Electric Dead

The office lights flickered like dying stars, casting sudden shadows across Elena's desk. She'd been feeling like a corporate zombie for months now—going through motions, attending meetings where nothing was decided, answering emails that shouldn't exist. Her promotion to senior analyst had bought her a corner office and a prescription for antidepressants.

Then she found the camera.

It was hidden inside the smoke detector of her private bathroom, its tiny lens reflecting a flash of lightning from the storm gathering outside. Elena had noticed it only because she'd stopped coloring her hair six months ago, letting the silver streaks show through. Something about seeing her real face in the mirror had made her hyperaware of her surroundings. Of who was watching.

She didn't report it. Instead, she became something else—a spy in her own life. She researched corporate surveillance until 3 AM, learned about the new "wellness monitoring" program HR had implemented. Cameras in private spaces. Keystroke loggers. Mood detection algorithms based on typing speed and email sentiment.

They weren't monitoring productivity. They were cataloging the slow death of employee souls.

That night, Elena sat at her desk during the storm, watching rain streak the glass like tears she couldn't cry anymore. She typed a single email to the company-wide listserv: "Your bathroom cameras have been documented. Your 'wellness program' is a cage. We are not your zombies."

Lightning struck the parking lot transformer. The building went dark.

In the emergency backup illumination, Elena's reflection caught her eye—silver hair defiant in the glass, eyes alive with something dangerous. She'd been dead inside for so long she'd forgotten what resurrection felt like.

The next morning, security escorted her out. But as she walked through the lobby, she saw three other women with silvering hair, three other possible spies, watching her with something like hope in their tired eyes.