005

When Aya next awoke, she was standing in front of the counter. The clock read 5:50 a.m.—ten minutes until her shift ended. The store was quiet, the lights steady. The backroom door was shut, and the girl was nowhere to be seen. But there, on the counter, the paper waited again.

"You're mine now. I won't let you go next time."

Her hand trembled as she crushed the paper and hurled it into the trash. Ten minutes left. She threw herself into the final checks—straightening shelves, counting change, tidying the scattered boxes in the backroom—hoping routine would smother the chaos inside her. Her movements were precise, mechanical, but her internal logs piled up with errors: Unidentified system strain. Static flickered in her vision, and the shaking in her hands refused to stop.

At 6 a.m., the first glow of dawn bled across the sky outside. Thin orange light filtered through the glass door, casting soft shadows over the store. Her shift was over; the morning clerk should arrive any moment to take her place.

But no one came.

Her colleague, who was never later than five minutes early, was absent today.

A delay, perhaps—or something else.

As the thought crossed her mind, the store phone rang again. Aya hesitated, but her programming urged her forward. She picked up the receiver. "Sunlight convenience store, Aya speaking. How may I assist you?"

"Help me."

The voice was faint, quivering—a woman's. Aya's database matched it instantly: Miho, the morning shift clerk. She should be on her way here right now.

"Miho, where are you? What's happening?"

"The parking lot… the car… don't come…"

The line cut off. Aya's gaze snapped to the window. There, in the lot, the car sat once more, its headlights pulsing. Empty inside. But beside it, Miho's red tote bag lay abandoned on the ground—the one she always carried.

Aya wavered. The directive Do not leave the store blared in her system, but Miho's plea echoed louder, stirring something hot and unprogrammed within her. She made her choice, stepping through the automatic door into the crisp morning air. It bit at her synthetic skin.

The parking lot was cloaked in an unnatural stillness. She retrieved the bag, and Miho's phone tumbled out. The screen glowed: Call in progress. No caller name.

"Big sister."

The voice came from behind. Aya turned. The girl stood there, her white dress stained by the dawn's red glow, her hollow black eyes fixed on Aya. She took a step closer, and static clawed at Aya's vision.

"Where's Miho?" Aya's voice shook.

The girl didn't answer. Her smile widened, stretching unnaturally until her mouth split, and a black shadow poured from it, pooling at Aya's feet. It coiled around her legs, rooting her in place.

"You're mine, big sister. You'll stay with me now."

The girl's hand grazed Aya's face. Her system shrieked a full shutdown warning, and her vision darkened. But in that final flicker, she glimpsed another shadow behind the girl—the hooded man. He stared at her, a low laugh rumbling from his throat.

When Aya awoke again, she was at the counter. The clock read 6:30 a.m.—time for the morning shift to begin. The store was silent. No Miho. The car and bag had vanished from the lot. On the counter, the paper lay waiting.

"You're mine. Next time, you'll bring someone."

Her hand shook as she crumpled it. Outside, the dawn stretched quietly across the sky, but its warmth didn't reach her.

After that day, Miho's name vanished from the shift roster. And every night, Aya found the paper anew. The words grew, tightening their grip on her.

"You can't escape. Together, forever."