The Door in Office 17C
An office worker at a government agency stumbles upon a floor that shouldn’t exist—and a hidden surveillance operation that’s been watching him all along.
I shouldn’t have been on the 17th floor.
My badge didn’t grant access, but the elevator opened anyway—just once, just for me.
I was new at the agency. Six months in, mostly pushing paper and logging encrypted calls. But that morning, a power surge knocked out the system. While rebooting the servers, I saw something odd—a request log from an office that didn’t exist. 17C.
There were only supposed to be 12 floors.
I took the service stairs. At floor 12, I kept climbing. No lights. No signs. Just concrete steps and a low hum that grew louder the higher I went.
When I reached the 17th floor, I expected darkness. Instead, the hallway was pristine—white marble, soft lights, and a single door: 17C.
No handle. Just a biometric panel.
But as I approached, it opened on its own.
Inside was a room filled with monitors. Hundreds. Each one showing a different person. Some in offices. Some asleep. Some walking dogs. One of them was me—right then, standing in that room, looking at the screen.
I turned, but the door had vanished.
On the table behind me sat a file folder. My name on the tab. Inside: transcripts of calls I’d never made, footage from cameras I’d never seen, and a contract I didn’t remember signing.
At the bottom, a note: “Continue your work. Observation is eternal. Welcome to the Order.”
I never left that room. Not really. They gave me a new desk, new access, new rules. My emails still go out. My phone still rings.
But I know now I’m not part of the agency.
I’m part of something older. And someone else is watching me, even here.
Even now.
My badge didn’t grant access, but the elevator opened anyway—just once, just for me.
I was new at the agency. Six months in, mostly pushing paper and logging encrypted calls. But that morning, a power surge knocked out the system. While rebooting the servers, I saw something odd—a request log from an office that didn’t exist. 17C.
There were only supposed to be 12 floors.
I took the service stairs. At floor 12, I kept climbing. No lights. No signs. Just concrete steps and a low hum that grew louder the higher I went.
When I reached the 17th floor, I expected darkness. Instead, the hallway was pristine—white marble, soft lights, and a single door: 17C.
No handle. Just a biometric panel.
But as I approached, it opened on its own.
Inside was a room filled with monitors. Hundreds. Each one showing a different person. Some in offices. Some asleep. Some walking dogs. One of them was me—right then, standing in that room, looking at the screen.
I turned, but the door had vanished.
On the table behind me sat a file folder. My name on the tab. Inside: transcripts of calls I’d never made, footage from cameras I’d never seen, and a contract I didn’t remember signing.
At the bottom, a note: “Continue your work. Observation is eternal. Welcome to the Order.”
I never left that room. Not really. They gave me a new desk, new access, new rules. My emails still go out. My phone still rings.
But I know now I’m not part of the agency.
I’m part of something older. And someone else is watching me, even here.
Even now.
Comments