After-Hours HR

The email came in at 1:32 a.m.

No subject line. Just a calendar invite and a single sentence in the body:

Mandatory check-in. 1:45 a.m. HR Office.

I stared at it longer than I should have.

I work late—graveyard projects, international clients, the kind of role that quietly eats weekends—but HR doesn’t work nights. Their office closes at six. Everyone knows that. The lights go out automatically. The badge reader locks.

I checked the sender.

Human Resources [email protected]

Legitimate address. Internal signature. Even the little confidentiality disclaimer at the bottom.

I replied asking if it could wait until morning.

The reply came instantly.

No.

At 1:44, my badge worked on the HR floor.

That should’ve been my first real warning.

The hallway lights were on, but dimmed—flickering like they were tired. The familiar motivational posters looked warped under the buzzing fluorescents. Our people are our greatest asset. The word asset seemed heavier than usual.

The HR office door was open.

Inside, someone was sitting at the desk with their back to me.

Typing.

Fast. Too fast. Keys clacking in frantic, constant bursts, like they were trying to beat a deadline that never ended. The computer screen glowed an ugly blue-white, reflecting off framed certificates on the wall.

“Hello?” I said.

The typing didn’t stop.

I recognized the posture. The hair. The cardigan draped over the chair.

It was my HR rep.

Or… it was shaped like her.

“I got an email,” I said, stepping inside. “It said this was mandatory.”

The typing slowed.

Stopped.

The chair swiveled.

Her face was there—mostly.

Stretched, like someone had pulled it slightly too tight over a skull that wasn’t hers. The smile was wide but unfocused, the way an image looks when it hasn’t finished loading. Her eyes blinked out of sync.

“Sit,” she said, voice layered, like multiple takes playing at once.

I didn’t.

She smiled wider anyway.

“How are you finding your workload?” she asked, fingers hovering over the keyboard. “Do you feel fulfilled?”

The lights flickered. The room felt smaller, like the walls had leaned in.

“I didn’t schedule this,” I said. “And it’s after hours.”

Her head tilted.

“Oh,” she said softly. “There are no hours here.”

She typed again—violent, frantic keystrokes. I glanced at the screen.

My name filled the document.

Attendance logs. Time stamps. Late nights. Badge scans. Every time I’d stayed past midnight, every weekend I’d “just finished one more thing.”

A counter ticked upward beside it.

Retention Score.

“You’re very dedicated,” she said. “We value that.”

The smile twitched. Stretched further.

“And how do you feel,” she continued, “about staying here forever?”

The word forever echoed wrong, like it didn’t belong in a human mouth.

I backed toward the door.

She didn’t stop me.

Instead, she turned the monitor toward me.

The document title read:

PERMANENT ASSIGNMENT CONFIRMATION

Below it was a blinking cursor.

Waiting.

“I didn’t agree to this,” I whispered.

Her eyes sharpened. Focused.

“You already did,” she said. “Every night you stayed. Every time you didn’t log out. Every time you told yourself it was temporary.”

The lights cut out completely.

The typing resumed—faster than before.

I ran.

I don’t remember getting home. I don’t remember the elevator ride or the parking garage. I just remember my laptop chiming at 2:03 a.m.

A new email.

Thank you for meeting with HR.

Your commitment has been noted.

Attached was an updated contract.

The end date field was blank.

I don’t work late anymore.

But sometimes, when I check my inbox at night, I see a draft email already open.

No subject.

Just a meeting time.

1:45 a.m.

And it’s marked mandatory.