The Day Shift

I got hired for a data entry job three weeks ago.

Nothing special. Entry-level position. Medical benefits. $42,000 a year.

The ad said "Office Admin - Industrial Complex. Flexible hours. Great for recent grads."

I applied. Got called for an interview the same day.

The office was at 1847 Riverside Industrial Park. Unit 15B.

I didn't think anything of it. Industrial parks have all kinds of businesses. Warehouses. Light manufacturing. Office spaces.

The interviewer was a woman named Patricia. Gray cardigan. Professional. Friendly.

She asked basic questions. Typing speed. Software proficiency. Availability.

"You'll be processing assignment data. Filing records. Standard administrative work. Does that sound manageable?"

"Absolutely."

"Great. When can you start?"

"Tomorrow?"

She smiled. "Perfect. We appreciate enthusiasm."

I started the next day.

The office was small. Just three rooms. Reception area. File storage. My desk in between.

Patricia showed me the system. Upload daily files. Process completion records. Archive closed assignments.

Simple stuff.

My first week was normal. Boring even.

I'd arrive at 9 AM. Patricia would drop off files. I'd enter data. Leave at 5 PM.

The files were coded. Just numbers and dates and unit locations.

Assignment ID. Completion status. Participant count. That kind of thing.

I didn't ask what the assignments were for. Didn't seem relevant to data entry.

Second week I noticed something odd.

All the files were timestamped between 2:00 AM and 6:00 AM.

Every single one.

I asked Patricia about it.

"Oh, the assignments happen at night. You're processing the results the next day."

"What kind of assignments happen at 2 AM?"

"Various operational tasks. Don't worry about it. Your job is just to file the paperwork."

Made sense. I went back to data entry.

But I started paying more attention to the files.

Unit numbers. Participant names. Completion rates.

Some files had notes. "Session completed successfully." "Participant transported to secondary location." "Iteration count: 3."

Iteration count?

I googled it during lunch. Didn't find anything useful.

Just programming terminology about loops and repeating processes.

Third week I started hearing things.

I'd be at my desk entering data and I'd hear voices. Muffled. Like they were coming from the walls.

At first I thought it was other offices. Other businesses in the complex.

But the voices were weird. Same phrases repeated. Same intonations.

Like recordings playing on loop.

I asked Patricia if there were other tenants in the building.

"Not in this section. We have exclusive use of Units 12-18."

"Then where are the voices coming from?"

"What voices?"

"I keep hearing people talking. Through the walls."

She looked concerned. "You're probably picking up HVAC noise. These old buildings make strange sounds. I'll have maintenance check it out."

Maintenance never came.

But the voices continued.

I started staying late. Working past 5 PM. Trying to figure out where the sounds were coming from.

One night I was still there at 7 PM. Patricia had left hours ago.

The voices got louder.

Clear enough to make out words.

"Please describe your earliest memory."

"Do you feel like yourself?"

"How many times have you been here?"

Questions. Someone asking questions. Different voices answering.

I followed the sound.

Down the hallway. Past my office. To a door marked "STORAGE - AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY."

I tried the handle. Locked.

But I could hear through the door. Multiple voices. Overlapping. All asking and answering the same questions.

I went back to my desk. Tried to focus on work.

But I couldn't stop thinking about it.

The next day I arrived early. 7 AM instead of 9 AM.

Patricia's car wasn't in the parking lot yet.

I used my key card to get into the building. Went straight to the storage door.

Still locked.

But my key card worked on every other door in the complex. Maybe it worked on this one.

I tried it.

Green light. Click.

The door opened.

Inside was just a hallway. Fluorescent lights. Concrete walls.

I'd never been in this section before.

Doors on both sides. Each labeled with a unit number.

Unit 1A. Unit 3C. Unit 7B. Unit 9C.

The units from the files I'd been processing.

I tried one of the doors. Unlocked.

Inside was a white room. Chairs facing a large mirror. Exactly like the descriptions in the assignment files.

Empty now. But recently used. Coffee cups on the floor. Papers on chairs.

I checked another room. Same setup. Mirror. Chairs. Lights.

These were the places where the assignments happened.

The Special Tasks I'd been hearing about in the gig worker community.

I was working in the same building.

Filing paperwork for sessions that happened in the restricted section.

I should've left right then.

But I kept exploring.

Found a room with computers. Monitors showing live feeds from the other rooms.

Some rooms were empty. Some had people in them.

In the middle of the day.

I watched a man sitting in a chair answering questions to someone I couldn't see.

Watched a woman staring at a mirror that suddenly turned transparent, showing her another room with someone who looked exactly like her.

Watched four people sitting in chairs watching someone else through glass.

All happening right now. While I was supposed to be upstairs doing data entry.

I heard footsteps behind me.

Turned around.

Patricia.

"You're here early."

"I heard voices. I wanted to see where they were coming from."

"And what did you find?"

"The assignments. They happen here. In this section. What are they?"

She gestured to the monitors. "Behavioral observation studies. Participant evaluation. Standard protocol."

"For what?"

"Operational optimization. We collect data. Run assessments. Your job is to process the results."

"What kind of assessments?"

"That's above your clearance level. You process paperwork. That's your role in the system."

"But what are they doing to these people?"

Patricia's smile didn't change. "They sign consent forms. They're compensated. They complete their sessions and leave. All very standard."

"Then why the secrecy?"

"Proprietary methodology. Trade secrets. Same as any research company. You wouldn't expect a pharmaceutical company to disclose their trial protocols to administrative staff, would you?"

"I didn't know."

"Would it have mattered? You needed the job. We needed someone to process files. Win-win."

She gestured to the stairs.

"Come on. You shouldn't be down here. This area is restricted."

I followed her upstairs.

Sat at my desk.

Stared at the files I needed to process.

Each one represented someone going through what I'd just seen.

Being observed. Being copied. Being distributed.

And I was the one filing their paperwork.

Making it official. Making it real.

I processed files all day.

Tried not to think about what I'd seen.

But I kept hearing the voices.

Clearer now that I knew where they were coming from.

"Please describe your earliest memory."

"Do you feel like yourself?"

"How many times have you been here?"

That night I went home and looked up Harmonic Solutions.

Found nothing. Shell companies. Dead ends.

But I found discussion forums. Reddit threads. People talking about Special Tasks.

About disappearing. About becoming distributed. About losing track of which version was real.

All of them had been through the rooms I'd seen today.

All of them had their paperwork processed by someone like me.

I thought about quitting.

But my Contributor Score had gone up since I started the job.

687 to 734.

Better credit. Better insurance rates. Better apartment approval odds.

Working here was improving my life.

Even if I was facilitating something I didn't fully understand.

The next day Patricia gave me a new task.

"We need someone to coordinate night sessions. You'd meet participants. Check them in. Direct them to their units. Basic coordination work. Hours would be 1 AM to 6 AM. Pays an extra $800 a week. Interested?"

"Night sessions?"

"The Special Task assignments. We need additional coordinator coverage. You've been doing excellent work. Thought you might want the additional hours."

I should've said no.

But $800 a week. That's $3,200 a month. That's rent and groceries and savings.

"What would I have to do?"

"Check IDs. Escort participants to their assigned units. Process completion forms when they finish. Simple stuff. You're already familiar with the filing system."

"Would I have to go into the rooms?"

"No. Just manage intake and completion. The session coordinators handle everything inside."

"Okay. I'll do it."

She smiled. "Excellent. Start tomorrow night. 1 AM. I'll train you."

She handed me a gray suit in a garment bag. "Professional attire. Wear this."

The next night I showed up at 12:45 AM wearing the gray suit.

The industrial park was different at night. Dark. Empty. Eerie.

Patricia was waiting at Unit 7B. Also in a gray suit. Holding a tablet.

"This is the participant intake device. You'll use it to scan IDs and verify assignments. Let me show you."

She walked me through the system. How to scan driver's licenses. How to pull up assignment details. How to mark participants as checked in.

"At 2 AM sharp, they'll start arriving. You'll wait outside the unit. When they come, you check their IDs. Verify their assignment matches. Then escort them to the appropriate unit."

"What do I say to them?"

"As little as possible. This isn't a conversation. It's a procedure. Check ID. Verify. Escort. That's it."

"What if they have questions?"

"Tell them their coordinator will answer all questions inside. Your role is intake only."

At 1:55 AM, cars started arriving.

Four people. Five people. Different vehicles.

All looking nervous. Confused.

They gathered outside Unit 7B.

I stood at the door. Tablet in hand. Gray suit making me feel like someone official.

At exactly 2:00 AM, I opened the door and stepped outside.

"IDs please."

They handed them over. I scanned each one. Four people for Unit 7B. One person for Unit 9C.

"Follow me. Do not speak unless spoken to. Do not touch anything unless instructed."

I led the four Unit 7B participants inside. Down the hallway. To a room with four chairs facing a mirror.

"Sit."

They sat.

I left.

Walked the Unit 9C participant to the other unit. Same process.

Then I went back outside and waited.

Heard the muffled voices from inside. Questions being asked. Answers being given.

At 5:30 AM the door opened. The first group came out.

All looking dazed. Shell-shocked.

I handed them completion forms on the tablet. They signed with their fingers. Left.

Most didn't make eye contact.

One woman stopped.

"Do you know what happens in there?"

I kept my face neutral. "I coordinate intake and completion."

"I saw things. Things that don't make sense. Multiple..." She trailed off. Shook her head. "Never mind."

"I'm sorry."

"Are you? You work here. You're part of this."

She left.

I marked her completion in the system.

Collected my $800 for the night.

I've been doing this for two weeks now.

Day shift data entry. Night shift coordination.

I saw seventy to eighty people per week.

All arriving at 2 AM. All looking scared.

I check their IDs. I scan them into the system. I escort them to their units.

I tell them to sit. I tell them not to speak. I tell them to follow instructions.

Then I wait outside while they go through whatever happens in there.

When they come out, I process their completion forms.

I watch them leave looking like different people.

And I collect $800 a week for facilitating it.

My score is 789 now.

Best it's ever been.

I got approved for a better apartment. Lower insurance rates. Everything's improving.

All because I'm the person who checks people in. Who escorts them to the rooms. Who processes their paperwork when they come out.

I should feel guilty.

But I'm just trying to survive. Same as everyone else.

Last night one of the participants looked familiar.

I checked his ID.

Same last name as mine. Same hometown.

My cousin. Haven't seen him in years.

He didn't recognize me. Just looked nervous. Scared.

"Unit 4D. Follow me."

I walked him down the hallway. Opened the door.

Four chairs facing a mirror. Other participants already sitting.

"Have a seat."

He sat.

I closed the door. Walked back outside.

Stood there in my gray suit. Holding my tablet.

Listening to the voices from inside.

Hearing him answering questions.

Hearing whatever they do to people in there.

At 5 AM he came back out. Signed his completion form with a shaking hand.

Looked at me like I was a stranger.

"Have a good night," I said.

He left.

I marked his completion in the system.

Tonight I'm working again.

Forty-three people scheduled. Multiple units. Different coordinators.

All going through the same thing.

And I'm the one at the door. In the gray suit. With the tablet.

Checking them in. Escorting them inside.

Because someone has to.

Because the system needs coordination.

Because my score is 789 and climbing.

Because this is just a job.

Just intake and completion processing.

Nothing more.

I keep telling myself that.

I keep scanning IDs.

I keep escorting people to rooms.

I keep processing completion forms.

And I keep hearing the voices from inside.

"Please describe your earliest memory."

"Do you feel like yourself?"

"How many times have you been here?"

I don't answer.

I just stand outside and wait.

It's what I'm paid to do.