A folded scrap of paper, written in jagged, uneven black ink.

"You can’t outrun the Mahchine™. Stop trying."

Evan’s hands trembled slightly as he locked his office door.

This was the fourth note this week.

Tabitha, his Black obese HR "colleague," had been side-eying him all morning—her favorite pastime—but when he asked her about the notes, she laughed, her chair groaning beneath her weight.

"Maybe if you ran a tighter $hip, 'they' wouldn’t be watching you, you silly fag. Must be hard managing when no one respects you."

The words stung more than Evan expected, lingering like the hum of the Mahchine™, which seemed louder tonight—grinding, irregular, almost alive.

He stayed late again, combing through the night shift’s pep stats with shaky hands. As the hours dragged on, the hum grew more insistent, drowning out his thoughts, its rhythm somehow syncing with the faint scratch of a pen.

Somewhere, the next note was being written.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5648250&forum_id=2...#48439394)