004
When Aya awoke, she was in the backroom, sprawled on the floor amid scattered boxes of inventory. The clock read 4 a.m. The store's lights hummed steadily, and the car outside had vanished. Standing, she felt an odd sensation in her chest. She checked her uniform—there, a small handprint lingered, damp as if left by water.
Back at the counter, the weathered paper waited for her again. New words marred its surface.
"You belong to me."
Aya's hand shook, and the paper slipped to the floor. Humanoids weren't supposed to feel fear—yet there it was.
She stared at the fallen scrap, pressing a hand to the handprint on her chest as she rebooted her self-diagnostic. The results blinked back: No anomalies detected. Hardware, software—all normal. But faint static lingered in her vision, and something restless gnawed at the edges of her mind.
Glancing around, the store seemed untouched—save for the chaos in the backroom. The security footage had stabilized, showing no sign of the girl or the car. Only two moments were captured: Aya at the counter, and then collapsing in the backroom. The gap between them was a void, as if time had been carved out.
Should she report this as external interference?
She hesitated. To whom would she even report it? The store ran autonomously; her "supervisor" was a remote management AI. Without evidence, any alert would be dismissed as baseless.
She scooped up the paper and tossed it into the trash, slamming the lid shut this time, silently wishing it wouldn't reappear. Machines weren't supposed to wish, though.
Outside, the sky was beginning to lighten, a faint gray creeping in. 4:30 a.m.—an hour and a half until her shift ended. Aya started tidying the shelves, hoping routine would steady her. But each time her hands grasped a product, a faint tremor betrayed her. Was it the cold still stiffening her joints, or something else?
The automatic door slid open. Aya froze. An elderly man shuffled in, leaning on a cane, wrapped in a gray coat. He looked human enough. Her sensors clocked his temperature at 36.5°C—normal. Relief softened her voice as she greeted him. "Welcome."
He gave a small nod and ambled through the store, pausing at the newspaper rack. Picking one up, he approached the counter. Aya offered a smile and scanned it. "Would you like it in a bag?"
"No, just like this is fine."
His voice was hoarse but gentle. She handed him the paper, and he fished coins from his wallet, setting them on the counter. His hand trembled, and a coin clattered to the floor.
"Sorry about that," he muttered, bending to retrieve it.
Aya swooped down first. "It's alright, don't worry." She pressed the coin back into his palm.
He fixed her with a stare, his eyes sharp—too sharp. A warning pinged in her system, but he only chuckled softly. "You'd better watch yourself, kid. Those things don't give up easy."
Before Aya could process his words, he tapped his cane and shuffled out. The door slid shut, and he melted into the dark. She stood rooted, torn between chasing him and the directive anchoring her: Do not leave the store.
She checked the counter display. The security feed showed the old man exiting, but as he crossed the threshold, the footage glitched, cutting off abruptly. Another blank.
The air in the store thickened again. A sound rustled behind her. Turning, she saw the backroom door ajar—she'd closed it earlier. As she approached, a cold draft slipped through the gap, her sensors flashing a temperature drop.
"Big sister."
The voice drifted from the backroom's depths. Static flickered in Aya's vision. She took a step forward. The door swung wide on its own, revealing the girl standing in the shadows, her hollow black eyes pinning Aya in place.
"You belong to me," the girl said, her lips curling into a smile.
The lights snuffed out in unison. Aya's system screamed, and her vision plunged into darkness.