I’ve been at this company for three years, and I’ve never worked a single minute of overtime. The first time I stayed late, old man Miller in the cubicle next to me died of a massive heart attack. The second time I worked overtime, Sarah, the senior associate who trained me, “accidentally” fell down the emergency stairwell. The third time, Maria, our sweet cleaning lady, was electrocuted in the breakroom. After that, the whole office knew the unwritten rule: whenever I worked overtime, someone died. No one dared to work on my floor. Management moved my desk into a private, isolated glass office. During a company-wide meeting, the higher-ups explicitly announced: “Under no circumstances is anyone to disturb Chloe during her working hours. When she leaves at 5 PM, she leaves.” And just like that, I coasted through three years of stress-free employment, collecting my paycheck while doing the bare minimum. Until the new corporate VP was parachuted in. “Chloe Vance!” When he barked my name, the entire conference room went dead silent. “Stand up!” I stood up. He picked up the top sheet of paper from his folder and snapped it loudly. “Employed for three years. Overtime hours logged: Zero.” He waved the paper for everyone to see. “Three years. Over a thousand working days! Zero overtime! Can anyone in this room tell me why?!” No one breathed. He stepped down from the podium, marched over to me, and stared me down. “Why is it that out of over a hundred employees in this branch, you are the only one who doesn’t have to put in extra hours? Do you have an extra pair of hands? Or are you just doing half the work of everyone else?” “Mr. Sterling,” I said calmly. “It’s company policy. I am exempt from overtime.” “Policy?” He let out a harsh bark of laughter. “Let me make something crystal clear. As of right now, there is only one policy in this branch: What I say, goes.” He raised his hand, pointing a finger an inch from my nose. “You are working overtime tonight. If you don't, don't bother coming in tomorrow.” “Mr. Sterling,” I replied softly. “If I work overtime, someone is going to die.” The conference room froze for a full second. Then, he burst out laughing. He laughed so hard he actually bent over. When he finally straightened up, he pointed at me, looking at the rest of the staff. “Did you all hear that? She says someone is going to die! Chloe, who hasn’t worked late in three years, claims that if she stays past 5 PM, the Grim Reaper shows up.” He turned back to me, leaning in close. “Chloe, let me tell you something. I’ve been climbing the corporate ladder for twenty years. I’ve seen every scam, every lazy excuse, and every ghost story employees invent to get out of doing their jobs. You can preach doom and gloom until your face turns blue, but you are working overtime tonight!” He took a step back and raised his voice. “And you’re not doing it alone!” He pointed to the Head of Security, who was shrinking into a corner. “You. You’re staying with her tonight. If anything happens, it’s on your head!” The Security Chief’s face instantly drained of all color. “Mr. Sterling,” I said. “Don’t make him stay. I don’t want to be responsible for getting him hurt.” He paused for a second, then his laughter grew even louder and crueler. “Hurt? Chloe, who the hell do you think you are? The Angel of Death?” He grabbed the Security Chief by the arm and dragged him forward. “You two, tonight. Together. I want to see just how cursed you really are. If someone actually drops dead, I’ll take full responsibility.” The conference room was as silent as a tomb. He clapped his hands sharply. “Meeting adjourned. Tonight, 7:00 PM. Chloe, Security Chief. Be at your desks. Anyone who doesn’t show, you’re fired.” He was absolutely certain I wouldn't quit. He knew I needed this job to survive. As the crowd filed out, Linda from Accounting brushed past me and discreetly grabbed my hand. Her fingers were freezing. “Chloe, please be careful.” I gave her a small nod. At 6:50 PM, I swiped my badge at the front desk. The Security Chief, Dave, was already sitting there. He was in his late forties, huddled in his chair. When he saw me walk in, he practically jumped out of his skin. “C-Chloe...” his voice trembled. “Um... is something really going to happen tonight?” “It’s fine,” I said. “Just stay in your seat. No matter what you see or hear, do not move.” At 7:00 PM on the dot, the elevator pinged. Tristan Sterling stepped out. When he saw me, a smug smile spread across his face. “Well, well. You actually showed up. I figured you’d call in sick with some mysterious illness.” I didn't respond. He walked up to me, looking me up and down. “I looked into your file, Chloe. Three years ago, right after you were hired, someone died on your floor. Since then, there have been two more 'accidents.' And every single time, you were the only one working late.” He took a sip from his iced coffee. “Do you honestly expect me to buy that? That because you stay late, someone else magically drops dead? You Gen-Z kids trying to 'disrupt workplace culture' with ghost stories are pathetic.” “Mr. Sterling,” I said evenly. “Whether you believe it or not doesn't matter.” “Oh? Then what does matter?” “What matters,” I said, locking eyes with him, “is that you are also here tonight.” He froze for a second, then scoffed. “Fine. I’ll be right here watching. Let’s see what kind of cheap parlor tricks you try to pull.” He turned and walked toward the executive offices, but paused and looked back over his shoulder. “Chloe, you sit at your desk and revise that Q3 marketing proposal. I’m leaving my office door open. I’ll be keeping an eye on you.” I sat down and logged into my computer. Dave, the Security Chief, remained glued to his chair at the reception desk, stiff as a board. The minutes ticked by. At 7:30 PM, the overhead lights flickered. Dave looked up at the ceiling, swallowing hard. At 8:00 PM, the entire floor went pitch black. In the darkness, I heard Tristan curse loudly from his office. Five seconds later, the emergency backup lights kicked on. Tristan was standing in his doorway, looking irritated. “Faulty wiring,” he announced to the empty floor. “Building maintenance says they’re looking into it.” I didn't say a word. At 8:30 PM, the elevator chimed. The doors slid open. It was completely empty. Tristan marched over, stuck his head inside, and then walked back. “Someone probably pressed the wrong button,” he muttered, but his voice lacked its previous arrogant edge. At 10:00 PM, I finished the proposal. I packed up my bag, ready to leave. Just as I reached the main glass doors of our suite, a blood-curdling scream echoed through the office. It came from Tristan’s office. I sprinted back. Tristan was slumped in his executive chair, his face as white as a sheet. His eyes were bulging in terror, and his shaking finger was pointing at the floor-to-ceiling window behind his desk. “The window... outside the window...” Dave was standing in the doorway, his knees visibly shaking. I walked over and looked at the window. It was the 12th floor. There was absolutely nothing outside but the dark city skyline. I turned to look at him. He was convulsing, his mouth opening and closing like a fish, unable to form a single word. “Mr. Sterling, what did you see?” I asked. He stared at me, his eyes widening further in sheer horror. “Someone...” his voice sounded like it was being choked out of his throat. “Someone was looking at me...” “Who?” Tristan didn't answer. Even as the paramedics loaded him onto the stretcher, he was still blindly repeating: “The window... someone was outside the window...” Dave stood nearby, his legs trembling so violently he had to lean against the wall to keep from collapsing. I stood by the office entrance, watching the ambulance speed away into the night. As I turned to leave, I cast one final glance at Tristan's window. Pressed against the glass, faintly illuminated by the city lights, were three distinct, foggy handprints. I stared at them for three seconds. Then, I turned and walked away. The next morning, the moment I walked into the office breakroom, it was absolute chaos. Linda from Accounting rushed over, grabbing my hand. Her palms were slick with sweat. “Chloe! I heard something happened last night! Mr. Sterling was taken away in an ambulance?!” “Yeah.” “Did... did someone die again?” “No one died. He was just taken to the ER.” She let out a massive sigh of relief, but immediately dropped her voice to a frantic whisper. “I knew it! I told everyone, whenever you work overtime, the Reaper comes knocking! It’s been exactly the same since three years ago!” Mary, our HR manager, leaned in, her eyes wide. “Do you guys think... do you think they came back?” The breakroom instantly fell dead silent. Every single pair of eyes locked onto me. I didn't say a word. I just took a slow sip of my coffee. Jake, a developer from IT, pushed his way into the circle. “I don't think it’s anything supernatural. There has to be a logical pattern. Like... maybe Chloe has some weird electromagnetic field around her? Like she attracts bad energy when she’s stressed from overtime?” Linda’s eyes lit up. “Yes! My grandmother used to say some people have 'heavy souls'—they clash with the spirits around them and cause...” “No,” Mary shook her head. “I was working late the night old man Miller died. Why didn't anything happen to me?” Jake chimed in again. “Maybe it’s the floor? The 12th floor has always felt off.” “Sarah fell down the stairs from the 13th floor,” someone else pointed out. The breakroom devolved into a frenzy of overlapping voices and wild theories. Some said I had a dark aura that attracted malicious entities. Others claimed my desk was situated on some cursed architectural lay line. One guy suggested the building was constructed over a mob graveyard. Someone even pulled me aside and whispered, “Chloe... can you... see dead people?” I looked at him and said nothing. The theories were getting increasingly ridiculous, but none of them could explain why the victims were always different people, dying at different times, in different places. Except for the one unifying factor. Every time I worked overtime, someone died. They debated it all morning, coming to zero conclusions. The next day, Tristan was discharged from the hospital. The very first thing he did upon entering the office was storm into the security control room. “Pull up the surveillance footage from that night! All of it!” Dave, still looking pale, sat with him as they reviewed the footage, frame by frame. The elevator doors opening. Empty. Me sitting at my desk, drinking coffee, typing on my keyboard. Nothing out of the ordinary. Tristan rewatched that specific timeframe dozens of times. “Is this it?” he demanded. “That’s everything,” Dave confirmed. Tristan sat in silence for a long time. Then he stood up and marched out of the security room. From my desk, I watched him approach. “Chloe. My office. Now.” I stood up and followed him in. He slammed the door shut and locked it. Then he spun around, glaring at me with predatory intensity. “Who the hell are you really?” I met his gaze calmly. “I’m just Chloe, Mr. Sterling.” “Bullshit!” He took a step toward me. “You know something. That night... I know what I saw that night!” “And what did you see?” He opened his mouth, but the words died in his throat. I let out a small, quiet laugh. “What did you see, Mr. Sterling?” He still couldn't say it. I smiled, turned around, and walked toward the door. “Chloe, stop right there!” his voice barked behind me. I didn't stop. Immediately after, he called an impromptu all-hands meeting. He stood at the front of the room. “Listen up. I know there are some ridiculous rumors circulating the office these past few days,” he said, scanning the crowd. “Regarding my brief hospital visit, it was a simple medical anomaly. I was overworked, severely dehydrated, and experienced a minor panic attack resulting in hallucinations. I psyched myself out.” A few people muttered skeptically, but he pretended not to hear. “The office is returning to normal operations. Mandatory overtime is reinstated for all active projects.” He locked eyes with me. “Chloe, you’re working overtime again tonight.” I stood up. “Mr. Sterling, I refuse.” The conference room went dead silent. He smirked. “Refuse? What gives you the right to refuse a direct managerial order?” “Mr. Sterling,” I said, enunciating every syllable. “I do not want anyone else to get hurt. Or die.” “Hurt?” He laughed loudly. “Did anyone die during our last overtime session? I had a mild panic attack, nothing more. Your little 'overtime curse' myth is officially busted.” I stared at him, saying nothing. Whispers broke out across the room. “He’s right, nobody actually died this time...” “Mr. Sterling is fine, Dave is fine...” “Maybe the curse really is just a coincidence?” Right at that moment, a blood-curdling shriek pierced the air. It was Mary from HR. She was standing near the back of the room, her face drained of all blood, pointing a shaking finger toward the dark, cluttered corner near the breakroom entrance. “T-There...” Every head in the room whipped around to follow her trembling finger. The corner was stacked with old cardboard boxes and a broken water cooler. Poking out from behind the bottom box was a hand. A pale, lifeless, grayish-blue hand. The conference room erupted into sheer chaos. People were screaming, scrambling toward the exit, tripping over chairs. A few people’s legs completely gave out, leaving them sobbing on the carpet. Tristan’s face turned the color of ash, but he forced himself to take a step forward. “Don't panic! Nobody panic! Call 911! Get the police here!” The police arrived within minutes. The area was cordoned off with yellow tape, and the entire floor was evacuated to the lobby downstairs. I stood in the crowd, watching the red and blue police lights flash against the glass facade of the building. Two hours later, the news broke. The victim was a senior developer from the IT department. His last name was Wang. He was a quiet, unassuming guy who mostly kept to himself. The medical examiner's preliminary ruling was sudden cardiac arrest, pending a full autopsy. But the time of death had already been established. It was the exact night of my overtime shift. The lobby exploded with terrified murmurs. “He died yesterday?! But... that was the night Chloe stayed late!” “Oh my god, he was still in the building that night!” “That corner is a blind spot, no one ever goes back there...” I stood perfectly still in the center of the chaotic lobby. The crowd instinctively backed away from me, leaving me standing alone in an empty circle. I heard someone whisper, “Chloe’s overtime... it really is a death sentence...” “And this time, it was someone from her own department...” I lifted my head and looked for Tristan. He was standing near the revolving doors. I walked straight through the parted crowd until I stood directly in front of him. Everyone was watching me. I stopped, looking dead into his eyes. “Mr. Sterling.” He instinctively took a step backward. “Do you still want me to work overtime?” He didn't say a single word. I looked at him, waited for three agonizingly long seconds. Then I turned and walked out the door. A suffocating silence trailed behind me. But I knew this wasn't over. Sure enough, three days later, Tristan called another meeting. He stood at the podium, his face looking haggard and gray. “Everyone,” he began, his voice gravelly. “I am aware of the rumors surrounding the recent tragedy. I have personally reviewed the police reports.” He paused, swallowing hard. “It was a tragic medical anomaly. An accident.” The conference room was silent. No one believed him, but no one had the courage to say it. He looked directly at me. “Chloe. You are working overtime again tonight.” I stood up slowly. “Mr. Sterling, did you completely ignore what I said last time?” He offered a tight, forced smile. It looked more like a grimace. “I heard you. But the company has urgent deadlines, and we need you to deliver.” Hearing that, I couldn't help but laugh. “The company needs me to die? Or do you just need more collateral damage?” Several people in the room audibly gasped. He took a step toward me, his voice hardening. “Chloe, you haven't worked a single hour of overtime in three years, yet you’ve collected your full salary every month. This company has accommodated you long enough. Now, when we need you to put in some extra hours, you drag your feet and hide behind ghost stories. Do you really think this 'curse' is real?” “Mr. Sterling,” I said, my voice dropping to a dangerous calm. “My overtime kills people. Did you already forget about Wang?” A muscle in his jaw twitched violently. “That was a medical tragedy. The coroner confirmed it was a fatal heart defect. It had absolutely nothing to do with you. Stop inflating your own ego.” “Is that so?” I stared at him. He stared back. “Tonight. 8:00 PM,” he ordered. “You are working overtime. I will be the only other person on the floor. If anything happens, it's on me.” “You’ll take responsibility?” “I’ll take full responsibility.” I smiled. “Fine.”
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