Stan didn’t mind the graveyard shift at Denver International Airport. It was quiet. Peaceful, even. After the last red-eye took off, the terminal lights dimmed and the only sound was the rhythmic squeak of his mop across polished floors.

He’d worked there fifteen years. He knew the murals by heart: the apocalyptic soldiers, the burning cities, the oddly cheerful children. Tourists whispered conspiracy theories. Stan just rolled his eyes and emptied trash bins.

But then, one Tuesday around 3 a.m., his mop bucket bumped the western mural. A panel clicked open.

Stan blinked. Inside was a control board straight out of a bad sci-fi movie with levers, switches, blinking green runes, a touch screen that read: AEROSPACE DOMINION – LEVEL 7 CLEARANCE.

He shrugged.

And then, grinning mischievously, he pressed a button labeled ATMOSPHERIC DISTURBANCE – ROCKY MOUNTAIN REGION.

Somewhere outside, lightning cracked. His radio buzzed with air traffic chatter about sudden turbulence. Stan laughed and mopped on.

Over the next week, it became a game. He’d “accidentally” reroute flights to Des Moines. He’d trigger false UFO radar pings. The lizard people—whoever they were—must’ve noticed.

One night, after initiating UNSCHEDULED SOLAR FLARE PROTOCOL, Stan returned to the break room to find a man in a finely tailored suit.

“Mr. Stanislaw Peterson,” the creature hissed, “you’ve shown … initiative. We would like to offer you a management position.”

Stan raised an eyebrow. “Benefits?”

“Dental. Vision. And access to the underground spa.”

He leaned on his mop. “Do I still get nights off?”

“Alternate Wednesdays.”

Stan thought about it. He smiled. “Sure. Why not.”

That’s how Stan became Assistant Director of Subterranean Operations. He still kept the floors spotless. But now, when he pushed the buttons, it was on purpose.

The End