The Rules of January

Clapping . . . he could hear it now . . . they were clapping. It was very faint, he could barely even make it out, but he knew what it was . . . they were clapping . . . for him . . . and they had been doing so all this time . . .

. . .

Rojif’s eyes fluttered open and he blinked a few times; his eyelids were heavy. His head felt sort of numb—a peculiar sensation he couldn't describe. In front of him, he saw a man’s legs walking away, turning, and leaving. That’s right—the man in pink . . . the one who had been hunting him. He lifted a hand to his neck—cold to the touch, but uninjured. The ringing . . . did it mean the workers were done with their tasks? Were they leaving the office? Maybe this was his chance to escape with them.

Rojif crawled out from under the table and peeked outside the cubicle. Pink One had already disappeared from sight down the aisle, the place where he'd seen the yellow door for the break room. Turning the other way, he froze—White Collar was approaching him. Rojif flattened himself against the cubicle wall and held his breath as the man arrived . . . and passed without a glance. He let out a heavy sigh of relief. It seemed they were ignoring him—for now at least.

Rojif needed to . . . no, wait a second. He darted into the middle of the aisle and watched White Collar’s retreating form, back turned towards him. He’d seen something on his face, something he could . . . understand. Was it just his mind weaving illusions, showing him something he wanted to see? He recalled the ringing sound he'd heard when Pink One was reaching out for him—after that he couldn't remember a thing, maybe he'd fainted.

Rojif slowly reached into his pocket and drew out the book once more, front down. He paused—gripping it tight—before quickly flipping it over. He could make out a single word on the cover. Not Rojif. Not his name. Just . . . Rules. He stared at it with a blank expression . . . Rules? Not his name—it said rules? And that meant . . . that his name wasn’t even real, just something his mind had made—it was fake. His name was the one thing he thought he’d carried out of his fractured past, and it was nothing but a lie. His thoughts wavered, unsure how to react to this revelation, so he opened the book instead.

There lay words on the page, but this time words he could understand. It wasn’t much—just a title and six short lines—but as he read them, each line left him more disturbed:

You are in January:

Deliver files on time to the employees

Do not disturb the employees

Focus on the wall. Keep calm

Time will pass in a strange way. Endure

Do not sleep

Please reach December

Rojif read the lines again a couple of times. Deliver files? Focus on the Wall? What did it mean by him being inside January? He didn’t even understand what rule four meant. Do not sleep—that one lingered. It wasn’t a suggestion—no, it was a command. Was that even possible? December . . . Was that the end? It wasn’t part of the rules, maybe it was optional. But that Please . . . it felt deliberate, it felt personal. Who had left this book for him? Forget the dilemma of his fake name. What these rules were describing, what would happen if he were to break one?

The printer’s coughing up of files wasn’t random—it was part of his task. He was the delivery boy, and that’s what this place wanted from him. He almost laughed at the simplicity of it. Almost.

How long would this role last though? He hadn’t seen a clock anywhere in this office, how would he measure the passing of time? The rules said January—a month, then? But what about after? Was there going to be a February too? Was that going to task him as a doughnut boy? All up until December, all twelve months?

He forced his mind back to the present. Pink One’s pursuit made sense now; he hadn’t delivered his files on time—he’d broken a rule. The conclusion bore down on him: this wasn’t optional. If he wanted to live another day in this place, every worker, every file, had to be met. On time. Always. Either that, or he could try outrunning them . . . and win the gold medal in futility.

Never go to sleep . . . he’d deal with that when the time came. Right now, he needed to work. Files needed delivering. The distance from the printer to the occupied cubicles wasn’t much, but the first time he walked down the aisle, it had felt stretched somehow, like the space itself didn’t want him moving too fast. Nothing here was simple.

Still, there was one more thing he needed to figure out—that ringing bell. The rules had been silent on that. Silent, too, on what it meant when the workers moved after it. Could there be things the book didn’t even mention?

He looked up just in time to see White Collar turning down the far aisle, the same way Pink One had gone. The job could wait a little longer; first he needed to figure out where the workers went after the bell.

Rojif began jogging down the aisle. Once again, the distance seemed to warp, and the cubicles started closing in. He ignored this and kept his eyes locked on the far wall until he reached it. His breathing was heavy, though the exhaustion didn’t bite as sharply as before. Rule three made sense now. Something inside him was adjusting, bending itself to this place—maybe he was getting used to everything going on here.

The paths on either side of him were empty, so he went up to the sunshine-yellow door leading to the break room and turned the handle, letting it swing inwards impulsively.

Around the table sat four workers: Red One, Blue One, a worker in a purple shirt he hadn’t seen before, and Pink One. Each dug into their meals from packages taken from the vending machine, which White Collar himself was crouched in front of now. The faint crinkle of wrappers filled the air where small talk should have also been—it felt oddly quiet.

All five of them turned to look at Rojif when he entered the room—the rustling of plastic ceased, and all bodies turned stiff. He chuckled nervously but stood in place, body poised to flee—until he noticed their faces. They had numbers on them. Rojif stared at each one in turn, they were figures he could now understand. Pink had 1, Red 367, Purple 28, Blue 449, and White Collar had 500 on him. Did they mean something, or were they randomly assigned? Did they demonstrate authority?

As he contemplated, the workers turned back and resumed their casual lunching . . . all except for one. Pink One held its stare for a little while longer. Even as he eventually turned away, the weight of that hostility was palpable. Was Pink One holding a grudge against him? He certainly thought so.

He approached White Collar, who pushed in some buttons before rising to his feet and stepping back, cupping his hands in quiet expectation. The vending machine hummed in answer. Everything in this office was scaled for lives that weren’t theirs, built to fit someone more . . . normal—not these towering behemoths. It was somewhat amusing seeing a giant use a machine that barely reached its waist.

He watched as the machine stopped trembling and a package was pushed out of its shelf, slowly, only to get absorbed into the glass in front of it and bleb off to the outside, right into White Collar’s waiting hands. Rojifs gawked at the sight. Wasn’t it supposed to drop into the bottom tray so a person could reach in to get it? The motion was wrong, but he couldn’t say why. Rojifs blinked, trying to reconcile what he knew with what he saw. Were his memories of the vending machine wrong?

His stomach began to protest with low, insistent growls. He had nothing—no token, no coin, nothing the others seemed to have—but he had to do something. Desperate, he ran over beside White Collar, who was heading toward the table, and waved his hand.

“Hey man, you got anything to spare? I’m kinda broke, I don't really have any money on me, and uhm, I got a job ahead. I’ll pay you back though”

White Collar gave Rojif a glance but continued to walk on, ignoring him, before pulling out a chair and sitting down beside Pink One.

Rojif’s eyes lingered on them as they ate. They would lift a piece in their hands, push it into their faces—hand and all—and then it was gone. They didn’t have mouths, where was it going? Did they even need it? The food didn’t look very appealing, but it was solid, and solid was what he wanted more than anything else now. He couldn’t even bear to glance at the cabinet tap—the memory of the jiggling, unholy liquid made him shudder.

He considered sneaking a piece from one of the workers’ packages, but rule two whispered in his mind, “Do not disturb the employees”. Stealing food . . . would probably fall under that, and he wasn't about to test it. Rojif remembered his first encounter with White Collar, did that not count as him disturbing an employee?

Pink One’s head suddenly jolted up and turned directly toward him. Rojif met his stare. Is it finally time for the big showdown? Right here, right now? Surrounded by a battalion of swivel chairs? He was tired of running; it was time someone taught Pinky a lesson or two in workplace etiquette.

Then Pink One stood up from his chair . . . Rojif recalled something a wise man had once told him: “A smart warrior knows when to flee.” Who that man was, his memory shrugged, but he sounded pretty wise. Rojif turned to bolt, but stopped when he saw Pink One stand still and lift an arm to point at something.

Following the gesture of his crooked finger, Rojif’s eyes landed on a small, black rectangle hung on the wall high above the cabinets, too far to see clearly. He cautiously approached the wall opposite the unknown object, keeping Pink One in his vision. He made his way to a spot where he could get a better view before snapping his head up to inspect it—a digital timer.

15:23 was what it read, ticking down by the second. So it seemed there was a device that could track time in this office. But why a timer—and why had he noticed it only now? More importantly; where were the clocks then?

The realization unfolded gradually. The timer . . . designated the time they had left for their break. Somehow, the bell had overridden the punishment for his earlier mistake, pulling the workers away—compelling them to fulfill their duty and attend the lunch break.

14:59. Wait . . . and so that meant . . .

Rojif watched as each worker slowly lifted an arm to point at the timer, one after the other, until finally White Collar, too, did the same. All of them held their posture in unison, locked in place. His eyes darted between them and the timer.

14:51. His pulse started to rise, this wasn’t just a friendly gesture telling him the time . . . they were telling him the time he had left.

14:47.

Rojif dashed towards the door, flinging it wide open before barreling down the aisle. Less than fifteen minutes. That was all he had before the break ended—and then they would search for him. Stupid. Idiot. Stupid. Why had he wasted time lounging around in the break room knowing he had broken rules which brought consequences . . . consequences which would murder him.

He needed to deliver files to five employees. Four of them were somewhere in this aisle where he’d also first arrived, but Purple One—he had no clue where his cubicle was. Just like before, the carpet seemed to warp underneath him, and the cubicles condensed. The wall at the far end remained fixed in his vision, but he struggled to center his mind—it had succumbed to panic.

Rojif arrived and stumbled to a stop, lungs burning, chest heaving, sweat trickling down the sides of his head. It was worse this time. He had kept the wall in sight, but that wasn’t enough. Rojif didn’t know if he could make it through again. He had to drag his mind into alignment too, force it to center—or risk never making it across.

Rojif hurried over to the printing machine. It had gone quiet, waiting patiently for someone to relieve it of the burden it was carrying. He examined the stack of thick files—there was no way he could carry them all at once and make it on time. He quickly devised a plan: take some files to each worker first, giving them something to work on, and then continue delivering the rest. Smaller loads meant quicker trips and reduced the possibility of any one of them running out of files.

Rojif grabbed a few files, each stamped with the same heading: “Employee” and a number—1, 28, 367, 449, 500. Four files for each number. He stacked them carefully before lifting from below. It was hefty, and he was running on nothing more than jelly-water. Rojif heaved under its weight but managed to steady himself before setting off down the aisle. He took deep breaths as he walked, peeking out from the side of the stack at the wall on the other end. There was no point in running with this load. All he could do was maintain a steady pace and calm himself.

Thoughts intruded anyway: How much time is left? Where was Purple One’s cubicle? He pushed them down, letting only the rhythm of his steps and the wall’s monolithic presence guide him as he reached White Collar’s cubicle first.

Rojif only now noticed the small tag in front of the cubicle—500. He entered, lowering his stack onto the desk, carefully pulling out the ones for White Collar and setting them on the empty table beside the computer. Compared to the vast heap of files from his first meeting with White Collar, this pile was laughably small—a reminder of how little he could accomplish in a single pass. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do.

Rojif ignored the creeping doubt, forcing himself to gather the remaining files and push onward to Blue One’s cubicle. Same strategy—maintain pace, sync his breathing, and keep his head ordered. It seemed to be working: the floor no longer churned and the cubicles were composed. He allowed himself a brief moment of pride—for managing in this situation and finding a way to cross the aisle without the floor taking liberties with physics or turning into some grotesque abstraction.

The load was lighter now after leaving some with White Collar, but the relief was already fading—he was feeling it in his legs. One step. Two step. One step. Two step. Focus on the wall. Ignore everything else.

Rojif reached Blue One’s cubicle, quickly set the files down, and moved on. Red One was next. Pace. Keep your pace. Evenly spaced breaths. Don’t think about the timer. His breathing was growing louder, the ache in his legs spread upward, but he gritted his teeth and kept moving.

Rojif reached Red One’s cubicle—four files marked 367, straight to the table. He lingered for a second, tempted to rest, but decided against it. He needed spare time to search for Purple One’s cubicle, and right now, he had no idea how much he had left. One more stop in this aisle. Pink One. Don’t stop now, ignore the burn. He started walking. Eight files left. Just a few more. His throat felt baked, and the silence of the office pressed down harder with every step, accompanied only by his ragged breaths. Don’t stop. Don’t stop now. If he slowed, even for a moment, he thought the space itself might notice and drag him down even more.

Straight ahead was Pink One’s office, and just beyond it, the end of the aisle, with the yellow door not far off. He could almost feel their presence in the break room—the workers frozen in place staring at the timer, waiting for it to release them, waiting for it to tell them they were free . . . to hunt him.

Number 1—this was it. Rojif stepped into the cubicle and lowered his stack onto the desk. He was tempted to drop the files onto the floor and let their contents scatter for Pink One to pick up himself—he grinned at the thought. But rule two held him back, better not to risk it. He’d get him back another time, perhaps.

Rojif stepped into the aisle. Just one more left . . . but the thought carried no comfort. When he’d first walked the square perimeter of the office, he’d glimpsed rows and rows of cubicles which he hadn’t even entered yet. Until now, all his trips had been through the middle aisle where the other four workers were—the quickest route between the printer and break room. Cubicle number 28 could be anywhere. He’d have to check every single aisle and every cubicle in them as he worked his way across each one . . . impossible. He sifted through options in his head, but each one broke apart as time reminded him it wouldn’t work.

How many minutes were left? Rojif guessed three, maybe four. Enough to risk at least one other aisle, but he’d have to—the bell rang. It snapped his train of thought in an instant, shattering the prediction he had just made. He was out of time . . . they were coming. His chest tightened with the quickening pulse, his thoughts bleeding into one another until only despair remained, and one more thing . . . Please reach December.

Why now, of all moments, did that surface? He didn’t understand, but the weight of expectation pressed on him—someone was waiting, somewhere beyond this office, beyond January . . . in December. He still didn’t understand why these places were named this way, but was the someone in December behind all this? Or were they trying to help? Either way, Rojif felt falling here meant betraying someone. He didn’t like this feeling, he wouldn’t let that happen . . . not again.

There was no point in running away now, Rojif began jogging toward the break room—there was only one thing he could do now. His idea was based purely on speculation, a coin-flip wager disguised as strategy. If this goes wrong . . . at least it’ll be quick—I hope. Reaching the end of the aisle, he approached the break room door and stood in front of it. No noises could be heard from the other side. The office waited in anticipation for the emergence of its eternal occupants—everything was still. Deep breaths. Calm down. This . . . should work. The plan made sense to him—assuming this place, with all its odd rules and warped logic, would allow it to happen.

The handle slowly turned, the door opened without a sound, and a grey face emerged—Pink One. Rojif held his ground as the towering figure stepped out, glanced down at him, then turned away, heading back toward his cubicle. One after another, the rest of the workers followed in procession, their gaze passing over him but eliciting no reaction. Relief flickered—yes, the first part of his plan had worked.

But then the last figure appeared. Purple One. He stepped through and the door shut behind him with finality. This is where things might get difficult.

The first part of his plan relied on the assumption that each worker would need to examine their table for files before realizing Rojif had failed to deliver on time. But that might not be true—perhaps they could detect the presence of files in their cubicle without needing to check it out for themselves. If so, Purple One knew he had broken a rule . . . and that meant Rojif’s end would be inevitable, right here and now.

Purple One lingered for a moment before turning and walking down the path beside the wall. Rojif was right—but this was hardly the time to rejoice. Only the last part remained . . . it demanded stamina, and something far more crucial: sheer determination. He lined up the four files in his arms and set off after Purple One. The only brief moment of rest he’d been granted was while waiting in front of the break room door. Walking alone had been hard enough. Now he had to sprint to keep up.

Each stride was a fight against his own body—muscles burned and trembled, his breath came in uneven bursts. Adrenaline was the only thing keeping him in motion. The last stretch. Focus. He watched as Purple One turned a corner—this was it. With a surge of effort, Rojif pressed past his limits and swung around Purple One, shooting down the aisle. He didn’t need to search for number tags; any cubicle with a computer would be the one. Looking back, he saw Purple One approaching, not far behind.

He slowed himself just enough to glance into each cubicle. Left. Wall. Right. Wall. He kept his head composed and focused on the wall at the other end in between scans. Left. Wall. Right. Wall. Left. Wall. Right. Wall. Almost at the end—almost. It had to be these last few ones. Just a few more cubicles . . . and he reached it. He reached the end of the aisle. Rojif folded over and clutched his knees, panting. What the hell just happened? None of the cubicles had any computers in them—had he missed one in his desperate run? At the pace he was going, it seemed inevitable.

He looked up to see Purple One stop at one of the cubicles, mere steps from where Rojif stood at the aisle’s end, and walk in.

“No—stop!” Rojif screamed, scampering toward him. That had to be the one he’d missed. He reached just in time to see Purple One standing in front of his computer, staring at the empty table—then turning to look at him. Gripped by desperation, Rojif dropped three of the files while keeping one clutched in his hands, and hurled it towards the empty table, his last shred of strength propelling it forward—it landed, barely.

“H-Here’s your file sir… I-I sorry I was late” Rojif managed to say in between huffs. Please. Please work. Purple One lifted his arm . . . then let it fall. Calmly, he pulled out his chair and sat down. He reached over, grabbed the file on the table, tore it open, thumbed through the papers, and then began typing.

Rojif carefully picked up the files he’d dropped and placed them neatly on the table. It had worked—somehow, he’d managed it. He smiled weakly, feeling lightheaded. Lurching forward, he barely reached the trash bin next to Purple One before vomiting into it. Crap . . . this wasn’t good—he still had more files to move, and the four he’d delivered already would only buy him a little time. Wiping his face with his sleeve, he glanced up at Purple One, who was unconcerned about the mess. With a deep breath, Rojif got up and stepped out of the cubicle, heading back toward the printer.

Now, with some breathing room, Rojif could slow down—deliveries didn’t require him to run anymore. Some jelly water . . . didn’t sound bad right about now—later. He arrived at the printer and began taking up more files. It was alive now, churning out replacements for the ones he had already delivered. Grabbing four for each employee, he set off once more.

Reaching White Collar, he saw him almost finished with the first of the four files Rojif had delivered. He ran some calculations in his head: each round of deliveries corresponded to one file being completed by White Collar, who was his focus as the first to be delivered to, and therefore the first to finish. Though this wasn’t entirely accurate—his earlier delivery had been during the lunch break, when no one was working. Two at a time then, maybe. He needed to ensure each worker had files to work with at any moment.

Going through his deliveries, Rojif noticed his estimates held true. Each employee was going through files at the same pace. After a few more runs to keep them occupied, it was time to relieve his sapped body. Wheezing, he reached the break room door and turned the handle. The door swung inward, greeting him. He grabbed a cup, filled it with jelly water, and gulped it down. Bitter and metallic—unpleasant, but better than last time.

His gaze lingered on the packages inside the vending machine. He’d figure it out somehow, if this place followed rules—no matter how erratic—there must be a way for him to get food. Slumping into a chair, he closed his eyes, his neck dropping impulsively. Surely after what he’d gone through he deserved some rest now . . .

Do not sleep.

His eyes snapped open, remembering . . . Do not sleep. Above the cabinets, the timer he’d seen earlier was gone. No windows, no clocks—but his body told him it was late. One second of surrender could undo everything. Fight it. He struggled to keep his eyelids open. His mind was in a complete haze, his body begging for rest . . . but the deliveries. Just one minute, that’s all . . . then he’d . . .

…

?: January does not forgive those who rest their eyes… Endure.

…

Rojif gasped as his body jolted upright, toppling from the chair and slamming into the floor. Eyes wide, he scanned the room for someone. Familiarity. A voice? Someone had spoken—to him. Shaking his head, he rubbed his eyes. Had he actually fallen asleep? Panic surged. He scrambled up and sprinted for the door before stepping out of the break room. How long had he been out? Pink One was the closest from here. Rojif raced to his cubicle. Just when he thought he had a handle on this place, he’d blown it all up with a nap—idiot.

He arrived at Pink One’s and glimpsed inside. His pile of files was still there, only having gone through a few. Rojif let out a weary breath, it seemed he’d only dozed off for a minute. Everything was fine—but he couldn’t let that happen again. The printer had probably made more files by now, might as well deliver them while he could.

The boom of an intercom blasted throughout the office. Rojif flinched, startled. It didn’t sound like the break room bell, what now? A jagged crackle strained through the speakers, shifting pitch from low to high, then dipping somewhere in between. The cadence was abnormal, but melodic, like an instrument he’d never heard.

He glanced back at Pink One, who had risen and now stood motionless, listening, waiting for the command. What was the speaker saying? He could read the words and symbols in the office now, so why couldn’t he understand this?

The noises wavered, trailed off, then reemerged in a softer tone—steadier, as if the system were calibrating itself. Rojif concentrated, trying to make out anything he could understand, and at last, through the static, a fragment broke through:

“—tributions for Sarah’s birthday gift can be dropped off at reception. Thank you.”

. . . What? Who the heck was Sarah—and it was her birthday? He hadn’t seen any other doors or rooms during his time here . . . what reception?

As Rojif struggled trying to make sense of what he’d just heard, he noticed Pink One stepping out of his cubicle, walking calmly to the end of the aisle, and turning toward the break room. Rojif looked back and saw the other workers doing the same, leaving their cubicles and moving toward him.