The office hummed. It was a low-frequency vibration of computer fans, fluorescent lights, and the distant, rhythmic thumping of the copier.
To anyone else, it was white noise. To Arvin, it sounded like a countdown.
He sat at his desk, staring at a spreadsheet that hadn't changed in twenty minutes. His left hand hovered over the Alt and Tab keys, ready to switch screens the second someone walked by.
On the screen was a local news article.
BODY FOUND IN DOWNTOWN ALLEY. POLICE SUSPECT VIGILANTE JUSTICE.
The text was blurry because Arvin's eyes wouldn't focus. He kept reading the same line over and over. "The victim, identified as localized gang member Marcus Dean, suffered fatal trauma to the larynx. Police are looking for witnesses."
Fatal trauma to the larynx.
Arvin touched his own throat. He felt the pulse fluttering there, a trapped bird against his skin.
I killed a man.
Correction, the cold voice drifted up from the basement of his mind. We removed a tumor. The city is healthier this morning.
Shut up, Arvin thought, squeezing the mouse until the plastic creaked. Just shut up.
You're welcome, Dante replied, then faded back into the static.
"Arvin?"
Arvin jumped. His knee slammed into the underside of the desk. Pain shot through his bruised ribs, sharp and blinding. He bit his tongue to keep from screaming, tasting copper.
He spun the chair around, gasping.
Nova was standing there. She held a brown paper bag in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. She wasn't looking at his screen—thank God—she was looking at his face.
"You look like you're about to pass out," she said. It wasn't an insult; it was an observation.
"I... I'm fine," Arvin wheezed, clutching his side. "Just... startled me."
Nova didn't buy it. She stepped into his cubicle—an invasion of personal space that usually made Arvin panic, but with her, the air didn't feel thinner. It felt steady.
"You're holding your ribs again," she said quietly.
"I told you," Arvin managed, wiping sweat from his forehead. "I fell on the stairs."
Nova set the water bottle down on his desk. She leaned in, lowering her voice so the sales team two rows over couldn't hear.
"Arvin, look at me."
He looked up. Her eyes were dark, serious.
"If someone is hurting you," she said, her voice hard, "you can tell me. I know people. I can help."
Arvin stared at her. She thought he was being abused. Maybe by a loan shark, maybe by a domestic partner. The irony nearly made him laugh, but laughing would hurt too much.
She wants to protect the monster, Dante mused. She has poor survival instincts.
"Nobody is hurting me," Arvin whispered. It was technically the truth. The only person hurting Arvin was Arvin.
Nova studied him for another long second, then sighed. She opened the brown paper bag and pulled out a sandwich.
"Turkey and swiss on rye," she said, placing it on top of his unfinished report. "I made an extra one. I 'accidentally' bought too much bread."
It was a lie. A kind, transparent lie.
"You don't have to—"
"Eat," she commanded gently. "You're pale. You need protein."
She turned to leave, then paused. "And Arvin? If Henderson gives you grief about the monthly metrics, send him to me. I noticed a discrepancy in his filing from last quarter. I think he'd prefer I didn't mention it to HR."
She offered him a small, conspiratorial smirk, then walked away.
Arvin stared at the sandwich. He picked it up. His hands were still shaking, but less than before.
He took a bite. It tasted like rye bread and mustard. It tasted like normal life.
She is useful, Dante noted. Keep her close.
She's a friend, Arvin corrected angrily. She's not a tool.
Everyone is a tool, Arvin. Some are just sharper than others.
2:00 PM
The peace didn't last.
The elevator doors at the end of the hall dinged. Two uniformed officers stepped out, followed by a man in a cheap suit who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else.
The office chatter died instantly.
"Can I help you?" The receptionist's voice trembled.
"We're looking for..." The suit checked his notebook. "Information regarding a 2018 Honda Civic seen in the employee lot last night. Belongs to a Mr. Bradley Cooper?"
Brad from Sales stood up, looking pale. "That's... that's me."
"Mr. Cooper, your vehicle was reported in the vicinity of a crime scene," the detective said. "We need to check your dashcam footage if you have one."
Arvin stopped breathing.
He sat frozen in his chair. He was in the lot last night. He walked past Brad's car. If there was a camera... if it was recording...
Calm down, Dante ordered. The angle is wrong. It would only catch your legs. I wore generic trousers. Half the city wears those trousers.
Arvin couldn't calm down. The room was spinning.
Brad walked toward the officers, looking terrified. "I didn't do anything! I was at the gym!"
"Just routine, sir," the officer said, guiding him toward the elevators.
As they passed Arvin's row, one of the uniformed officers paused. He looked around the room, scanning the faces of the employees. His gaze swept over the sales team, over Henderson's office, and finally landed on the dark corner where Arvin sat.
Arvin looked at the spreadsheet. He typed meaningless numbers. 1029. 4829. 1111.
The officer's eyes lingered for a second, then moved on. Arvin was too boring to look at for long. Too grey.
The elevator doors closed.
Arvin let out a breath that sounded like a sob. He pushed his chair back and bolted for the bathroom.
He barely made it to the stall before he retched. Nothing came up but acid and bile. He gripped the metal partition, his knuckles white, his forehead resting against the cold steel.
"I can't do this," he whispered to the tile floor. "I can't do this anymore."
You don't have a choice, Dante said.
I'll turn myself in, Arvin wept. I'll tell them everything.
The air in the bathroom stall grew heavy. The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees.
No, Dante said. The voice wasn't smooth anymore. It was jagged. You won't.
Why not? Arvin challenged, tears stinging his eyes. I'm the host. I'm in charge.
Because, Dante hissed, if you go to prison, you go to a cage. And if you go to a cage, you get cornered. And if you get cornered...
Dante didn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to.
Deep in the back of Arvin's mind, behind the thick iron door where the darkness lived, something scratched against the metal.
Scritch. Scritch.
It wasn't a loud sound. But it made Dante—the killer, the predator—go dead silent.
Arvin stood up, wiped his mouth, and flushed the toilet. He walked to the sink and splashed cold water on his face.
He didn't look at the mirror. He was afraid of who might be looking back.