The Ghost Team

It was a respectable company. No scandal. No layoffs. Just a gray slowness. A silent infection.

Every morning, the employees arrived. Badge. Polite smile. They drank their coffee. Answered in monosyllables. Delivered projects without passion. And went home. Empty.

No one shouted. No one laughed either.

There was once a woman, Clara, who still tried. She proposed ideas. Workshops. Light.

But the others no longer responded. They said: — "That is not a priority." — "We have already done that." — "Do as you like."

And little by little, Clara slowed down too. She began to walk like them. To speak softly. To dream no more.

One morning, she stopped. Looked around her.

They were all there. Seated. Eyes open. Present. But no one.

She did not take her things. She left. Walked for a long time.

And that evening, for the first time in months, she wept.

It was not out of sadness. It was the proof that she was still alive.

It walks. It grunts. It follows. It bites.

But it no longer thinks.

The zombie is an animated carcass. A being contaminated by something that destroys consciousness, but leaves movement.