"Hey, we got a complaint on your floor," said my supervisor Chamara, a Sri Lankan guy with a master's in data science who somehow ended up working as a cleaner here.
"A complaint? About what?" I asked.
"About a desk. Here, take a look — Carlos forwarded me the email," Chamara said, sliding his phone toward me.
The email was politely addressed to our manager, asking him to check with the cleaner and have it cleaned. Desk no. F33 333, huh… I frowned. I didn't remember that desk number existing at all. Something about it felt… off. But with so many desks on the floor, maybe I just missed it.
"Alright, bro. I'll clean this desk, take a timestamped picture, and send it to Carlos," I replied, rolling my trolley toward the lift.
I was an international student in Australia. Money was always tight, and I took this job because it was one of the better-paying ones that didn't require any special skills. Between tuition, rent, and groceries, it still wasn't enough — but it was something.
Getting a "normal" student job, like reception or customer service, was almost impossible. Nights were quiet, and I liked it that way. It gave me space to fantasize in my mind. Sometimes I was an adventurer in a fantasy world. Sometimes a detective in one of those mystery shows. I'd picture myself noticing tiny, hidden clues that everyone else missed — the kind of things you never get to see in real life. Of course, in reality, I was just a cleaner with a trolley and a rag.
The lift blurted 33 in its mechanical voice as it reached the 33rd floor. I stepped out and smelled the familiar disinfectant lingering in the air. Rows of beige cubicles lined up endlessly, the fluorescent lights humming above.
I started my usual routine: take out the trash, clean the kitchen, mop the floors, vacuum the carpets. Each step was mechanical. I had probably done it a hundred times by now.
Finally, it was time to tackle the desks. Desks were usually the same: a monitor, a keyboard, a comfortable rolling chair. Sometimes I just liked to sit on one of them and scroll my phone, imagining I was someone else for a moment.
I went in order: 1, 10, 100, 300, 331… 332… 333.
Huh? Where is it?
I scoured the floor, walking up and down, checking the cubicles again and again. All the other desks were where they should be. Every chair tucked neatly, every keyboard in place. And yet… F33 333 was nowhere to be found.
A shiver ran down my spine. Something about the empty spot felt… wrong. Shadows in the corners seemed darker. The hum of the ventilation was louder, and the fluorescent lights flickered faintly, like the floor itself was watching. My heartbeat picked up, and I felt a strange itch in my fingers — the same way I felt before noticing the first clue in one of those mystery shows. Something was off.
I pulled out my phone, almost expecting a text from Chamara. Instead, a message from an unknown number lit up the screen:
From 043300333: "Hello, Mr. Cleaner."
I jumped, fumbling the rag in my hand. Silence settled over the floor like a thick blanket. Papers on a nearby desk rustled, though no one was there. My heartbeat echoed in my ears.
Another message followed almost immediately:
From 043300333: "Enjoying your shift?"