Patient Z

His name was Jonas. A developer, discreet, reliable. Always available. A little tired, but no one asked any questions.

There had been a bug one day. He had fixed it alone, in a single night. No one had thanked him. But they had given him more work.

So he had kept quiet. He had taken it upon himself. And something, slowly, had changed.

He spoke less. Slept less. Dreamed less.

He wasn't unhappy. He was neutral.

The others started doing the same. Less initiative. Less friction. Less drive.

One by one, the team members started to function, but no longer to live. No one proposed anything anymore. Everyone just executed. Silently.

It was fluid. Efficient.

Dismal.

One day, a new recruit said to Jonas: — "Why is everyone so... quiet here?"

He replied without blinking: — "We don't make mistakes anymore."

She hesitated. Then she stayed. And she, too, changed.

They say that in some open-plan offices, the virus circulates through the cables, through the empty words of meetings, through the automatic smiles.

It doesn't kill. It converts.

And one day, you look at your reflection in a window, and you no longer know how long it has been since you felt anything.