Elliot had always been the first one in the office and the last one to leave. He wore his dedication like a badge of honor, but everyone else just called him "the machine." Work was his life—emails, meetings, deadlines, repeat. He barely remembered the last time he'd taken a proper vacation, much less a full night's sleep.
One night, after weeks of pushing past limits he didn't know existed, Elliot stayed even later than usual. The office was silent, save for the hum of the computer screens and the occasional flicker of the fluorescent lights. He worked furiously, fingers flying across the keyboard, spreadsheets growing longer by the hour. He didn't notice when his hands began to feel lighter, nor when his body seemed to float just a little.
The next morning, he was at his desk again, ready for another round. Strangely, no one greeted him. No passing nods, no forced "Good morning, Elliot." Odd, but it only fueled his focus—he had too much to do, anyway. He kept working, ignoring the slight chill that seemed to follow him around.
At lunch, Elliot noticed his coworkers gathering in the breakroom, whispering to each other. He was mildly annoyed that no one had told him what the gossip was about, but then again, he had no time for their chatter. Deadlines didn’t respect lunch breaks.
Days passed. No one spoke to him. No one acknowledged him, not even a glance. Even his boss, known for sending passive-aggressive emails about "team synergy," hadn't bothered him. Elliot assumed it was because his work was flawless, beyond reproach. He was finally being left alone to do what he did best: work.
Then, one day, as he stared at his screen, something unsettling happened. His computer blinked, the screen flashing briefly to black. For just a moment, he saw his reflection staring back at him. Only, it wasn’t his reflection. His skin was pale, almost translucent. His eyes were hollow, sunken deep into his skull. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a hundred years.
He blinked. The screen returned to normal. “That’s strange,” he muttered to himself, though no one was there to hear him. He brushed it off, convinced it was just stress. A side effect of working too hard.
But the oddities kept piling up. One evening, as he worked late again, he noticed his coffee mug was still full—even though he hadn’t touched it in hours. Paperclips seemed to move on their own, sliding across his desk without his hands. The lights flickered more frequently now, as if they were trying to tell him something.
Finally, fed up with the distractions, Elliot marched over to his boss's office. He pushed open the door, fully prepared to demand an explanation. But instead, he found his boss and a few others sitting somberly around the table. At the center of the conversation was a framed photo of Elliot himself.
“We lost him last week,” his boss said with a sigh. “He worked himself to death, poor guy.”
Elliot froze. “Wait, what?” He waved his hand in front of his boss’s face. No response. He shouted, “I’m right here!”
Nothing.
It hit him like a ton of bricks. The coldness, the isolation, the fact that no one had looked him in the eye for days. Elliot stumbled back, reeling, before collapsing into one of the chairs. “I’m... dead?”
And then, absurdly, after a brief moment of panic, the only thought that crossed his mind was: "Does this mean I have more time to finish that report?"
Even death couldn’t shake his workaholic tendencies. Shrugging, Elliot returned to his desk, his spectral fingers hovering over the keyboard. After all, deadlines were eternal.
And so was he.
Commenti