Rika Minazuki didn’t hate her job.

That was the lie she told herself, anyway.

The truth sat somewhere in the middle — between the sting of cheap detergent in her nose, the way her uniform clung to her skin after hours of scrubbing, and the soft, constant rumble of machines that never seemed to sleep. The pay was trash. The gloves smelled like vinegar no matter how many times she rinsed them. And the vending machine by the back wall still ate coins like it had been frozen in time sometime around 1993.

But the laundromat gave her something people never did.

Quiet.

At exactly 6:00 PM, Rika locked the front door and flipped the dusty plastic sign from OPEN to CLOSED. The click of the lock echoed louder than it should have. Outside, the street glowed neon pink and blue, reflections from convenience signs bleeding across the glass. Cars passed. People laughed. Someone argued loudly into a phone.

None of it touched her.

She sat down on the folding bench near the dryers, the metal cold even through her pants. The machines churned behind her — deep, rhythmic thunder, like a storm she could fall asleep to. Her mop leaned against the wall nearby, handle scarred, sponge head frayed and gray. A tired soldier. She peeled one glove off and let the cool evening air slip across her fingers, grounding herself in the sensation.

Her phone buzzed.

She didn’t check it.

Probably her landlord, reminding her she was late again. Or Yuki from the ramen shop down the street, offering leftover broth in a plastic container that still smelled faintly of pork fat and garlic. She liked Yuki. She just didn’t have the energy to talk.

Not tonight.

Instead, she watched the final load spin in Unit 12. Her favorite machine. It never ate socks. The clothes inside tumbled slowly, hypnotic, a small pocket of order in a world that felt increasingly off-balance.

She could’ve gone home.

Lately, she didn’t like being there.

The flickering hallway light in her apartment buzzed just enough to feel intentional, like it was watching her. The silence in those rooms pressed too close, heavy with things she didn’t want to think about. Here, at least, there were tasks. Stains to remove. Floors to scrub. Something that responded when she acted.

So she stayed.

She cleaned. She waited.

Waited for what, she couldn’t have said. Only that leaving felt wrong.

Twenty minutes passed.

Rika was dumping lint into the trash when the buzzer on the back door rang.

Three short taps.
A pause.
Then two more.

She froze.

No one came this way anymore. Deliveries stopped by five. Customers never used the back entrance unless they were already doing something they shouldn’t.

She checked the clock above the change machine.

6:49 PM.

Her phone slid into her pocket without conscious thought. She approached the door slowly, mop in hand out of habit, the way some people reached for keys or knives. “We’re closed,” she called, voice flat, practiced.

No answer.

The buzzer sounded again.

This time, the press lingered too long. Uneven. Sluggish. Like whoever was outside had forgotten how hands were supposed to work.

Rika swallowed. “There’s a public restroom by the train station,” she said.

Silence.

She cracked the door open an inch.

“Hey—”

A man stood there, swaying gently as if the ground itself couldn’t decide where it was. Mid-forties, maybe. Balding. Dress shirt clinging to him with sweat. He smelled wrong — sour, metallic, layered over something rotten. Like meat left out too long.

“I… I need to use the restroom,” he mumbled.

His eyes didn’t focus on her face. They darted past her shoulder, scanning the interior. A thin line of blood crept from his nostril and dripped onto the concrete. Pat. Pat.

Rika’s fingers tightened around the doorframe. “You okay?”

The man’s chest hitched.

Then he lurched forward.

The door slammed shut before she consciously decided to move. The impact rattled the frame. Her heart slammed into her throat as his body hit the other side with a dull thud.

Once.

Then nothing.

Rika stood there, breathing shallow, mop raised without realizing it. The silence afterward felt wrong. Too clean.

“What the hell,” she whispered.

She backed away and pulled up the alley camera feed on her phone.

Static.

Of course.

The one time she needed it, the feed was nothing but gray noise.

Then she heard it.

Not silence.

A dragging sound.

Slow. Wet.

Something scraping along the concrete, followed by a low, animal growl — not loud, not dramatic, just… hungry.

Rika moved to the front window.

Across the street, a woman stumbled into view. Barefoot. Hair matted. Her arms twitched in sharp, jerking motions like a puppet with cut strings. She collapsed against a vending machine. Blood smeared across the plastic front as she slid down, leaving a streaked red arc behind her.

Rika didn’t breathe.

Didn’t blink.

Her mind cataloged details instead — the way the woman’s eyes didn’t track anything real, the way her jaw hung slightly open, slack and wrong. The way her fingers clawed weakly at the pavement as if trying to remember what walking used to be.

Her phone buzzed again.

This time, she looked.

EMERGENCY BROADCAST
Please remain indoors. City-wide curfew in effect. Unknown contamination event under investigation. Authorities will respond shortly.

Rika stared at the glowing screen.

Then at the locked doors.

Then at the mop in her hands.

Authorities wouldn’t make it in time.

She knew that the way you knew when a washing machine was about to break — not from sound alone, but from the pattern, the rhythm slipping just enough to feel dangerous.

The first scream came from down the block.

Then another.

She moved.

Tables went up against the doors. Chairs stacked. She dragged a rolling cart in front of the back entrance and wedged it hard. Her hands moved fast, efficient, like this was just another mess to contain. Her heart raced, but her face stayed blank.

She pulled the chainsaw from the supply closet last.

It was meant for debris. Old pipes. Once, a flooded basement. She had never questioned why the owner kept it here. She questioned it even less now.

The noise outside grew — shuffling, impacts, something throwing itself against metal again and again.

Rika stood in the center of the laundromat, fluorescent lights humming overhead, machines still spinning like nothing had changed.

Her phone buzzed with missed calls. Messages she didn’t read.

She wiped her gloves clean on her apron.

“If it bleeds,” she murmured to the empty room, voice steady, almost bored, “I clean it.”

The glass rattled.

She tightened her grip.

She wasn’t going home tonight.

She was already surrounded.

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