SeaTTTle.

Graveyard shift.

The fluorescent lights buzz like a broken promise, casting long, jittery shadows over the empty aisles. The faint hum of refrigeration fills the store, punctuated only by the distant sound of Tabitha’s Big Gulp slurp from the customer service desk.

Evan39 sits hunched over the breakroom shredder, feeding it paper like a desperate priest making offerings to an indifferent god. His eyes are bloodshot, his Safeway polo untucked, and a half-empty can of Safeway-brand energy drink trembles in his hand. The shredder groans, choking on its latest victim: a crumpled memo titled “Guidelines for Managing Difficult Customers.”

“It’s fine,” Evan whispers to himself, jamming the paper deeper into the machine. “It’s just a note. A stupid note. It doesn’t mean anything.”

But the note lingers in his mind, its jagged handwriting burned into his thoughts:

“$hredding won’t save you ;)”

Tabitha, the Black obese HR lady, leans against the breakroom doorframe, her 64oz Big Gulp resting in her hand like a scepter. “Evan, sugar, you’ve been at that shredder all night. Corporate’s not gonna care how many memos you destroy. They’re still gonna send you another one.”

Evan doesn’t look up. “It’s not about Corporate,” he mutters. “It’s about... containment.” He feeds another sheet into the shredder, its whine growing louder, angrier.

Tabitha sighs, pulling her phone from her pocket and scrolling through TikTok. “Baby, you’re one bad day away from typing ‘REDRUM’ on the receipt printer.”

A loud BANG echoes from the front of the store. Evan flinches, his head snapping toward the sound. “What was that?”

Tabitha doesn’t even glance up. “Probably just your ‘guests,’” she says, smirking. “You know, the regulars. It’s Tuesday, so it’s probably Celery Jim and the Frozen Fish King.”

Evan stands, the shredder forgotten. His hands shake as he grips the doorframe. “No. They’re gone. They’re supposed to be gone.”

Another BANG, louder this time, followed by the unmistakable squeak of a shopping cart’s wheels. Evan steps into the aisle, his heart pounding. At the end of the frozen foods section, a shadow moves—a figure pushing a cart stacked high with what looks like dented cans and broken dreams.

Evan grabs the Club Card scanner from his belt, its blinking green light a cruel mockery of authority. “Excuse me!” he shouts, his voice cracking. “The store is closed!”

The figure turns slowly, revealing a gaunt man draped in a cape of Safeway-brand trash bags. His eyes glint in the fluorescent light. In one hand, he holds a jar of pickles; in the other, a single avocado.

Evan swallows hard. “You need to leave.”

The man tilts his head, a slow, deliberate movement. Then, with a grin that stretches too wide, he says, “$hredding won’t save you.”

Evan’s breath catches. His grip tightens on the scanner. “How... how do you know about the note?”

The gaunt man doesn’t answer. Instead, he raises the avocado and smashes it against the floor. The sound echoes like a gunshot.

Behind him, Tabitha cackles from the breakroom doorway. “Evan, baby, you better call that ‘spill’ a learning opportunity.” She sips her Big Gulp, unfazed by the chaos. “Maybe Corporate’ll give you a gold star for perseverance.”

Evan doesn’t hear her. He’s too busy backing away as the gaunt man begins to advance, pushing the shopping cart toward him. “It’s fine,” Evan whispers, clutching the scanner like a talisman. “It’s all fine.”

The gaunt man stops just short of the breakroom. He leans forward, his grin never wavering, and whispers: “You can shred the notes, but you can’t shred what’s coming.”

A cold sweat drips down Evan’s temple as the gaunt man turns and disappears into the aisles, the squeak of his cart fading into the distance.

Tabitha slaps her knee, her laughter echoing through the empty store. “Evan, you’ve officially lost it. Maybe we should call this ‘Tabitha’s Tuesday Night Comedy Hour.’”

Evan turns to her, his eyes wide. “Tabitha, did you see him? Did you hear what he said?”

She snorts. “Oh, I saw him. The man just declared war on aisle six. I think he called it ‘The Pickle Offensive.’ But honey, the real question is: why does it matter? You’re not saving this place. You’re barely saving yourself.”

The shredder lets out a final, defeated whine, jammed beyond repair. Evan stares at it, his chest heaving. “It’s fine,” he whispers, but even he doesn’t believe it.

Tabitha shakes her head, sipping her soda. “All work and no $hredding makes Evan a dull boy,” she mutters, disappearing into the glow of the customer service desk.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5658517&forum_id=2#48513386)