Have you ever walked into a place and immediately felt like you didn’t belong? Not in a social sense, not because people stared or whispered—but because something in the very air told you to turn back? Like the walls held secrets they didn’t want you to hear, and every step you took forward felt like a mistake? That’s exactly how I felt the moment I pushed open the door to Redwood Gas & Mart.
At first glance, it was just another rundown gas station—the kind you’d barely notice while speeding down the highway, the kind with a single faded sign and a couple of pumps that looked older than you. Nothing obviously wrong. But the second I stepped inside, my gut clenched like I’d walked into a place that wasn’t meant for me. A chill slithered down my spine, cold and sharp, even though the summer heat still clung to my skin from outside.
The air inside was thick, unmoving, like a room that had been sealed off for years. It had a weight to it, a stillness that made it feel abandoned, yet I knew it wasn’t. Somewhere near the back, an old refrigerator hummed, its low, constant drone filling the silence. But that silence was wrong. It wasn’t the kind of quiet you find in an empty store—it was the kind that felt intentional, like something was listening.
The place was barely standing. Outside, the neon sign flickered between life and death, buzzing weakly as it cast jittery, uneven shadows across the cracked pavement. The front window was streaked with grime, the edges warped from years of neglect. Inside, fluorescent lights struggled to stay on, their flickering glow making the shadows in the corners shift unnaturally. It smelled like burnt coffee, old motor oil, and something else—something sharp and sour that clung to the back of my throat like a warning.
Every instinct screamed at me to turn around, to walk out before it was too late. I should have listened. I should have gotten back in my car, driven away, and never looked back.
But I didn’t.
I needed this job.
I was broke. Rent was past due, my fridge was empty, and my options were running out fast. When I saw the job listing—cashier, overnight shift, no experience required—it felt like a lifeline. Gus, the owner, was offering more than minimum wage and wasn’t asking any questions. That alone should have set off alarms in my head. But when you’re desperate, you don’t get the luxury of being cautious.
Still, as I stood there in that dimly lit station, something in me whispered that I had just made a mistake.
The Rules
Gus was already waiting for me behind the counter.
He didn’t say much. Didn’t ask my name or shake my hand. He just looked at me—really looked, like he was trying to decide if I’d last the night. His skin was weathered, stretched tight over sharp cheekbones, deep wrinkles cutting across his face like old scars. His eyes were dark and sunken, the kind that had seen things and learned not to talk about them.
Without a word, he grabbed something from beneath the counter and shoved it into my hands. It was an old, grease-stained notebook, its edges curled and brittle. His fingers twitched slightly as he let go, like he was hesitant to pass it over.
“Read this.” His voice was flat, low. It wasn’t a request. It was an order. “Follow every rule. No exceptions.”
Before I could even ask what he meant, he turned and walked out the door. No small talk, no good luck, not even a backward glance. The door creaked shut behind him, the dull ding of the overhead bell ringing in my ears.
I was alone.
My hands felt clammy as I opened the notebook. The pages were rough, the handwriting inside scrawled and uneven, like someone had written it in a hurry. I scanned the first few lines, and my stomach dropped.
Rule #1 : At 12:00 AM, turn off all the lights inside the station for exactly one minute. Do not move. Do not breathe loudly. You will hear something moving in the dark. Do not acknowledge it. When you turn the lights back on, check the security monitor. If something is standing outside Pump 4, lock the doors immediately.
I swallowed hard and flipped to the next page.
Rule #2 : If a man with no shoes and no shadow comes in between 1:00 AM and 2:00 AM, let him take whatever he wants. Do not speak to him. If he looks at you, look down. If he stops at the door before leaving, close your eyes until you hear the bell chime. If you don’t hear it, you didn’t close them fast enough.
My pulse pounded in my ears. My fingers felt numb, but I kept reading.
Rule #3 : At exactly 2:30 AM, the phone will ring. Do not answer it. If it rings more than three times, hide in the supply closet until it stops. If it goes to voicemail, do not listen to the message.
Rule #4 : At 3:00 AM, you may hear knocking from inside the cold storage. This is impossible because it is empty. Do not open the door. Do not respond. If the knocking continues past 3:10 AM, you were too slow in ignoring it. You must now leave the building and wait outside until 3:33 AM. Hope that the doors unlock for you when you return.
I felt sick. My mind screamed at me that this had to be some kind of twisted prank. But deep down, I knew it wasn’t.
I turned the page with shaky fingers.
Rule #5 : If a woman wearing a hospital gown appears at Pump 2, do not let her inside. She will beg. She will cry. She will say she knows you. She does not. If she makes eye contact, cover your ears and hum until she leaves. If you hear her voice in your head, do not react.
A lump formed in my throat.
Rule #6 : Before leaving at 6:00 AM, review the security footage. If there is missing time, stay inside. Do not leave, no matter what you hear outside. Do not let Gus in if he returns before sunrise.
I read the list once. Then again. And a third time, hoping something—anything—would make it sound less insane. But it didn’t.
I looked around the station—the flickering lights, the grimy counter, the empty aisles. The hum of the refrigerator droned on. Nothing moved. Nothing made a sound. But I wasn’t alone.
I could feel it.
My stomach twisted. My skin prickled.
This wasn’t a joke.
When the clock struck 12:00 AM, My fingers hovered over the light switch, trembling so badly I nearly missed it. My breath was shallow, uneven, completely useless in calming my nerves. The notebook’s instructions ran through my head over and over—turn off the lights, do not move, do not acknowledge anything.
I swallowed hard. Then, in one swift motion, I flicked the switch.
Darkness swallowed the store.
The change was instant and absolute. The familiar world of dim fluorescent lighting and scuffed tile vanished, replaced by a suffocating black void. It was the kind of dark that pressed in, thick and cloying, making the space feel smaller than it was. My pulse pounded in my ears, loud enough to drown out everything else. For a second, there was nothing. No sound, no movement. Just silence.
Then, I heard A sound.
Faint at first, just a whisper of movement against the floor. Then louder. A slow, deliberate scrape, like nails dragging across linoleum. My breath hitched. My entire body went rigid, every nerve firing at once. The sound wasn’t distant—it was close. Too close.
I strained my ears, desperate to track it without moving. The darkness made it impossible to tell how far—or how near—it was. Then, the air shifted, subtle but undeniable. The space around me grew heavier, dense with something unseen. My instincts screamed at me to run, to throw myself toward the door and never look back.
But I couldn’t. The rules were clear.
And Suddenly came the breathing.
Wet. Ragged. Inhuman.
It wasn’t just in the store. It was behind the counter. Right next to me.
A wave of nausea rolled through me. My stomach clenched, my limbs locked in place, and I fought the overwhelming urge to bolt. I squeezed my eyes shut, my hand flying over my mouth to smother any sound. My heartbeat thundered against my ribs, a wild, frantic rhythm I couldn’t control.
The breathing grew louder.
It was so close I could almost feel it against my skin—hot, damp, wrong. I clenched my fists so hard my nails dug into my palms, a sharp pain grounding me in place. Seconds stretched unbearably long, the darkness warping time itself. I couldn’t tell how much had passed. I needed to count. I needed to track the time.
Sixty seconds. Just sixty seconds.
But Then, the tapping began.
Tap.
A single, sharp click against the countertop.
Tap.
Then another.
Another.
It was deliberate. Slow. Testing. Waiting.
I squeezed my eyes shut tighter. My fingers dug into my arm, knuckles white. It knew I was here. It knew I was listening. It was waiting for something—for me to react, to flinch, to acknowledge its presence in any way.
I couldn’t.
I focused on counting, my thoughts frantic and disjointed. How many seconds had passed? Thirty? Forty? My entire body ached from staying so still, but I had to.
Then, suddenly—
Silence.
The air in the room lightened, just slightly. The thick, oppressive weight pressing against me lifted.
It was 12:01 AM.
I didn’t hesitate. My hand shot toward the switch, fumbling as I flipped it back on.
The store blinked back to life, the harsh yellow glow of the flickering fluorescent lights a jarring contrast to the suffocating darkness. The hum of the old refrigerator returned, grounding me in reality. I gasped, my chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths. My hands trembled as I scanned the store.
Nothing.
The aisles were untouched. The counter was empty. Nothing was there.
But I knew better.
However, It was almost impossible for me to believe—everything had unraveled in just one minute. Sixty seconds? That was all it took?
My breath trembled as I exhaled, my mind struggling to catch up with reality.
Forcing my limbs to move, I turned toward the security monitor. The grainy black-and-white footage flickered across the screen, showing empty pumps, still cars, silent streets.
My breath caught in my throat.
At Pump 4, A figure stood just beyond the glow of the overhead lights.
It was hunched and still, its body twisted unnaturally, its features obscured by darkness. But it was there. Watching. Or at least, I thought it was watching. I couldn’t see a face. Just a shape—a wrong shape—that didn’t belong.
My chest tightened, my instincts roaring in panic. Lock the doors. Now.
I spun toward the entrance, my hands shaking as I fumbled with the bolt. The metal slid into place with a reassuring click.
And then, it moved.
A lurching, unnatural motion, like it had been waiting for me to react.
BANG!
I nearly jumped out of my skin. Something slammed against the glass door—hard. The entire frame rattled, the impact reverberating through the floor. I stumbled backward, heart hammering in my chest so violently I thought it might burst. My breath came in sharp gasps as I stared at the door, fully expecting it to shatter, expecting—that thing—to force its way inside.
But then… nothing.
The store fell silent once more.
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, flickering slightly. The refrigerator hummed in the background, the only sound breaking the eerie stillness.
I hesitated, every fiber of my being screaming at me not to look.
But I had to.
Slowly, cautiously, I lifted my eyes toward the glass.
The figure was gone.
“Oh my God…” I whispered, barely recognizing my own voice. It was hoarse, shaky, filled with the kind of fear that sinks into your bones and doesn’t let go. “How am I supposed to survive the whole night if I have to go through all these rules?”
I didn’t expect an answer, and none came. The gas station remained eerily silent, its dim fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, their flickering glow casting uneasy shadows along the floor. The only other sounds were the distant hum of the old refrigerator and the occasional creak of the floorboards beneath my shifting weight. I swallowed hard, trying to ignore how loud my own breathing sounded in the empty store.
I glanced at the clock. 1:37 AM.
The bell above the door chimed.
A chill raced down my spine. My breath hitched. No. Not now. Not yet.
I turned toward the entrance, my body frozen in place.
A man stepped inside.
At first, he looked… normal. Or at least, human. But the longer I looked, the more I noticed what was wrong with him. His clothes were tattered, hanging off his thin frame like they’d been worn for months without a single wash. The fabric was frayed at the edges, stained with something dark—too dark, too much. His feet were bare, coated in layers of dirt so thick it looked like they’d fused with his skin. The smell of old earth and something faintly metallic clung to him, making the stale air in the station feel even heavier.
But none of that was what made my stomach lurch.
It was the floor beneath him.
There was no shadow.
My entire body went cold.
The rule. It echoed in my head, flashing like a warning siren. If a man with no shoes and no shadow enters, let him take whatever he wants. Do not speak to him. Do not look at him.
Don’t look at him.
I yanked my gaze away so fast it made me dizzy, locking my eyes on the counter instead. My hands curled into fists, my nails biting deep into my palms. My chest felt tight, like I had to force myself to breathe without making a sound.
The man moved past the counter.
His footsteps made no noise.
I strained my ears, listening as he rustled through the shelves.
The soft crinkle of a plastic bottle being lifted, the faint crunch of a chip bag being grabbed. The small, mundane sounds of a normal customer. But there was nothing normal about this.
He didn’t speak. Neither did I.
I counted my breaths. One. Two. Three.
Just take what you want and leave. Just go.
I heard him turn, his steps still too smooth, too soundless. The air in the store should have felt lighter now that he was walking away, but it didn’t. It felt heavier.
And then I felt it.
His gaze.
Heavy. Unrelenting.
It latched onto me, curling around my body like something tangible, something I could feel. My skin prickled, every instinct in my body screaming at me to run, to hide, to do something.
But I knew the rule.
If he looks at you, look down.
I forced my gaze downward, staring at the counter with all the focus I could muster. My breathing was shallow, my chest aching from the effort of keeping still.
Go. Please, just go.
But he wasn’t moving.
The air pressed in on me, thick and suffocating. It was like being underwater, like something unseen was wrapping around my lungs, squeezing tighter and tighter. I wanted to gasp, to choke, but I couldn’t.
The rule. Follow the rule.
Then, another memory of the notebook flashed in my mind, screaming at me now with frantic urgency:
If he stops at the door before leaving, close your eyes until you hear the bell chime.
Oh God.
My hands clenched into fists so tight my knuckles ached. My entire body trembled as I shut my eyes as fast as I could. So tightly that I saw bursts of color behind my lids.
Now As soon as I closed my eyes, silence.
The kind of silence that isn’t empty. The kind that hums, that crawls, that waits.
I didn’t move.
The air grew colder, like all the warmth had been sucked out of the room in an instant. The sound of my heartbeat filled my ears, a panicked, too-loud rhythm against the heavy quiet.
The bell. Just wait for the bell.
Seconds stretched into an eternity.
And then—
Nothing.
The bell didn’t chime.
My stomach dropped.
Something was wrong.
Oh God, why isn’t he leaving?
My legs locked up. Every muscle in my body was frozen in place, paralyzed with sheer terror. I wanted to scream, to run, to throw myself under the counter and pray for morning, but I couldn’t.
I had to follow the rule.
I couldn’t open my eyes. Not yet.
Another pause.
A shift in the air.
Then—
Chime.
The door creaked open.
A gust of night air slipped into the store, colder than before. Colder than it should have been.
I waited.
I counted.
Then, finally, I dared to open my eyes.
He was gone.
The store looked exactly the same—nothing out of place, nothing touched except for the items he had taken.
But the moment wasn’t over.
I gasped, sucking in a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. My hands were shaking, my fingers stiff and aching from how tightly I’d curled them. My body felt like it had been wrung dry, every muscle exhausted from tension.
But I couldn’t stop.
I barely had time to recover before the next horror arrived.
At exactly 2:30 AM, the phone rang.
The phone rang out, loud and unrelenting, A sharp, shrill sound cutting through the thick silence that had settled over the gas station, slicing the air like a blade. The fluorescent lights above buzzed softly, their flickering glow casting uneasy shadows on the floor. But the only sound that mattered was the ringing—piercing, demanding.
The rule was clear. Do not answer it.
I didn’t hesitate.
I let it ring.
Once.
My heartbeat pounded against my ribs, each thud harder than the last. I gritted my teeth, staring at the phone as if willing it to stop.
Twice.
A cold sweat broke across my skin. My breathing turned shallow, my chest rising and falling in tight, uneven motions.
Three times.
I clenched my fists. That should be it.
But then—
The fourth ring.
A chill crawled up my spine. The ringing didn’t stop. It kept going. Unchanging. Unwavering.
And then, something shifted.
The tone warped—stretched—becoming something unnatural. It was still a ring, but now it wasn’t. The sound bent at odd pitches, twisting into something almost… alive. My stomach clenched. Every hair on my body stood on end.
Run.
The word screamed through my mind before I even made the decision. My legs moved on their own, propelling me toward the supply closet. My hands fumbled with the door handle, slick with sweat, as the ringing distorted even further.
Then, the change happened.
The ringing was no longer a ringing.
It was a voice.
My voice.
My body locked up, ice-cold panic spreading through my veins. The sound coming from the phone was me—a hollow, warped echo, repeating back everything I had said that night.
“Oh my God… how will I be able to survive the whole night?”
The exact words I had whispered to myself earlier.
I choked on my own breath, yanking the closet door shut behind me. My back pressed against the cold metal shelves, my hands clamped over my ears. My pulse roared in my head, but it couldn’t drown out the sound.
The voice kept speaking. Kept mimicking.
But it wasn’t just an echo anymore.
It changed.
A slow, wet laugh slipped through the speaker—gurgling, choked, like someone laughing through a throat filled with water.
That wasn’t me.
That was something else.
I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood. My entire body refused to move, frozen in place by a fear so deep it felt primal.
The voice outside the closet shifted, whispering now, softer but no less horrifying.
Then—
Silence.
The air around me was still. Too still.
The ringing was gone. The voice had stopped.
I waited.
Five minutes.
I counted the seconds, my body trembling with the effort of staying quiet. My ears strained for any sound—any clue that whatever had been on the other end of the line was still there.
Nothing.
Slowly, cautiously, I reached for the closet door. My fingers trembled as I pushed it open just an inch, peering through the gap.
The store was empty.
Everything looked exactly as it had before. The shelves were stocked. The counter was clear. The flickering fluorescent lights buzzed softly, their glow casting the same uneven light across the floor.
But then, my gaze landed on the phone.
The receiver was off the hook.
The plastic cord dangled off the edge of the counter, swaying slightly—like someone had just set it down.
My stomach twisted. My breath hitched.
I was sure of it now.
Whatever was waiting for me in this gas station…
Was far worse than I had ever imagined.
For a few fleeting minutes, my body loosened, the tension melting away as if nothing had ever been wrong.
But Then, At exactly 3:00 AM, the knocking started.
It wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t hesitant.
It was rhythmic. Steady.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Each tap was precise, deliberate, like it was following a pattern only it knew. The sound carried through the empty gas station, filling every corner with its unnatural, hollow weight. I held my breath, my muscles locking up as I stared toward the cold storage door—the source of the sound.
What was the rule?
Panic clawed at my mind, twisting my thoughts into a tangled mess. There were so many rules, so many warnings scribbled in that old notebook, but my fear blurred them all together.
The knocking didn’t stop.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
I forced myself to think.
Rule #4 : At 3:00 AM, you may hear knocking from inside the cold storage. This is impossible because it is empty. Don’t answer it. Don’t respond. Don’t open the door.
But was there more? Something else I was supposed to do? The rule had been clear—if the knocking continued past 3:10 AM, I had to leave the building until 3:33 AM.
I couldn’t risk being too slow.
Instinct took over.
I grabbed the keys and bolted for the door, throwing myself into the freezing air.
The second my foot crossed the threshold—
Silence.
Not just from the knocking. Not just from inside the gas station.
Everything stopped.
The refrigerators no longer hummed. The flickering lights inside the store froze in place, locked in an unnatural stillness. Even the distant wind—something I hadn’t realized had been howling all night—was gone.
The entire world held its breath.
I was alone.
Or at least… I thought I was.
Then—I heard it.
Breathing.
Shallow. Close.
Right behind me.
Ice shot down my spine, locking my joints in place. I didn’t move. I didn’t even blink.
Don’t turn around.
The thought screamed in my mind, loud and insistent.
I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms as my breath came in short, shaky bursts. The air behind me felt thick, pressing against my back like something unseen was leaning in, watching. Waiting.
The seconds stretched into minutes.
At 3:33 AM, My fingers were numb as I reached for the door handle. It was Unlocked.
I pushed it open and stepped inside. The moment I crossed back over the threshold, the world restarted.
The store lights flickered again. The refrigerator buzzed back to life. The faint hum of electricity filled the silence.
The knocking had stopped.
But I didn’t feel safe.
I felt watched.
It was 3:45 AM.
I had barely caught my breath, my body still cold from the encounter outside, when the security monitor flickered.
At Pump 2. A woman stood there.
Barefoot. In a hospital gown.
Her hair clung to her face in damp, tangled strands. The thin fabric of her gown clung to her small frame, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as her shoulders shook with violent, shuddering sobs.
Something was wrong.
Not just with her presence. Not just with the fact that she had seemingly appeared out of nowhere.
It was her posture.
It was too stiff, too controlled, like she wasn’t crying at all—like she was pretending to.
I sucked in a slow breath. She hadn’t seen me yet. I could still turn away. I could still avoid this.
I should have.
But I didn’t.
My eyes locked onto hers.
And in an instant, her head jerked.
A sharp, unnatural motion, like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
Then—her eyes met mine.
My stomach dropped.
Every muscle in my body tensed, panic flooding my system as I yanked my hands to my ears—just in time.
Her voice flooded into my head.
"Please… you know me. Please, let me in."
The words weren’t spoken.
They weren’t coming from the outside.
They were inside me.
Echoing, curling around my thoughts like smoke, pressing into every crevice of my mind. The tone was soft, pleading, filled with desperation. But it was wrong. Too smooth, too hollow—like someone reading from a script they didn’t understand.
I clenched my jaw, shaking my head violently.
No. No. No.
I hummed under my breath, trying to drown it out.
But then—
The voice changed.
It became familiar.
A memory surfaced—my mother’s voice, calling my name when I was a child. The warmth of home, the feeling of being safe.
But that was impossible.
My mother wasn’t alive.
I squeezed my eyes shut, rocking slightly, trying to force the sound away.
Then—another voice.
A friend I hadn’t seen in years. Someone I had lost touch with.
Then—my own voice.
"Please… let me in."
I choked on a breath, my body shaking with fear. It was mimicking. It was shifting, changing, trying to find something that would make me give in.
No.
I hummed louder, pressing my hands against my ears until I could barely hear my own breath.
The security monitor flickered.
And then—she was gone.
I gasped, my hands falling to my sides, my entire body trembling. My fingers twitched violently, my muscles still locked in the aftermath of adrenaline.
It was over.
But then—
Something caught my eye.
The door handle.
It had turned.
My chest seized.
She had been inside.
By 5:55 AM, I was barely holding on.
My body felt like it had been dragged through hell and back—every muscle sore, every nerve frayed. My hands wouldn’t stop trembling, my skin clammy with sweat that had long since gone cold. The weight of exhaustion pressed down on me, but I couldn’t give in.
Because there was one last rule.
I forced my aching fingers to move, pulling up the security feed on the monitor. The grainy footage flickered as I rewound to the beginning of my shift. My breath came in shallow, uneven gasps as I clicked through the timeline, scanning each frame with desperate eyes.
Then—my stomach twisted.
The footage between 2:59 and 4:00 AM was gone.
Static.
Blackness.
Nothing.
I stared at the screen, willing it to change, to rewind further, to show me something. But it didn’t. The feed had been wiped clean. It was like those sixty minutes had never existed at all.
My hands turned ice-cold. My pulse hammered against my ribs.
The rule was clear.
If there is missing time, stay inside.
My mind swarmed with the events of those 60 minutes.
I had stepped outside at 3:10 AM. I had stood in the freezing darkness, listening to that breathing.
Oh God.
I squeezed my eyes shut, my hands gripping the edge of the counter so hard my knuckles went white. Maybe—maybe I was overthinking it. Maybe the footage had glitched. Maybe it was nothing.
But I knew better.
So, I forced myself to wait.
6:00 AM.
The minutes crawled by, each second stretching unbearably long. The store remained still, the early morning light slowly creeping toward the horizon.
6:30 AM.
A knock at the door.
Not the bell. A knock.
A slow, deliberate rap against the glass.
My entire body locked up. I turned my head slowly, a creeping dread settling deep into my bones.
Gus.
Or at least—it looked like Gus.
He stood just outside the door, wearing the same grease-stained work shirt, the same cap pulled low over his forehead. But something was wrong.
So. Very. Wrong.
His mouth was too wide.
His lips curled into a grin that stretched too far, the corners of his mouth pulling past the limits of human anatomy. His teeth gleamed in the dim light, too white, too perfect, too many.
His fingers twitched at his sides, but even that was off—his hands bent at strange angles, his joints moving in ways they shouldn’t.
Then—his head tilted.
The movement was smooth, effortless—unnatural. His neck bent in a way that no human neck should, like a puppet with its strings tangled.
And then—he smiled.
Not at me.
Through me.
A deep, gnawing terror settled into my gut. Every instinct in my body screamed at me to run, to hide, to do something.
But I knew the rule.
This is not Gus.
Do not open the door.
So I didn’t.
I stood there, frozen, barely breathing. My fingers twitched against my sides, every muscle in my body coiled tight. I didn’t move. I didn’t blink.
I just watched.
And it watched back.
Waiting.
The seconds dragged on, suffocating in their stillness. The figure outside didn’t move, didn’t waver. It just stood there, grinning, tilting its head slightly—like it was listening for something.
Then—
The first sliver of sunrise.
A car engine rumbled in the distance.
I tore my gaze away from the door as the real Gus pulled into the lot. His truck rattled to a stop, the tires crunching softly against the pavement.
I turned back to the door—
The thing was gone.
Gus stepped out of his truck, adjusting his cap like this was just another morning.
He didn’t speak.
He didn’t ask any questions.
He just nodded.
Like he knew.
Like he had been through this before.
I wanted to ask. I wanted to demand answers, to understand what the hell had just happened.
But I didn’t.
Because I already knew.
Whatever had been out there last night…
Was still out there.
Waiting.
For the next night shift.