#56 Julian Drexler

Julian Drexler, a high-ranking legal counsel for the Technocratic Authority, hasn’t had a break in 18 months.

For years, he has worked in the shadows, crafting legal justifications for the regime’s most unthinkable dealings—secret corporate alliances with unethical biotech firms, black-budget programs tied to obscure offshore entities, quiet agreements with organizations that operate beyond the boundaries of morality or law.

Now, unexpectedly, he’s rewarded with something unprecedented: a week’s leave at a state-sanctioned luxury hotel in a more liberal territory.

A place where indulgence is encouraged. Where pleasure is promised. Where, for once, he is free.

But from the moment he arrives, something is wrong. The hotel is too quiet. The corridors feel empty. The staff smile too much, their reassurances overly rehearsed. And then there’s the door.

A thick, sterile-white slab separating him from the hallway. No matter how many times he locks it, bolts it, pushes against it, it never fully closes. Thin slivers of light always seep through the edges.

Then come the sounds.

A slow, deliberate clicking against the wood, like fingers drumming. Then the breathing—wet, shallow, too close.

A quick check through the peephole. Each time, nothing.

Paranoia? Stress? Over worked? Tiredness?

By the third night, Julian is unraveling.

His phone flickers with unreadable messages, his eyes blurring as he tries to read the confidential read only once work updates.

Does he hear whispers through the vents? Or is it just the air conditioning filtering through. Or is it post alcohol anxiety from the vodka and champagne indulgences at dinner.

His skin feels too tight, his thoughts tangled and feverish. He swears he hears movement beyond the door—shuffling, something pressing against the frame.

At 3:06 AM, he can’t take it anymore.

Slowly, he unbolts the door and eases it open. The hallway stretches out before him—long, dimly lit, empty.

No shadowy figures. No breathing. Nothing.

Further down the corridor, a drunken man sways unsteadily on his feet, his words slurring into nothing as a hotel security officer carefully assists him toward his room.

The man mumbles something incoherent, his head lolling forward as the guard steadies him.

A woman follows a few steps behind—tall, poised, draped in silk. She never speaks, just watches as they disappear behind a closing door.

The air is sterile, still, ordinary.

Julian exhales, forcing himself to step back inside. Paranoia. That’s all it is.

He closes the door and presses his forehead to the cool surface. His heartbeat slows. His thoughts settle. He almost laughs as he slumbers into a stood up semi sleep for what feels like forever.

Then—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

His breath shudders and his eyes open quickly, alert. He moves forward, pressing his eye to the peephole.

A figure stands directly outside.

Naked from the waist up. Perfectly still.

On on either side of the hallway—stand two more.

Julian’s eyes slowly unblur, but still unable to focus on faces who or what these people are.

Julian stumbles backward, a strangled breath catching in his throat. His vision tunnels. His body feels wrong, disconnected.

And then—

A soft beep. The scrape of a keycard sliding through the reader.

His hotel door unlocks and opens.

3 copies of Julian.

The taser cripples him before the blackness descends.