Mac didn't touch the doorknob. He stood frozen on the cheap linoleum of his kitchen floor, the heavy flashlight gripping tightly in his right hand.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Mac called out, his voice deliberately flat. "
You have the wrong apartment."
"I don't," the man whimpered. His voice sounded like it was being squeezed through a crushed windpipe. "You were on the uncharted variant route. I saw the eighteen-wheeler truck dematerialize in the lot. The fog. The door. I know you made it back."
Mac's heart hammered a frantic, irregular rhythm against his ribs. How could anyone have seen that? The dirt lot had been a pocket dimension, a void completely cut off from reality.
"I'm calling the cops," Mac warned, taking a step back.
"They can't help! They don't exist where I'm going!" the man practically screamed, hitting the door with his open palms. "Please! I'm on my third pull. The system... it's breaking me down. I just need a place to hide until the timer runs out. Five minutes. Just let me in for five minutes!"
Mac hesitated. The desperation in the man's voice wasn't an act. It was the same raw, animal terror Mac had felt when the radio turned on in the cab of his truck. He remembered staring at the neon pink eviction notice, realizing how completely alone he was.
He stepped forward, his hand trembling as he reached for the deadbolt. He didn't undo it completely. He kept the heavy brass chain engaged and unlocked the main latch, pulling the door open a single, cautious inch.
The man in the hallway looked worse than he sounded.
His grey suit was soaked with sweat and something dark and oily that smelled strongly of stagnant water and copper. The Crimson Cross smell. His face was entirely devoid of color, his eyes sunken deep into his skull. He looked like he hadn't slept in a month.
On the man's left cheek, right below his eye, was a raised, angry red scar. The Crimson Cross.
The man saw Mac looking at it and let out a broken sob. "I got mine on the Warehouse shift. Pull one. Barely made it out."
"Who are you?" Mac demanded, keeping his shoulder pressed firmly against the heavy wood of the door. "How did you find me?"
"My name is Elias," the man gasped, his eyes darting frantically down the empty, fluorescent-lit hallway of the apartment building. "The company... they don't care if we find each other in the downtime. We're just meat. But my downtime is over. The third pull... it doesn't take you anywhere, it comes to you."
Mac felt a cold chill run down his spine. "What do you mean it comes to you?"
"The first job is physical. The second job is mental," Elias babbled, his fingers gripping the edge of Mac's door. His fingernails were cracked and bleeding. "The third job is a hunt. You don't get a manifest. You just get a timer and one rule."
Elias looked at the cheap plastic watch on his wrist. The glass face was shattered.
"Two minutes," Elias choked out, tears finally spilling over his eyelashes, mixing with the dirt and oil on his face. "Please. If I cross the threshold of a survived employee's domain, it might confuse the tracking. It might buy me time to earn the Choice."
Mac looked at Elias's bleeding fingers, then down the quiet, mundane hallway. There was no fog. No bruised purple sky. Just Mrs. Higgins' welcome mat two doors down and a flickering overhead bulb.
"What's the rule, Elias?" Mac asked softly.
Elias looked up, his bloodshot eyes locking onto Mac's. "Do not let them see your face."
Suddenly, the flickering fluorescent bulb in the hallway shattered.
It didn't just pop; it exploded in a shower of sparks and powdered glass, plunging the corridor into heavy, unnatural darkness. The ambient temperature plummeted instantly, transforming Mac's breath into a white plume of frost that slipped through the crack in the door.
"No, no, no, no," Elias hyperventilated, his grip on the door turning white-knuckled. He tried to shove his way inside, but the heavy brass chain held tight, digging into the frame. "Let me in! Maclin, open the door!"
From the darkness at the far end of the hallway came a sound.
It was the heavy, rhythmic clack of dress shoes on linoleum. But it was too perfectly spaced. Too deliberate. And beneath the footsteps was a wet, dragging sound, like a heavy canvas sack full of broken glass being pulled along the floor.
Clack. Draaaag. Clack. Draaaag.
Mac's blood turned to ice water. The paralyzing terror of the truck cab rushed back into his veins.
"Elias," Mac whispered, his voice shaking. "You need to run."
"I can't! They're covering the stairs!" Elias sobbed, pressing his face into the narrow crack of the open door. "Maclin, listen to me. The Choice is a lie!
The footsteps stopped directly behind Elias.
The darkness in the hallway seemed to physically compress, swallowing the faint light spilling from Mac's kitchen. The air pressure dropped so violently that Mac's ears popped.
A pale, bloated hand wearing a perfectly tailored, immaculately clean black suit sleeve reached out from the pitch-black void. It moved with terrifying, fluid speed. The hand clamped firmly over the top of Elias's head, its long, grey fingers digging into his scalp.
Elias didn't scream. He didn't even fight. His eyes rolled back into his head in absolute, paralyzing horror as his face was forcefully tilted upward toward the ceiling.
Rule breached, a voice echoed. It didn't come from the hallway; it sounded like it was broadcast directly into Mac's brain via static-laced radio frequencies. Employee terminated.
The hand jerked backward with impossible force.
Elias was violently ripped away from the door, disappearing completely into the shadows of the corridor. There was no sound of a struggle. No thud of a body hitting the floor. Just a brief, sickening snap, and then absolute, deafening silence.
Mac stood frozen, his hand still gripping the doorknob. His breath hitched in his throat.
He slowly peered through the one-inch crack. The hallway was empty. The shattered glass from the fluorescent bulb was gone. The overhead light was intact and buzzing cheerfully, casting its harsh, yellow glare over the stained carpet.
There was no blood. No sign that Elias had ever existed, save for a small, crumpled piece of paper lying on Mac's welcome mat.
Mac swallowed hard, his hands shaking so violently he could barely operate the deadbolt. He undid the chain, opened the door just enough to snatch the paper off the mat, and slammed it shut again. He locked the deadbolt, threw the chain, and backed away until he hit the kitchen counter.
He unfolded the crumpled paper. It was a standard Crimson Cross manifest, torn in half. The top section was missing, but the bottom half was legible, written in the same stark black font as his own.
...Shift 2/3: Facility Guard.
Location: The Archive (Basement Level 4).
Standard Operating Procedures:
- Do not open any filing cabinet that is actively bleeding.
- The mirrors in the staff restroom reflect a five-minute delay. If your reflection makes eye contact with you, leave the room immediately.
Mac stared at the paper. The second job is mental, Elias had said.
Before Mac could process the horrific implications of the torn manifest, his laptop pinged from the living room. It was the same sharp, cheerful chime that had delivered his first offer.
Mac slowly walked over to the desk. His bank account window was still open, displaying his $15,000 balance. But in the corner of the screen, a new email notification hovered.
To: M. Vance
From: Crimson Cross Operations
Subject: Shift 2/3 - Immediate Placement
Mac looked down at the angry red cross burned into his arm. The dull, throbbing ache flared to life, burning with a fresh, sudden heat.
His downtime was officially over.