Backdoor

When K woke up, he felt something wasn't quite right, but he couldn't put his finger on it. The sky outside the window was the usual dreary grey, like the expressionless facades of the buildings he passed on his way to work every day. He reached for the phone on his nightstand, an action as natural as brushing his teeth each morning. Today, however, the phone felt somehow different. Beneath the cold glass screen, something seemed to be vibrating faintly, continuously—not like a notification, but more like... breathing?

K shook his head, thinking he wasn't fully awake yet. This phone was the latest model, issued uniformly by the company, supposedly to "enhance communication efficiency and information security." Information security. He mulled over the phrase, feeling a vague sense of irony.

During breakfast, the phone screen suddenly lit up—no notification, no call. Just for an instant, a blurry human figure, or perhaps more like a mottled shadow, seemed to flash across the screen before quickly disappearing behind the scenic wallpaper of the lock screen. K thought his eyes were playing tricks on him, but the feeling of being watched lingered. He began meticulously checking the phone's settings: permission management, background apps—everything looked perfectly normal, almost too normal. Yet, the more normal everything seemed, the heavier K's sense of unease grew.

In the following days, strange things happened one after another. The phone would emit faint, almost inaudible static when he was talking to someone, as if someone on the other end was listening with bated breath; sometimes, he would inexplicably find photos in his album he didn't remember taking, shot from odd angles—his profile, his back, even of him sleeping. What chilled him to the bone was a video call where, next to the image of the person he was calling, the face of a strange man—expressionless, with empty eyes—was briefly superimposed, flashing and vanishing so quickly he wondered if it was a hallucination.

He tried reporting it to the company's IT department. He was received by a pale young man wearing thick glasses, who mechanically took the phone, connected it to various instruments, the screen scrolling with code and data streams K couldn't comprehend. After a series of operations, the young man announced in an unquestionable tone: "Device operating normally. No abnormal system records. Complies with Article 3, Section 7 of the company's Information Equipment Usage Regulations."

"But I saw..." K tried to describe the bizarre phenomena.

"Visual artifact or psychological suggestion," the young man interrupted, handing him a form. "Please sign here to confirm the test results. If you disagree, you may fill out an Irregularity Appeal Form and submit it to Window 7, Area B, 3rd Floor, Administrative Center. The approval cycle is approximately 15 to 20 working days."

K looked at the form densely printed with clauses, and at this young man before him, as precise and indifferent as a machine part, feeling a profound sense of powerlessness. It felt less like reporting a technical issue and more like challenging a vast, intricate, yet utterly senseless system. He signed, as if signing a confession of his own mental instability.

Leaving the IT department, K felt like a prisoner in a maze, every path seeming to lead to the same dead end. He began to wonder, maybe the problem wasn't the phone, but himself? But the feeling of being watched by an invisible eye, clinging like a shadow, grew ever clearer.

He thought about the "backdoor." He vaguely recalled news reports mentioning that some companies pre-install imperceptible channels in devices for special purposes. Could it be...? He didn't dare think too deeply. If it was true, what did it mean? What he carried every day wasn't just a communication tool, but a mobile surveillance station, a secret portal into every crevice of his life. Who was using this "backdoor"? The company? Some unknown agency? Or... something else?

K started trying to get rid of the phone. He locked it in a drawer, but the next morning, it reappeared on his nightstand as if it had never left. He tried formatting it, but after restoring factory settings, the bizarre phenomena only intensified. Fragmented words began to appear on the screen, like ramblings from some distant place—sometimes "Order," sometimes "Observation," sometimes unrecognizable symbols, arranged in combinations like a maze map, luring him towards a deeper unknown.

He even considered smashing the phone, but an inexplicable fear stopped him. As if the phone had become a part of his body, destroying it would be akin to self-harm. He was trapped, by this sleek, cold little object, and the vast, silent system behind it.

One evening, K found new "creations" in his phone's photo album again—a photo of his office, taken at three in the morning. In the photo, a blurry dark figure sat in his office chair. Its outline vaguely resembled him, yet it wasn't him. The shadow had its head down, seeming to review some documents, while K was certain he had been asleep at home at that time.

K's heart clenched violently. This was no longer just being watched; it was... replacement? Or fusion? He felt his own existence being diluted, distorted by some force. He rushed to the window, looking at the traffic and pedestrians below; everyone had their heads down, focused on the small screens in their hands. Were they like him too? Did their phones also hide a "backdoor," leading to a world they couldn't comprehend?

He returned to the room and picked up the phone. The screen lit up automatically, no longer showing the scenic wallpaper, but a deep darkness. In the darkness was a single line of cold, white text, like a verdict:

"User K, ID 734, Status: Synchronizing."

K stared at the words, suddenly feeling a strange sense of calm, as if his long struggle had finally reached its end. He no longer wanted to resist, nor did he want to escape. Perhaps this "backdoor" didn't lead outward, but inward, into some labyrinthine depth of his own being, a level he had never touched and couldn't understand. He sat back down in his chair, his fingers sliding unconsciously across the screen. The cold touch, the faint, breath-like vibration—now brought a strangely intimate feeling.

Outside, the sky remained a dreary grey. A new day was about to begin. K picked up his phone, preparing to leave for work as usual. On the screen, the "Synchronizing" text had vanished, replaced by the familiar scenic wallpaper, as if nothing had happened. Only K knew that something had irrevocably changed. He, the phone in his pocket, and the unseen "backdoor" would coexist forever, like an unsolvable riddle, a maze with no exit. He even began to faintly anticipate what "scenery" the phone would show him next.