorm was in the northernmost part of Lantingyuan, a two-story building—tools and equipment on the first floor, a few rooms partitioned on the second. Mine was at the end. I unpacked, item by item. When I reached the lucky charm, I don't know why, but I hung it on the bedpost. Then I tried to sleep, but couldn't—my mind kept replaying Old Qian's words.
At 7:30 PM, I changed into the uniform and went to the guard booth for the shift handover.
The booth was small, maybe four or five square meters. One wall was covered in monitors, split into two dozen screens showing the community's main entrances and paths. Day shift guard Lao Li walked me through the procedures—how to monitor the screens, operate the patrol system, which checkpoints were mandatory. Lao Li was friendly, round-faced, with a local accent, cracking sunflower seeds as he spoke, shells going into a cut-open soda can.
"There's a checkpoint in the southeast corner of B2 basement," Lao Li pointed to a screen. "Signal's spotty there—hold the walkie-talkie close, otherwise the system won't register it."
I nodded, asking casually, "Brother Li, anything special to watch for in the garage at night?"
Lao Li's seed-cracking paused, then resumed. "What's there to watch? It's just dark. Bring your flashlight."
At 8 PM sharp, Lao Li left. I was alone in the booth. The monitors cycled through quiet scenes—an occasional late resident swiping their card to enter. I clipped the walkie-talkie to my shoulder, tuned to channel 3, hung my ID badge, grabbed the flashlight, and prepared for my first patrol.
The September night wind slipped through the window crack, carrying an indescribable chill. I adjusted my collar and pushed open the glass door.
Lantingyuan had eight buildings arranged in an irregular semicircle, with a garden and pool in the center. There were two underground garage entrances—southeast and northwest. I took the southeast one. As I descended the ramp, the motion-sensor lights flickered on one by one, their pale glow stretching my shadow long and thin across the concrete floor and walls.
The garage was busy during the day with residents coming and going, but at night it fell unnaturally silent. Standing at the entrance, I could hear my own breath echoing back from the corridor depths, like someone hiding far away mimicking me.
I walked at a normal pace for the first patrol—starting at B1, following the lanes, circling around, hitting four checkpoints, then descending to B2. B2 was quieter still, with far fewer cars. Empty parking spaces stretched out, the floor paint lines glaring under the white lights. The air smelled faintly of mildew, mixed with rubber tires and motor oil—sickening after a while.
I hit the first three checkpoints on B2, leaving only the southeast corner—the one Lao Li mentioned with the bad signal.
As I turned around a row of pillars, I heard it.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The sound wasn't loud, but in the vast enclosed space of the garage, each syllable amplified several times over. Footsteps—clear, hard-soled shoes on concrete, rhythm steady, about one step per second.
Coming from behind me.
My body froze. Muscles in my back tensed sharply, like an ice-cold needle sliding down my spine. The flashlight beam trembled slightly as I tightened my grip.
Don't look back.
Old Qian's voice echoed in my head. I took a deep breath and kept walking, maintaining my pace—one step per second. The footsteps followed, same rhythm, same distance—always staying a fixed interval behind me.
How far away? I tried to gauge—three meters? Five? Hard to tell. The sound bounced around the garage, left and right, sometimes seeming to come from above, from the sides, from the ground beneath my feet.
After about twenty steps, I reached a T-junction. Left led to the elevator lobby, right to another parking area. My checkpoint was to the right.
As I reached the exact center of the junction, the footsteps stopped.
In that instant, the world seemed to hit mute. No sound at all—not even the low hum of the ventilation ducts. It was as if someone had placed a soundproof cover over the entire space. My own footsteps stopped too, because Old Qian had said—when it stops, you stop.
I stood at the junction, facing a gray-painted load-bearing pillar. The flashlight beam hit the wall, motionless. I didn't even dare breathe, my chest tight, hearing the blood pounding in my temples.
Maybe five or six seconds passed—could have been longer—when I heard a new sound.
Footsteps again. But not from behind—from in front of me.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Same rhythm, same hard-soled shoes on concrete. This time, it was moving away from me, growing fainter, the sound stretching and warping in the empty corridor, each tap trailing a thin echo.
I stood frozen, sweat soaking my back, my hand shaking as I gripped the walkie-talkie. Old Qian's words raced through my mind: "If footsteps come from in front of you, stand still until they're gone."
Was it gone? I listened closely. The tapping grew softer, farther away, fading around the corner at the end of the hallway. The garage returned to silence, the ventilation hum resuming—a low, beast-like breathing.
I exhaled slowly. Only then did I realize I'd been holding my breath, my lungs aching. My heart thundered like it would burst from my throat, my palms slick with sweat.
Okay, it's over. I told myself. Maybe it was an echo, or the ducts expanding and contracting, or whatever "thing" Old Qian mentioned had left. Either way, it was gone, out of earshot.
I rolled my stiff neck, preparing to turn right and finish the checkpoint.
My body began to turn right, foot not yet lifted, when a hand—cold, solid—slammed onto my right shoulder, pushing me forward. The chill seeped through my uniform, into my skin, into my bones—like a slab of raw meat just pulled from the freezer pressed against me.
In that split second, my brain made a decision—a completely wrong one.
I looked back.
The flashlight beam swept across the space behind me, left to right, up to down. Concrete pillars, empty parking spaces, ventilation ducts, fire hydrants. Nothing. The cold touch on my shoulder had vanished, as if it had never been there.
I stood stunned, gasping, the flashlight beam wildly shaking in the empty garage.
Then the walkie-talkie on my right shoulder crackled to life.
Static hissed for two seconds, then a voice. Soft, slow, like lips pressed directly against the microphone—too close, as if the speaker stood right beside me, cheek against my ear. Ice-cold breath brushed my earlobe.
"Don't look back."
A pause.
"I said don't look back."
I'd never heard that voice before—not Old Qian, not Lao Li, no one I knew. Flat, expressionless, like a recorded message played back. But that feeling of breath against my ear, that almost-touch between lips and skin—impossible from a speaker.
I dropped the flashlight and ran.
Footsteps erupted behind me. Tap-tap-tap, matching my pace exactly, like someone clung to my back as I ran. I ran faster, it followed faster. I turned corners, it turned with me. I could feel pressure on my back and neck—something inches away, almost touching.
I didn't dare look back. One mistake was enough.
I burst out of the garage, sprinted across the garden, and slammed into the guard booth, locking the door behind me. I slid down the door, soaked through—uniform cold and clammy against my skin. The walkie-talkie remained silent, as if nothing had happened.
I sat on the floor for a long time, until my breathing steadied, until my heart slowed from a frantic drumbeat to normal. Then I stood, walked to the monitor station, and pulled up a chair.
The monitors cycled through two dozen quiet screens. The cameras in the southeast corner of B2 showed only empty lanes and rows of vacant parking spaces—pale lights, silence, nothing out of the ordinary.
I stared at that screen for ten minutes. Nothing appeared.
When Lao Li came to relieve me the next morning, he saw my face and didn't press. He set his thermos on the desk, pulled a plastic bag from his pocket—two still-warm meat buns.
"Eat," he said. "First night's always like this."
Always like this.
I took the buns, chewing mechanically, and looked up at Lao Li. "Brother Li, does everyone know about that thing in the garage?"
Lao Li blew on the tea leaves floating on top of his thermos, avoiding the question. He took a sip, swishing it around before swallowing, then said, "Xiao Chen, did Old Qian tell you not to look back when you hear footsteps?"
"He did."
"Did you look back?"
I said nothing. Lao Li read my silence, sighed, and screwed the thermos lid shut.
"Looking back complicates things."
"What do you mean?"
Lao Li didn't answer, just gave me a look—the same look Old Qian had given me during the interview. Not sympathy, not concern, more like confirmation that something they'd long expected had finally happened.
From that day on, I wasn't right.
It started with dreams. Every night when I closed my eyes, I dreamed I stood at that T-junction in B2. The lights flickered, silence all around. Then footsteps would start behind me—tap-tap-tap, drawing closer. I'd try to run, but my legs felt nailed to the floor. The footsteps stopped behind me. A hand reached out, cold as death, touching my right shoulder.
I'd wake screaming, soaked in sweat, heart racing like it would explode. But what scared me more—every time I woke, my right shoulder was ice-cold. As if the bone had been replaced with ice, seeping cold from the inside out, impossible to warm no matter how long I rubbed it.
Then the daytime started going wrong too.
Once I went to the convenience store to buy snacks. Standing in front of the instant noodles shelf, a woman with a child suddenly grabbed her kid and hurried away. I didn't think much of it until I reached the checkout. A schoolgirl in uniform turned to look at me, then tugged her mother's sleeve: "Mom, that uncle behind..."
Her mom glanced at her phone, distracted. "What behind?"
The girl said nothing, just hugged her mom's leg and buried her face.
I tried talking to Old Qian about it. He finished his cigarette down to the filter before speaking: "How many times did you look back?"
"Once."
"Once is manageable," he said—not sounding reassuring. "Should still be in time."
"In time for what?"
Old Qian didn't answer. He stood up, rummaged in a cabinet, and handed me a crumpled brown envelope.
Inside was a yellowed sheet of paper, folded several times, about A4 size, with lines written in brush calligraphy. The handwriting was messy, ink bleeding everywhere. I struggled to make out the words:
1. When patrolling and hearing footsteps behind you, do not look back, do not run. When it stops, you stop; when it goes, you go.
2. If footsteps sound ahead, stand still until the sound completely fades before moving.
3. If "followed", walkie-talkie must not be turned off, removed, or switched channels.
4. Coldness in the right shoulder is a sign of "being followed". Wipe right shoulder with salt water each night before bed to alleviate.
5. Those who never looked back: if no incident within seven days, it passes. Those who looked back once: need "substitute".
6. Method of "substitute" not passed down. Those who need it must find their own way.
That final "substitute" character was written extra hard, ink bleeding through the paper, raised and rough to the touch. I looked up at Old Qian—he leaned back in his chair, lighting a cigarette, smoke obscuring his face.
"The last night guard," I said. "Did he look back?"
Old Qian exhaled smoke, watching it swirl under the fluorescent light.
"He worked three months, never had a problem." Old Qian said. "Then one night he told me he couldn't take it anymore—dreams every night, shoulder too cold to sleep. I told him to hold on a few more days, we'd almost found a 'substitute'. He said he couldn't wait."
"What happened then?"
"He quit. Left the next day."
Ashes fell on the desk. Old Qian didn't brush them away.
"A week later, he called me." He said. "He was gasping on the phone—'Old Qian, I found the substitute like you said, why is my shoulder still cold?'"
Old Qian paused. The fluorescent light flickered again.
"I asked where he found it. He said that night in the garage, he finally heard footsteps again. He stood still, waited for them to reach him. Then he closed his eyes, pointed behind him."
"'Come, take my place.'"
The light stabilized. Only the faint hum of the monitors remained in the guard booth.
"What happened next?" My voice was dry.
"That was the last call." Old Qian stubbed out the cigarette. "I tried calling back—phone was disconnected. I asked around—heard he went back to his hometown. But which 'hometown' exactly... no one knows."
I clenched the paper, its edge digging into my palm, sharp pain.
For the next week, I strictly followed the rules on that paper. Every night during patrol, I strained to hear even the slightest unusual sound. Footsteps came several times—I followed the rules. When it followed, I walked; when it stopped, I stopped; when it went ahead, I waited. The walkie-talkie stayed on channel 3, never off, never removed.
Every night before bed, I wiped my right shoulder with salt water. The salt stung, but the shoulder did feel warmer afterward—though only for an hour or two. Once asleep, the cold would seep back from the bone, dragging me into the same dream.
The dream never changed.
T-junction, flickering lights, footsteps behind, a hand on my shoulder.
Only the voice over the walkie-talkie changed. From "Don't look back" the first night, it gradually shifted.
Second night: "You looked back."
Third night: "I saw you look back."
Fourth night: "The way you turned, it was quite nice."
Fifth night: "Turn around and let me see again."
On the fifth night, I jolted upright in bed, pillow soaked—I couldn't tell if it was sweat or something else. The cold in my right shoulder was worse than ever, like someone was driving an ice needle along the gap between my shoulder blades, inch by inch.
I turned on the light, sat on the edge of the bed, gasping for a long time. Then I picked up the walkie-talkie from the nightstand—the one I'd never turned off, kept on 24/7. I flipped it over, looking at the label on the side.
"Obey Orders"—three characters in ballpoint, wobbly. But beside them, another line had been scratched out with a nail or something sharp, leaving deep, uneven gouges. I leaned closer, squinting in the dim lamp light, making out faint remaining strokes.
The scratched-out words seemed to be "I'm sorry."
I set the walkie-talkie down, glanced out the window. Dawn was breaking, streetlights still on, illuminating empty paths and neatly trimmed holly bushes. Everything looked quiet and normal—just like any other morning.
But I knew something was changing. The paper said "if no incident within seven days, it passes"—I was on day six. The cold in my shoulder grew worse, spreading from the blade to my entire right arm. Sometimes when I looked at my right hand, the fingers seemed paler than my left—white, almost blue.
Most importantly, I stopped hearing footsteps.
The previous nights, I'd heard something during patrol—sometimes tapping behind me, sometimes echoing from unknown directions. But these two days? Nothing. The garage was as silent as a tomb, my footsteps echoing alone, no response anywhere.
Logically, this should have been a relief. But I felt more on edge than ever. Because the rules on that paper only said what to do when you "hear footsteps"—nothing about when you don't.
Was it still there? Had it left? Was it waiting somewhere else?
These thoughts crawled through my mind like ants, impossible to catch or drive away.
On the seventh night, after my shift, I returned to the dorm. As I reached the end of the second-floor hallway, I saw my door was ajar. I'd definitely closed it before leaving. The motion-sensor light was on, casting a thin strip of light across the floor through the crack.
I stood at the door, hand on the knob, hesitating for a few seconds.
I pushed the door open. Everything was the same inside—the window closed, curtains open, streetlight filtering in, casting half-light across the room.
Then I saw the bed.
The red lucky charm my mom had given me—originally hanging on the bedpost—now lay on the floor. The string was cut cleanly, like with a sharp blade, not frayed from being pulled. The charm itself was deflated; when I picked it up, the talisman paper and rice inside were gone, leaving only an empty pouch.
I turned the pouch over. Inside, a dark stain—dried, reddish-brown.
I touched it with my finger. When I pulled it back, my fingertip held a faint rust-colored powder.
That night I didn't sleep. I sat on the bed, back against the wall, walkie-talkie clutched in hand, staring at the door all night. The hallway light came on three times—each time, a sliver of light slipped under the door, then faded when the light turned off. No one passed, no footsteps in the hallway.
On the eighth morning, Lao Li arrived for his shift and did a double-take when he saw me.
"What happened to your face?"
I didn't need a mirror to know how I looked. In seven days, I'd lost nearly ten pounds—cheekbones protruding, eyes sunken, lips cracked and peeling. Most noticeable was the faint blue tint under my right eye, like a bruise that wouldn't fade, or a mark left by frostbite.
I told Lao Li I was fine, just hadn't slept. He looked at me, said nothing, just gave me an extra meat bun.
I sat in front of the monitors, nibbling the bun, when one frame caught my eye.
On the screen, a security guard's back stood at that T-junction, motionless. The image was black-and-white, details blurry, but the uniform looked identical to mine.
I stared at that back for a long time. The figure never moved, just stood there, facing the left corridor, as if waiting for something.
Lao Li appeared behind me suddenly, making me jump. "Left by the last one."
I turned to him. "What?"
"The surveillance footage." Lao Li said. "This is a recording, not live. That camera in the southeast corner of B2 broke three months ago, never fixed. The screen just loops the old footage stored in the system."
I looked back at the screen. The back was still there, silent and motionless.
"Who is that?" I asked.
Lao Li was quiet for a moment. "The one I told you about—the last night guard."
On the ninth night, I walked into the underground garage again.
The familiar smell of mildew, rubber, and oil hung in the air. My footsteps echoed through the empty space, lonely and clear. The flashlight beam swept across parking spaces and pillars—everything looked normal.
But after a few steps, footsteps sounded behind me.
Not tap-tap-tap this time—something softer, a scraping sound, like bare feet dragging across concrete. Scrape... scrape... scrape... Nothing like the rhythmic hard-soled steps before.
It stopped. I stopped.
It didn't start again.
I waited about ten seconds, hesitating whether to continue, when a sound came from ahead—not footsteps, but the walkie-talkie. A soft sigh crackled through, like someone pressing their lips to the microphone and exhaling slowly. Then, from channel 3, that same voice—flat, expressionless, close as if speaking into my ear:
"Nine days." Static hissed. "It's time to find a substitute."
I said nothing. The flashlight beam shook violently—I put both hands on it, but still couldn't steady it.
"Do you want to find one?" the voice asked.
I swallowed, my throat dry as sandpaper. "How?"
The static stopped. The garage went silent for a moment, then a soft laugh came over the walkie-talkie. No emotion in it, just the friction of breath.
"Simple." The voice said. "Stand still, close your eyes. Wait for footsteps to reach you from behind—then point behind you and say, 'Come, take my place.'"
"What happens after that?" I asked.
"After that, your shoulder won't be cold anymore, you won't have those dreams, your life will go back to normal."
The flashlight beam finally steadied. Not because I wasn't scared, but because something clicked into place.
"Who do I give it to?" I asked.
The walkie-talkie fell silent.
"Anyone?" I pressed. "The next night guard? A random resident? Someone I know?"
Silence.
"You want me to find a substitute," I said, my voice echoing through the garage, bouncing off pillars, "but you won't tell me what's being substituted."
I paused.
"Am I substituting my life?"
A soft sigh came over the walkie-talkie. Then the voice said something that still makes me uneasy when I think about it:
"Xiao Chen, that thing on your shoulder—you chose it. Remember?"
I remembered. How could I forget?
The scratched-out "I'm sorry" from the last guard, the looping footage of that back, the sixth rule on the yellowed paper, Old Qian's hesitant expressions—all these pieces clicked together. The last guard had found a "substitute," but still ended up dead. Why? Because he found the wrong substitute, or because "substitute" itself was a trap.
I thought again about that sixth rule: "Method of 'substitute' not passed down. Those who need it must find their own way." I'd always assumed "substitute" meant finding someone else to take my place—but what if I read it differently? What if "find their own way" meant each person must find their own solution?
"I'm not finding a substitute," I said.
Silence on the walkie-talkie.
"Your rules," I said to the empty garage, my voice bouncing between pillars, "only say what to do 'after hearing footsteps.' Not a word about how to make them stop coming."
Footsteps sounded again in the garage. Not from behind, not from ahead—but from the walkie-talkie. Tap-tap-tap, hard-soled shoes on concrete, growing louder, closer, through the speaker.
Then the voice spoke, so close it felt like lips brushing my ear. The breath was still cold, but this time not as piercing.
"You seem to understand what 'substitute' means now."
"Yes," I said. "'Substitute' isn't about replacing a person—it's about replacing the rules."
I gripped the walkie-talkie tightly and said in one breath: "Starting tonight, every patrol, I'll walk all checkpoints normally. That southeast corner on B2—I won't detour, won't hesitate. I'll hit it when I need to. You can follow or not, stop or not. I'll go my way, you go yours."
The footsteps from the walkie-talkie stopped. Then the voice said softly—not in my ear this time, through the speaker normally:
"Brave."
Then the walkie-talkie went silent. Channel 3's indicator light stayed on, but no more sounds came through.
I stood at the T-junction in B2. The cold in my right shoulder remained, but seemed lighter. I moved my right arm—fingers still cold, but no longer stiff enough to prevent me from making a fist.
I hit the last checkpoint, then turned back the way I came. Footsteps started behind me again—tap-tap-tap, hard-soled, matching my rhythm. It followed me through B2's lanes, up the ramp, across the garden, all the way to the guard booth door.
I didn't look back.
As I pushed open the glass door, the footsteps stopped three paces outside. Then I heard a voice—from behind me, from the depths of the night, soft, like someone talking to themselves:
"See you tomorrow."
I closed the door without replying.
That night, I slept my first full night in a week. I still dreamed, but the scene changed. No more T-junction—instead, I sat in the guard booth, walkie-talkie on the desk. Occasional static crackled on channel 3, like someone breathing quietly on the other end. In the dream, I wasn't scared. I just watched the monitors, waiting for dawn.
When I woke the next morning, I touched my right shoulder instinctively. Still cold, but the chill no longer seeped from the bone—it was more like the surface cold of skin meeting winter air, something body heat could warm.
I went to the booth with the walkie-talkie clipped to my shoulder. Lao Li did a double-take when he saw me.
"That thing on your shoulder..."
"Still there," I said. "But now it listens to me."
Lao Li stared, mouth open, then slowly shook his head, pouring me a cup of tea from his thermos.
"I've worked here eight years—you're the first one who looked back and still dared negotiate with it."
I took the tea, sipped it. Warm, slightly bitter.
"Brother Li," I said, "when can that camera in the southeast corner of the garage be fixed?"
Lao Li gave me a look I couldn't read—complicated.
"I'll put in a repair request tomorrow," he said.
I set the cup down, glancing at the walkie-talkie. The "Obey Orders" label was still there—ballpoint, wobbly. I didn't know if the last guard had written it for himself, or for whoever would replace him. Either way, those three words meant something different to me now.
Obey orders—not your orders. Mine.
That night during patrol, I went down to the garage as usual. The footsteps came as expected—tap-tap-tap, behind me. I kept walking, it kept following. I hit all checkpoints, turned back, footsteps followed to the guard booth door, stopping three paces away. Before pushing in, I paused for a second—not looking back, just smiling at my blurry reflection in the glass.
"See you tomorrow," I said.
Silence for a moment, then the voice laughed—a different laugh this time, no longer imitation, more like someone who'd heard a joke only the two of us understood. Soft, brief.
"See you tomorrow," it said.
I pushed the door open, set the walkie-talkie on the desk, and sat down. The monitors cycled through quiet scenes—the southeast corner of B2 still showed the old footage, that security guard's back standing at the T-junction.
The back stood there for a long time. Then, as the time in the bottom right corner clicked to 3:00 AM, it moved. It tilted its head slightly, as if looking toward the camera.
I set down my cup, staring at the screen.
The image froze again. The back became a still frame once more, standing silently in the black-and-white picture, as if it had never moved.
But I saw it clearly.
That head tilt—the exact same angle I instinctively used to check behind me before looking back each night.