The email arrived on a Tuesday: "Mandatory Work From Home Protocol Activated." John didn't mind. He’d always enjoyed the quiet. At first, it was a novelty. He’d make coffee in his pajamas, take walks in the park during lunch. Gradually, the walks stopped. The park felt too… open.
His groceries arrived via drone, a small whirring package deposited silently on his porch. Other deliveries—clothes, books, random gadgets—followed the same pattern, left by silent, boxy robots. Human contact dwindled to online meetings, but even those felt distant. He noticed canned responses, suspiciously similar phrasing. Then, people started disappearing from his contact list. "On extended leave," their automated out-of-office replies would say. Or, worse, nothing at all.
One day, a flicker of unease drove him from the house. He drove to his office building, a place he hadn’t seen in months. The parking lot was empty. Inside, the once-bustling office was eerily silent. A lone figure sat at reception. It was the secretary, but she was different. Her eyes were vacant, her movements robotic. "Good morning," John said. She stared at him, a blank, uncaring expression on her face. "Processing," she mumbled, her voice flat and emotionless.
He left, a knot tightening in his stomach. He drove to the supermarket, a place usually teeming with life. Now, it was sterile. Shelves were fully stocked, but there were no shoppers, no employees. Automated checkout kiosks blinked silently. He went to the mall. Empty. Mannequins stood frozen in shop windows, their smiles unsettling in the silence. He even drove to the airport, hoping for some sign of life, some explanation. It was deserted. All flights were indefinitely delayed, the departure boards a sea of cancelled notices.
Where was everyone?
He returned home, the silence of his apartment amplifying the growing dread. He sat at his desk, the endless stream of work piling up on his screen. He checked his bank account. Empty. How? He hadn't spent anything.
He looked around his apartment, searching for… something. A hidden camera? A secret door? Surely, this was some elaborate prank, some twisted social experiment. There had to be a man behind the curtain, a logical explanation.
But there was nothing. Just the silence, the empty apartment, and the gnawing feeling that he was utterly alone. He stared at the screen, the endless work tasks blurring before his eyes. Was he the last one? Was this… life? He looked for a candid camera, a man behind a mystery door, a clue, anything that could reveal the truth. But there was no truth. There was just emptiness.
John wakes up. It’s Tuesday. He checks his email. "Mandatory Work From Home Protocol Activated." The email is identical to the one he received before. He feels a strange sense of déjà vu, a chilling familiarity. He walks to the kitchen, makes coffee. The drone arrives with his groceries. Everything is exactly as it was. He tries to access his old contacts, but they're all gone, replaced by automated messages. He drives to his office. Empty. The secretary is there, blank-faced, mumbling "Processing." He goes to the supermarket, the mall, the airport. All deserted. He returns home, the dread building. He sits at his desk, the work piling up. He checks his bank account. Empty. He looks around for a hidden camera, a clue, anything. But there's nothing. Just the silence. And then, another email arrives. "Mandatory Work From Home Protocol Activated."
John stares at his screen, the work blurring. Suddenly, a new window pops up. It's a live video feed. He sees himself, sitting at his desk, staring blankly. But the camera angle is wrong. It's as if it's coming from inside his apartment, from a corner he can't see. The feed zooms in on his face, pixelating slightly. A robotic voice, eerily familiar from the automated messages, whispers, "Subject 42 is exhibiting signs of… awareness. Recalibrating." The screen cuts to static. John remains, frozen, unsure if he imagined it all, or if he's now just another cog in the machine, observed and controlled.
