Chapter 2
The question remained between us after the text on the screen finished appearing.
Who did this?
The presenter’s face held steady in the frame, lit from the front by soft indoor light. White serif words hovered across the lower half of the image, fading only when the next line replaced them. The camera did not move. Neither did the man standing beside the monitor, though his attention had left the performance entirely.
I kept my injured arm close to my body and lowered my hand beneath the edge of the table. The movement was small enough to pass for nervousness. Under the tabletop, I pressed my fingers against the fabric covering my side and felt the heat of the bruise through it. The pressure made my vision narrow for a second.
I looked back at the screen.
The presenter’s mouth formed the words from the recording, but the sound had already ended. The silence made every practical detail too clear: the low hum of the light, the faint click of the computer cooling, the soft drag of my shoe against the floor when I shifted my weight.
The man watched that shoe.
He did not ask anything else. He simply waited, as though time belonged to him and my explanation could be left on the table until it spoiled. His gaze moved from my face to the way I held myself, then to the hand I kept hidden. He was not guessing at the whole story. He was measuring the parts I could still control.
I straightened.
The injury pulled sharply beneath my ribs. I hid the reaction by reaching for the stack of printed pages near the monitor. The top sheet slid crookedly. I gathered the pages one-handed, aligning their corners with deliberate care. A dark mark from the ink tray stained my thumb. It gave me something ordinary to look at.
The next obligation waited in the immediate transition space outside the room. I had to carry the pages down the hall, place them at the reception desk, and make sure they reached the person responsible for the afternoon schedule. If I failed, someone else would have to explain the delay. The thought of being questioned by more than one person tightened my throat.
I tucked the pages against my uninjured side.
He moved before I could reach the door.
Not blocking it. Not exactly. He stepped into the narrow space beside the handle, leaving enough room for me to pass but making the choice visible. His eyes dropped to the pages, then to my uneven grip. When I adjusted the stack, the corner pressed into my ribs. Pain broke across my back in a bright, clean line.
I stopped breathing until it passed.
He saw that too.
The screen behind us changed to another excerpt, progressive white text crawling over the presenter’s shoulder. The words were not part of my life, but the format made everything feel recorded: the pause, the guarded posture, the hand folded too carefully over the papers. In the reflection of the dark monitor, I could see how little of the injury showed. That had been the point. Keep the fabric smooth. Keep the elbow down. Walk evenly.
I reached for the handle.
He remained silent, but he shifted his attention to my shoes. One was planted firmly. The other angled away, ready to protect the injured side. His scrutiny had become a pattern of its own.
I opened the door.
The hall beyond was brighter and colder. My obligation waited at the far end, and the pages had to arrive before anyone noticed I was late. I stepped through, keeping my pace measured.
May you like
Behind me, the door did not close.
His footsteps followed at a distance—not close enough to accuse me, not far enough to lose the inconsistency.
