"Another night, another symphony of silence," I muttered, my voice a low rumble in the cavernous ground floor. "Just me, the hum of battery chargers, and the soft breathing of the pantry fridge. Oh, and the distant tick of cooling metal. Nothing else ever breaks the quiet here, does it?" I stretched, feeling the satisfying pull in my shoulders. "Nineteen, tall, slim but not skinny, black hair always doing its own thing, waving over my forehead. Martial arts built this body, gave it some shape. Confidence, that's what it gives you. Easy enough in daylight, anyway."

I ran a hand over the smooth, cool surface of the cashier desk. "After midnight, it just… dissolves. The confidence, I mean. Turns into something else, a kind of brittle alertness." My gaze drifted to the display shelf, past the rows of gleaming DSLRs and mirrorless bodies. "Except for that one. Always that one." I reached for a sleek, black mirrorless camera, its form almost too perfect. "Low shutter count, practically new. But every single time it comes back, there's a new video file on the memory card. Exactly one minute long. Every single time. And I format the card myself before it goes out. Every. Single. Time."

I pulled the camera closer, running my thumb over its cold metal. "The first time, I thought it was a joke. Some prank from a renter with too much time and a twisted sense of humor. I popped the card into the reader, my fingers feeling… not exactly cold, but certainly not warm. The screen glowed, a pale rectangle in the dim office light. I clicked the file open. The footage began. A spacious wooden room, I remember thinking. Tall mirror covering one whole wall, reflecting nothing but dust motes dancing in the dim, yellow light. An old speaker sat in the corner, silent. A ballet studio, that’s what it looked like. The camera, fixed, facing the center of the empty room."

I leaned back in my chair, the memory still sharp, still unsettling. "Twenty seconds, nothing moved. Not a single thing. Then, it started. \*Knock.\* A soft sound, I heard it clearly through the cheap office speakers. Not from a door, no. From the floor itself. \*Knock… knock… knock…\* Slow. Rhythmic. Precise. Like the tip of a pointe shoe striking wood. My breath hitched. At thirty-five seconds, something appeared. Not in the room. In the mirror's reflection. A tall, extremely thin woman, standing en pointe. Perfectly balanced, on the tips of her toes. But the room itself was empty. Completely empty. Only her reflection existed. Her hair pulled into a tight bun, head lowered. Her neck seemed too long, bending slightly forward, like her bones were soft, pliable. At forty-eight seconds, she lifted her face. Her eyes. Completely black. Not hollow, not shadowed. Black. As if ink had filled them entirely. The video ended at exactly one minute. No glitch. No static. Just silence."

The next morning, the memory still clung to me like a damp cloth. "Hey, Mr. Hermawan," I began, approaching my boss's cluttered desk. "About that mirrorless camera, the one we rent out a lot. The black one."

He looked up from his ledger, a slight frown creasing his brow. "Oh, that one? What about it, Kevin?"

"Just... curious about its history," I said, trying to keep my voice casual. "Any particular story behind it? It feels... different."

He hesitated, his gaze unfocused for a moment, as if sifting through old memories. "A story, you say? Well, it did come from a rather peculiar situation. It was used to document a small ballet studio in Buah Batu, before it closed down."

"A ballet studio?" I prompted, a knot tightening in my stomach. "What happened to it?"

"The owner," he continued, a slight shiver seeming to pass through him despite the warm morning air, "was a former ballet teacher. Known for her extreme discipline. Fierce, they said. Children often went home crying, apparently. Some quit entirely. Rumors, you know, they fly around. They said she forced students who made mistakes to stay en pointe for hours. Until their toenails cracked. Until blood soaked their satin shoes." He paused, his eyes meeting mine, a strange glint in them. "One night, neighbors reported loud music playing past midnight. Police entered the studio the next morning. They found her dead. Both ankles shattered inward. Yet her body remained upright. Balanced unnaturally on broken bones. Facing the mirror." He shook his head slowly. "The studio closed soon after. No one wanted to touch the place. Except, apparently, this camera."

That night, the camera returned again. I waited. Midnight passed, the building settling around me, its old timbers groaning. The air, usually light and breathable, felt thicker, heavier after 2 a.m., like wading through treacle. My hands, usually steady, trembled slightly as I sat at the desk.

At precisely 2:16 a.m., my computer emitted a soft notification sound. A new file had appeared. I stared at the screen, then at the camera, then back at the screen. I hadn't inserted the memory card. It was still in the camera, on the shelf. My hands felt cold, a clammy chill creeping up my arms. I clicked it.

"Oh, no," I whispered, the words catching in my throat. This time, the footage showed the second-floor warehouse of my office. "Tripod racks lined up neatly. Lighting boxes stacked carefully. But the camera angle… it's near the ceiling. There's no place to mount a camera up there. Impossible."

My eyes darted around the ground floor, then instinctively up towards the ceiling. Nothing. The screen held me captive. "At ten seconds, it started again. \*Knock.\* Then, \*knock… knock…\* The sound of something hard tapping tile. I heard it. A faint echo, like it was in the room with me. Between the shelves, she appeared. Standing en pointe. But her ankles… they bent backward. Each step produced a faint cracking sound. Her arms lifted gracefully, elbows curved, fingers extended. Correcting invisible students. My breath hitched, a painful lump in my throat. At forty seconds, she stopped. She turned toward the camera. Her lips stretched into a smile. Too wide. As if the expression was forced across her face, ripping her flesh."

I pressed my hands against the desk, gripping the edge until my knuckles ached. "At fifty-two seconds, the image shifted. Now it showed the display room downstairs. My display room. The cashier desk. And me. Sitting there. Staring forward. Motionless. But I was upstairs. I was watching this. How could I be there? Behind the version of me in the video, in the reflection of the glass door… she stood. On her toes. So close. So impossibly close. The video ended at one minute."

Then, from downstairs, I heard it. \*Knock.\* On tile. Slow. Measured. Approaching the stairs. \*Knock. Step. Crack. Knock. Step. Crack.\* The rhythm climbed upward, each sound a hammer blow against my chest. My throat tightened, a dry, constricted ache. I couldn't move. My muscles locked, frozen in terror.

She appeared at the top of the stairs, framed by the dim light of the second floor. Balanced perfectly on shattered ankles, her head tilted, studying me. Her black eyes, devoid of any light, any reflection, bore into mine. Her voice slid into my ears like cold breath, a whisper that was somehow louder than any scream. "You are not my student."

The pressure on my body vanished instantly, as if an invisible weight had lifted. I collapsed onto the floor, gasping, air tearing into my lungs. My legs trembled violently, but my bones were intact. My body was my own again. She circled me once, her movements impossibly fluid, silent. I could feel the faint current of air as she passed. "Disappointed," she whispered, her voice laced with an ancient, bone-deep weariness. "Wrong form." Then she leaned close to my face, so close I could feel the phantom chill radiating from her. Her black eyes reflected nothing. Not even me. The lights flickered, once, twice. And she was gone.

I woke to sunlight streaming through the front windows, blinding me for a moment. My boss was shaking my shoulder, his voice a concerned rumble. "Kevin? Are you alright? What happened? You're pale, sweating, shaking like a leaf."

I must have looked insane. My clothes disheveled, my hair matted, my eyes wide and bloodshot. I couldn't explain. How could I? "I… I can't," I stammered, the words catching in my throat. "I just… I quit." I didn't mention the videos, the impossible apparition, the crushing terror. I simply stood, my legs still shaky, and walked out. I never looked back at that building. Never.