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The Archives were always quietest just before dawn, but Jon had no way of knowing that. Very little sound reached the basement, and even less natural light. The only noticeable change was the air conditioning unit, which was set to switch off at three twenty-five. Jon never noticed the absence of cool air humming from the vents. Nor did he notice the spiders that stopped weaving their webs, or the mice that curled up deep in their shredded-paper nests. He was too occupied with what he called his research; pouring through statements, records, and ill-gotten photos. His tape recorder clicked and whirred, the lonely sound echoing through the empty linoleum halls.
At half past eight, Martin and Sasha arrived and quietly began their morning abulations of tea and stiff small talk. Martin stirred his tea, the spoon clinking against the side of his glass, and did not mention the nightmares that had been robbing him of all sleep. Sasha sipped her own tea and asked passively about his commute; where got on, what time he left home, how the crowded the bus was on a weekday morning. Martin was happy to oblige. They were all completely ordinary subjects, dancing in a complicated waltz around the elephant’s rotting corpse in the corner.
At fifteen minutes to nine, the Archive door slammed open. Tim stalked across the office and banged unrelentingly on Jon’s office door. Jon flinched, reaching instinctively for the fire extinguisher by his desk.
“Jon!” Tim bellowed. “I know you’re in there!”
He couldn’t possibly— the blinds over Jon’s office window had been permanently closed for weeks, and they let out no hint of light or movement. Jon had checked multiple times to be sure.
And yet, Tim pounded all the harder. “Come out, you fucking bastard!”
By this time, Sasha and Martin had emerged from the breakroom. Sasha stood stiffly, carefully neutral, while Martin recoiled each time Tim’s fist made contact with the wood.
“Come out or I swear to God I’ll break this fucking door down!”
The door opened a crack. Behind his back, Jon gripped the neck of the fire extinguisher. “What?” He snapped.
Tim barged into the office, his hand closing around Jon’s neck. The fire extinguisher dropped from Jon’s surprised hand with a heavy thud.
“Tim!” Martin cried.
Tim ignored him, as everyone usually did. His face twisted in a snarl, inches from Jon’s. “I told you to stay away from my fucking house!”
“I-I haven’t— I haven’t been anywhere near your house.” Jon pulled futilely at Tim’s fingers. Tim had always been the stronger of the two. He used to make jokes about Jon’s noodle arms. It wasn’t as funny now; Jon’s throat felt like fine china under Tim’s hand. It would be so easy to squeeze just a little harder.
“Tim, what’s going on?” Martin pleaded. He and Sasha hovered in the doorway. His mobile was in his hand, 999 dialed and his thumb hovering over the call button.
“Don’t lie to me,” Tim growled. “I saw you outside my house last night. You threw a fucking brick through my window!”
“Why— why would I do that?” Jon challenged, his voice hoarse. His glasses had been knocked askew; Tim’s face distorted into a hazy, warped facsimile of itself. His fingers dug deep into the skin and muscle of Jon’s throat.
“Because you’re a crazy psycho stalker and a fucking freak.”
All fair accusations. All true to some degree. But Jon shook his head. “It wasn’t me. I’ve been here all night. You can check the security tapes.”
Tim’s grip tightened for just a moment, giving in to temptation, before he finally let go. Jon dropped to the floor, gently massaging his throat. Already he could feel the bruises taking root. It would take two days for them to fully bloom a brilliant dark purple. When they did, they would be in the exact shape and spread of Tim’s fingers. Another good reason for Jon to avoid his reflection in the bathroom mirror.
Breathing hard, Tim looked down at Jon for a long moment. “If it wasn’t you,” he asked, “then who was it?”
“I don’t know,” Jon answered softly, truthfully.
It wasn’t good enough. Tim knew that even if it wasn’t Jon himself, his boss certainly had something to do with it. Spinning on his heel, he stalked out of the office. Martin and Sasha scurried out of his path. He left the same way he came in, slamming the door so hard it rattled in its metal frame. The Archives were quiet once again, save for the steady drip of the coffeemaker and the hum of the AC unit.
Jon sat up. He looked tired, and nearly as old as he claimed to be. His gaze met Martin and Sasha in the doorway and hardened into deep lines of disgust and distrust. “What are you looking at?” he challenged.
“Nothing! Nothing!” Martin retreated quickly to his desk, ducking his head to avoid the sharp crack of Jon’s rage. A small lump rose in his throat, but he breathed deep and swallowed it back down. No matter how bad Jon got, he was not Martin’s mother. He didn’t mean the things he said, not really.
“Are you alright?” Sasha lingered by the door, watching Jon stand slowly, achingly. She sounded different, although that might’ve just been the ringing in Jon’s ears. She was always hovering, always where she shouldn’t be.
Jon scowled and shut the door in her face.
With a mild shrug, Sasha returned to her desk. Martin was too preoccupied to notice the small smile that played at the corners of her lips. With one foot, she shoved her purse under her chair. It was heavier than usual, owing to the large chunk of brick nestled at the very bottom.