The envelope was thick, the paper stock surprisingly heavy. No email, no digital onboarding portal. Just this, handed to you by the day manager with a tired, unreadable smile. “Congratulations,” they’d said, the word hanging in the air like a question. “Read it before your first shift. Midnight. Don’t be late.” You’ve been hired as the night shift custodian and monitor for the Iron Pulse Gym. The pay is suspiciously good for what seems like a simple job: monitor the facility, clean the equipment, ensure everything stays in order from the witching hour until dawn. Six quiet hours.
Easy money. You arrive at 11:45 PM, the city’s hum distant, the Pulse Gym sign casting a rhythmic, crimson glow on the empty parking lot. The day staff leaves with silent nods, avoiding your eyes. The heavy glass doors seal behind you with a final sigh. You are alone. Or so you think. The rule sheet in your pocket feels heavy. You unfold it, and your true orientation begins. The Pulse Gym after midnight operates on a different frequency. Follow the rules if you want to make it to morning.
Rule No. 1: The Unseen Runner on Treadmill No. 7
The gym was a tomb of quiet, filled only by the hum of freezers and buzzing fluorescents. The cardio rows were a sea of dead, black consoles. But not Treadmill #7. At the room’s end, it ran alone—a steady, mechanical rhythm in the stillness. Ice traced a line down my back. The directive came to mind instantly: “If it’s on when you get here, don’t stop it. Wait. Someone you can’t see is there.” I made myself inhale slowly.This is the first test of your tenure at Iron Pulse Gym. You pretend to adjust a nearby mat, keeping the machine in your peripheral vision.
The display shows a distance logged that defies logic—miles counting into the triple digits. The air around it is cooler, and the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of the belt becomes a heartbeat for the empty gym. You learn your first lesson: your job is not to question, but to maintain the fragile equilibrium of the night shift. You clean around it, never getting closer than ten feet, feeling an invisible gaze upon you. The Pulse Gym at night has its dedicated patrons, and they demand respect.
Rule No. 2: The Unseen Lifter and the Mirrors
An hour in, you’re stocking towels when a deafening crash echoes from the free weights area—the sound of a heavy barbell being dropped. Then another. Clank. Clank. Clank. Your instinct screams to investigate, to rerack the weights, to do your job. But Rule No. 2 is clear: “Do not investigate. Just turn off the lights in that section remotely, and avoid looking at the mirrors for at least five minutes.” Your hand trembles as you find the light panel.
You hit the switch. The area plunges into darkness, but the clanking continues, now more rhythmic, like a disciplined set. The wall-length mirrors at the far end are a void, and the rule specifically warns against them. Why? In a normal gym, mirrors check form. Here, they might show something else—something that doesn’t want its form checked. You stare at your shoes, counting the seconds. The Iron Pulse Gym philosophy at night diverges sharply from its daytime counterpart of visibility and self-improvement. Here, some forms of progress are best left unseen.
Rule No. 3: The 3:00 AM Sauna Ritual
The hour passed, and silence deepened. You settled into a rhythm of cleaning and avoidance. At 3:00 AM, a faint hiss. The substantial sauna door eased open an inch. Heated, scented steam, smelling of cedar and damp earth, poured out. From inside, a whispered sound, less than speech but more than noise, formed a single, clear invitation.
Rule No. 3 procedures run through your mind. “Close your eyes and say ‘not tonight.’ Then calmly walk away. Do not look inside.” You squeeze your eyes shut. “Not tonight,” you mutter, the words feeling absurd yet potent. The whispering pauses. You back away, step by step, until you’re around the corner.
The Pulse Gym offers more than physical detoxification in these small hours; it offers purges of a different kind. The sauna, you realize, isn’t for sweating out toxins. It’s for steaming out other things. Your job is to let it work without a witness.
Rule No. 4: The Vending Machine’s Forbidden Offering
Parched from nerves, you approach the vending machine. Its cheerful lights are a jarring beacon. Your eyes scan the familiar chips and energy drinks until they land on a new label in Slot D-7: “Protein Bar X99.” It has no brand, no nutritional information, just that stark, printed label. Rule No. 4 is unequivocal: “Do not purchase it.” As you watch, the selection pad lights up on its own. D-7. The coil twists, the bar drops with a thud.
You hear the faint sound of rustling packaging, then a slow, wet, methodical chewing coming from directly behind the machine. No shadow, no form. Just the sound. The rule said to leave the area immediately and not turn around. You move swiftly to the front desk, the chewing fading but not disappearing. The Pulse Gym caters to all nutritional needs, and some supplements are not for the living. Your night shift duties do not include restocking that particular item.
Rule No. 5: The Final Knock and Your Exit
As 5:30 AM approaches, fatigue weighs on you. The pre-dawn light is still hours away. The final rule is a checklist item: “Before your shift ends, check the locker room.” You push the men’s room door open. The silence is thick. Then, a soft, insistent knock… knock… knock comes from Locker 18. It’s a hollow, metallic sound. Rule No. 5 dictates the bizarre protocol. You raise your fist and knock back twice, firmly. Knock. Knock.
Silence.
Then, a single, answering knock echoes back. Knock.
Your blood runs cold. The rule is clear: “If it knocks back once, leave.” Not just the room, but the shift. You are to exit the locker room immediately and resume your duties elsewhere until 6 AM. A single knock is a warning, a sign that the balance tonight is too delicate. A double knock is an acknowledgment. A triple knock… means you run. You leave the locker room, the single knock a gavel strike in the quiet. You understand now.
The Pulse Gym is a nexus, a Pulse point of energy, and your night shift is less about cleaning and more about being a silent guardian, a non-interfering steward for the rituals that play out between midnight and dawn.
Surviving Your Shift at Pulse Gym: A Job Like No Other
At 5:59 AM, the main door clicks. The day manager enters with the first grey light of morning. The gym is spotless. Treadmill No. 7 is still. The weights are racked. The sauna door is sealed. The vending machine shows no unusual items. You hand over the keys, your shift log blandly noting “routine maintenance.” “You made it,” the manager says, that same tired smile returning. “See you tomorrow night?” You nod, stepping out into the fresh, normal air.
The Iron Pulse Gym stands behind you, just another fitness center in the waking world. But you know the truth. The job isn’t about what you clean, but what you ignore. It’s about upholding the unseen rules that let both worlds use the same space. The position is unique, calling for a unique psyche: total conformity, chosen ignorance, and the guts to handle the Pulse Gym after dark—where your core workout is sheer survival.
You weren’t hired just to clean; you were hired as a mute participant in an age-old, rhythmic ceremony: the endless Pulse of something much more ancient than physical fitness.
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