Please — Stand By

That’s what flickered on every screen in the building: two pale green words on a dead black field. The televisions in the break room, the monitors at reception, the massive display wall in the lobby—all frozen in that same sterile mantra. Please Stand By.

“Not yet?”

Please Stand By.

Lena ran until her legs gave out. Then she sat on a cold curb under a dead streetlight, mop across her lap, and listened to the quiet. Please Stand By

But as she walked floor by floor, checking offices and cubicles, she realized she was. Seventy-three employees, plus three janitors. All of them in the same trance: eyes moving, lips whispering sequences of numbers. Some sat upright at their desks, fingers frozen over keyboards. Others lay on the floor like discarded dolls. The air grew warmer. The hum deepened.

The servers weren’t humming. They were singing. A low, harmonic chorus, like a thousand tuning forks struck at once. In the center of the room, a woman stood facing the main processing tower. She was dressed in a sharp gray suit, her hair pinned perfectly. Lena had never seen her before.

“What’s happening to them?” Lena whispered. That’s what flickered on every screen in the

No footsteps. No keyboard clatter. No distant office gossip. Just the low hum of the ventilation system, now running slower than usual, like a giant breathing in its sleep.

Please Stand By.

And on every screen for a thousand miles, the same two words flickered patiently: “Not yet

Lena didn’t drop the mop. She walked backward to the door, kept the woman in sight until the last second, then ran. She took the stairs three at a time, burst onto the roof, and scrambled down the rusty fire escape into the empty, silent street below.

Twenty minutes later, Lena found the security office. The guard, Mr. Hendricks, was slumped in his chair—not dead, but not quite awake either. His eyes were half-open, tracking something invisible on the ceiling. His badge dangled from his neck, and on his chest monitor, the green words pulsed softly.