When the factory floor powers down, you’d expect the night shift to be nothing but metal cooling and fluorescents humming—yet something unseen clocks in after hours. Radios blast then die at a touch, air tools hiss without air, and footsteps stalk whoever locks up last. Follow a veteran closer as he races the alarm timer down blackened aisles, chased by phantom music and breath on his neck, only to glimpse papers drifting from windows no wind can reach. Are these restless workers still punching their eternal timecards, or is the building itself alive and hungry for attention?
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