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By the time I finish, the guard is watching the clock as much as me. When I stow my gear, he leads me to the next checkpoint—no small talk, no questions. We walk past a long wall lined with photos in gold frames. Not family shots, but old men in military uniforms and girls in white blouses. The faces are all the same kind of severe: the type that survived bad times by making them worse for others.

The second stop is the east annex. The guard badge swaps—now it’s a woman, her hair so tight that her skull must hurt. She doesn’t introduce herself, just opens the annex and stands inside the threshold. I have to squeeze past her, trying my best not to brush up against her.

The inside of the annex is even more bare than the main house. Offices, a kitchenette with nothing but a single six-pack of mineral water, and a sitting area with two sofas that look new but underused. The windows are frosted glass.

They look bullet-proof.

“Need the server room,” I say, scanning for any posted floorplan.

She doesn’t move. “I have to unlock.”

Her keys are coded RFID, and the lock chirps before she opens it. Inside, there’s enough battery backup to survive a grid down for a month. Again, overkill. I take measurements, run some tests, write it all down, and try not to stare at the vented panels covering the wall. They look like they belong in a secure facility, not a private office.

“Anything else?” she asks, already turning to leave.

I pack up, double-checking my notes. “Does anyone actually live here?”

She blinks, then gives a non-answer: “The family travels. You’ll be notified if they arrive.”

When we step into the hallway, a groundskeeper stands in the middle, staring at a spot on the floor. He glances up at me, then at the guard, and scurries off without a word.

What the fuck is wrong with everyone here?

I shrug, like it doesn’t register, but even the guard picks up on my fake indifference.

The day continues in this same strain.

At one point, I catch a thin man in a windbreaker near the generator shed, smoking and watching the tree line. He’s got the posture of a military guy, but his hands are jittery. I raise my hand in hello, but he flicks his cigarette away and disappears behind the shed, not looking back.

After finishing todays checklist, I get my room assignment: a guest suite in the north wing. The room is modern, clean, the bed made. I set my bag down, take off the boots, and sit on the edge of the bed, surveying the view. There’s a small desk with an old school computer. The windows look out over the inner quad. Every pathway is floodlit. Not a single inch of darkness between buildings.

I fire off a progress email to my supervisor, which is mandatory for days on a site, but my phone pings an error. “Network restricted.” I sigh and use the provided desktop terminal instead, which logs me in remotely and freezes on the main screen until I finish the message.

When I finish, there’s a knock at the door. The same guard as earlier, now holding a boxed dinner.

“Meal delivery.”

I take it, thank her, and try for a bit of conversation. “So, is this place always so lively?”

She just looks at me. “No unauthorized guests,” she says, and leaves before I can respond.

I eat the boxed meal in silence, spooning cold chicken and potatoes out of their compartment trays, staring at the window. I check my phone again—still no signal.

You’d think for a place this fancy, they’d at least serve warm food. Or have Wi-Fi.

I remember the look on the first guard’s face when he read my ID. Like he was sure I was lying but couldn’t prove it. There’s so many things that don’t make sense about this place. The empty rooms, the way every staff member acts like conversation could get them killed. The man in the windbreaker, nervous but watching for something.

Before bed, I make a list on the back of the checklist they left me: Number of cameras, type of guards, length of fence, location of exits.

Just in case…

This isn’t prison, just another rich man’s fortress with more paranoia than sense. My job is to get the checklist done, get the sign-off, and get the hell out.

Before I shut off the light, I catch my reflection in the window. There’s a second, for just a blink, where I see something behind my eyes I don’t recognize. But I ignore it, the way I always do, and tell myself again: There’s nothing to be on edge about. Not until there is.

The next morning, I wake early, mostly out of habit, and lie in the guest bed staring up at the ceiling. I wait for the hum of the ventilation to fade before rolling out and getting ready. Downstairs, the breakfast that waits for me is already boxed, left in the lobby fridge with my name printed on the lid.

The guard in the foyer. Younger, but the same bulletproof vibe. He checks my sign-out, then points me toward the basement utility corridor.