1
New hire Leo arrived for his first night shift at a Sheung-Wan co-working tower. The HR hand-out listed “Floor 11 – water cooler out of order.” Leo, a fitness jug guy, shrugged it off: there were coolers on 8 and 14.

2
At 23:11 the office emptied, fluorescent lights auto-dimming to “energy-save.” Leo’s standing-desk creaked. From the ceiling panel above came the unmistakable glug-glug of a bottle being drained—slow, rhythmic, like someone gulping the last drop before dying of thirst.

3
He checked the floor plan: no cooler on 11, no pantry, no pipes. The sound followed him to the printer, to the men’s room, to the window overlooking the harbor—always directly overhead, always 23:11 when he looked at his watch.

4
00:00. The lift screens all flipped to “11” at once, though he pressed “G.” Doors opened on the forbidden floor: dim corridor, single water cooler glowing iceberg-blue, a 19-litre bottle upside-down—filled with something darker than water. A paper cup sat ready, Sharpie-written: “DRINK, NEW GUY.”

5
Leo remembered the Cantonese warning: 水唔飲得 (don’t drink the water). He instead poured his own isotonic mix into the cooler’s drip tray. The machine shuddered, burped, and the overhead glugging stopped. For a moment—silence. Then the bottle inside cracked like ice, releasing a torrent of black-red onto the carpet tiles, forming the tower’s floor plan—every office numbered except 11.

6
Lights snapped off. Emergency exit sign pulsed, pointing back into the lift. He ran, but the doors needed a badge. From the ceiling panel dripped the same isotonic orange, now ice-cold, pattering onto his hair like a baptism. His employee badge vibrated: the RFID chip had liquefied and was climbing the lanyard toward his neck.

7
He yanked the badge off, slapped the lift button bare-handed. The doors shut on Floor 11, but the floor indicator refused to move; it flickered between 10 and 12, never landing, trapping him in the shaft’s blink.

8
Morning security found Leo on the rooftop water tank—eyes wide, mouth open, 19 litres of tap water sloshing inside his stomach. CCTV shows he left the 11th-floor corridor at 00:11… yet the lift never moved.

9
HR updated the hand-out: “Floor 11 – permanently closed for maintenance.” But every night at 23:11 the overhead glug returns, migrating one floor lower. Tonight it’s 10. Tomorrow? Don’t wear a lanyard, and bring your own bottle—just don’t look up when you hear the last drop.