The Last Person Awake

Ramesh was the last person awake in the office. Not by choice. By habit.

The night shift ended at 2:00 a.m., but he always stayed ten minutes longer. Fewer people on the road. Fewer thoughts. He liked the quiet after everyone left, when the building felt honest.

At 2:07 a.m., the motion-sensor lights shut off on the third floor.

Normal.

At 2:09 a.m., they turned back on. Ramesh frowned. He hadn’t moved. He waved his hand. Nothing. He stood. The lights stayed on. That’s when he noticed the chairs. Every chair in the office had been rearranged. Not randomly. Carefully. All of them facing his desk.

He let out a short laugh. Too sharp to be real. “Very funny,” he said, to no one. The elevator dinged. From the same floor. That shouldn’t happen. Elevators ding when they arrive.

The doors were closed. No button lit. Then the intercom crackled. A calm male voice spoke. Close to his age.

“Ramesh, sit down.”

His stomach dropped. Only HR ever used his full name.

“I just want to go home,” Ramesh said.

Silence.

Then a second voice. Female. Soft.

“We know. That’s why we’re here.”

The security monitor flickered on by itself. Every camera showed his office. Different angles. Different distances. One camera zoomed in slowly until only his face filled the screen.

“You’re the last one awake,” the first voice said. “That makes you responsible.”

“For what?” Ramesh whispered.

“For noticing.”

The office door unlocked. Footsteps entered. Not rushed. Not sneaking. Just normal walking. Shoes on tile. Confident. Three people stepped into view. Office clothes. ID badges turned backward. Faces he’d seen a hundred times and never learned.

The woman spoke. “Do you remember last Thursday?”

Ramesh shook his head.

“You stayed late,” the man said. “You heard shouting from the washroom.”

His chest tightened.

“You didn’t check,” another added. “You didn’t call anyone.”

“He was still alive when you logged out,” the older man said.

“I didn’t know,” Ramesh said quickly. “I thought—”

“We know what you thought,” the woman said. “That it wasn’t your problem.”

They circled him. Not threatening. Methodical.

“People like you,” the older man said, “are why things keep happening.”

Ramesh backed toward the window. Bars on the glass. Third floor.

“I’ll report this,” he said.

The first man nodded. “Good.”

He pulled out Ramesh’s phone. Unlocked. Already recording.

“But you won’t remember.”

The lights went out. Not all at once. Row by row. Like a mind shutting down. Hands grabbed him. Firm. Practiced. Not violent. When the lights came back on, the office was empty.

—

Ramesh woke before his alarm. No dreams. No fragments. Just a clean break between night and morning. In the bathroom mirror, he noticed a bruise on his wrist. Fading. Finger-shaped. He tried to remember.

Nothing came.

At work, people were quieter. Not grieving. Avoiding. Ramesh logged in. His system showed activity from the previous night.

Files opened. Emails drafted.

One sent at 2:16 a.m.

He hadn’t stayed that late.

He opened it.

To: Facilities
Subject: Washroom Noise Complaint Resolved

Checked. No issue found. Likely pipe noise. No further action required.

He remembered the shouting now. Not clearly. Just the knowledge that he had heard it and chosen not to care.

A coworker leaned over the partition. “You were here late Thursday, right?”

“I think so,” Ramesh said.

The coworker’s face tightened for half a second. Then relaxed. At lunch, Ramesh avoided the washroom. The one near the fire exit was closed.

A sign taped above the sink read:

TEMPORARILY CLOSED
PLEASE USE ALTERNATE FACILITY

At the bottom, handwritten:

Thursday.

His phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

Did you sleep well?

He didn’t reply.

That evening, he checked the security footage.

He shouldn’t have had access.

But his login worked.

2:09 a.m. – elevator doors open.
2:13 a.m. – three people step out.
2:15 a.m. – Ramesh stands up and follows them.

Calm. Composed.

The washroom camera froze for thirty-seven seconds.

At 2:16, Ramesh returned alone and sent the email. His hands didn’t shake. Watching it felt like watching someone else finally use his body correctly. At home, Ramesh tried to cry.

Nothing came.

Tried fear. Tried guilt.

Nothing stayed.

At 2:07 a.m., he was awake.

The thought arrived without emotion. Someone else will hear something tonight. His phone buzzed. Same number.

You’re learning.

Ramesh turned the phone face down. At the office, a chair scraped softly across the floor. This time, he didn’t look up.

He stayed seated.

And somewhere in the building, another sound went unanswered.