David Reeves had been feeding documents into the ancient Xerox machine for two hours when he first noticed the anomaly.

Page forty-three of the Defense Intelligence Agency's Project NIGHTFALL assessment emerged with a faint gray impression in the lower margin—barely visible, like a watermark that shouldn't exist. David held the paper closer to the fluorescent light, squinting at what appeared to be the outline of a human figure.

The machine wheezed and clicked, its internal mechanisms grinding through another classified report. David had liberated the files from his supervisor's office three days ago, photographing each page with a micro-camera before returning them to their locked cabinet. Now he was creating physical copies for the journalist who'd promised to expose the program's constitutional violations.

Another page dropped into the output tray. This time, the figure was clearer—a man in a suit, hands raised as if in surrender. The image quality was poor, pixelated like a security camera still, but unmistakably human.

David's mouth went dry. He flipped through the previous copies, searching for similar marks. Nothing on pages one through twenty. A faint smudge on twenty-one. A clearer outline on thirty-five. By page forty-three, the figure was nearly photographic.

The copy center's owner, an elderly Pakistani man named Rashid, emerged from the back room carrying a steaming cup of tea. "Everything working fine, my friend?"

"Yes, just..." David gestured vaguely at the machine. "Sometimes the toner leaves marks."

Rashid nodded knowingly. "Old machine. Very temperamental. But she works, yes? That's what matters."

David forced a smile and fed the following document into the feeder. The machine's scanning light swept across the page—a personnel evaluation form listing the names of Project NIGHTFALL operatives. As the copy emerged, David felt his blood freeze.

The figure in the margin was no longer generic. It had a face.

His face.

The reproduction was grainy but unmistakable: his angular features, his thinning hairline, even the small scar above his left eyebrow from a childhood accident. But something was wrong with the image. The eyes were too wide, filled with an expression of pure terror. The mouth was open as if screaming.

David grabbed the original document, checking it frantically. Clean margins. No markings. Only the copy showed the image.

He ran the same page through again. The new copy emerged with the figure moved slightly to the right, as if it had taken a step. The expression of terror had deepened.

"What the hell," David whispered.

Page after page, the figure became more distinct, more urgent. By page sixty, it was running. By seventy, it was looking over its shoulder at something beyond the edge of the margin.

David's hands shook as he fed in the final document—a memo dated just last week, discussing "containment protocols for information security breaches." The copy emerged with his image crystal clear now, no longer running but standing perfectly still. The terror in its eyes was replaced by something worse: resignation.

Below the figure, in text that definitely wasn't on the original, appeared a single line: "SUBJECT LOCATED. INITIATE PROTOCOL 7."

The copy center's bell chimed as the front door opened. David spun around to see two men in dark suits, their faces expressionless, their hands moving toward their jackets with practiced efficiency.

"Mr. Reeves," the taller one said, his voice flat and professional. "We need to talk."

David looked down at the pile of copied documents, then at the machine's output tray where a new page had somehow appeared—blank except for his own image, now shown from behind, walking away with his hands zip-tied behind his back.

The Xerox machine gave one final wheeze and fell silent.

"How did you—" David began.

"Every copy leaves a trace," the second man said, stepping closer. "Every image creates a record. Did you really think analog technology would protect you?"

David's gaze fell to the last document in the output tray. His image had changed again. Now it showed him sitting in what looked like an interrogation room, his face gaunt, his eyes hollow. Below it, in the exact impossible text: "DEBRIEFING COMPLETE. SUBJECT TERMINATED."

"The machine," David whispered. "It was watching me."

The tall man almost smiled. "The machine was recording you. Every photocopy creates a quantum impression, a shadow of the operator. We've been tracking your activities since the first page."

"But that's impossible. It's just a—"

"Just a what? A simple copying machine?" The man gestured toward the Xerox. "Mr. Reeves, you worked for the Defense Intelligence Agency. Did you really think we'd let classified documents be copied on unmonitored equipment?"

David stared at the machine, understanding flooding over him like ice water. The copy center, the elderly owner, the convenient location—all of it had been a trap—a honeypot designed to catch leakers exactly like him.

"Rashid?" David called from the back room.

"Agent Rashid completed his assignment," the second man said. "As did you."

They moved toward him with calm efficiency. David looked one last time at the machine's output tray, where a final image had appeared: his own face, peaceful now, eyes closed, as if sleeping.

The copy was dated for tomorrow.

The Xerox machine hummed once more and went dark, its work finally complete.