Pink One

In an attempt to disperse his poignant thoughts, he pulled the book he possessed out from his coat pocket and laid it before him. The cover sat still under his gaze, the title no longer squirming. That, at least, was something. An improvement, maybe. He couldn’t tell if anything here was good or not.

He got up and left the room, the door swinging shut on its own behind him, as though eager to erase him from the place. He began walking along the perimeter of the office, down the path beside the wall. It wasn't nearly as hard as navigating between the cubicles in the aisles.

The place was shaped like a square, with neat rows of cubicles running parallel across the space. All the walls were bare, but on the side opposite the vending machine room—the break room as he now called it—stood a machine of another kind. It was a printer, or something like one. It loomed in a hideous shade of green, humming with a gravelly tone that never wavered. A tray at the center sagged under the weight of brown paper bundles—files stacked one atop another. Each bore the same twisting script he was already sick of seeing. There were no buttons—no panel. Nothing to press or push. It sat there, shuddering now and then as new files continued to slide onto the pile of its brethren. He didn’t bother opening them, knowing that whatever lay inside would be jargon to him anyway.

He made his way back to the spot where he’d first arrived. The white-collared man remained at his station exactly as before, working. The only difference was the stack of files beside him—it had shrunk. One after another, the man tore open a folder, extracted papers, copied its contents onto the glowing screen, then tossed it into the bin at his side. Rip. Copy. Toss. Over and over.

Rojif edged closer, peeking at the blue-lit screen. The same cryptic writing seared across it, a barrage of symbols that filled space but carried nothing. The man didn’t acknowledge him—not once—though his face seemed to flick toward the pile of files now and then. At one point, Rojif thought he heard something, a low, annoyed grumble spilling past that blank visage—and for some reason—he felt it was directed towards him. Frustration? Maybe.

He couldn’t keep putting this off. If he wanted answers, he’d have to talk to someone again—just not this one. Never again.

The man in the pink shirt with lilies came to mind—why, he wasn’t sure. Still, Rojif thought he looked a little more approachable compared to the others, and so he set off down the aisle once again, scanning each worker in their exclusive attire. It was the same situation all round; rigid arms, shuffling papers, rattling keys. The stacks of files were thinning everywhere—once imposing, now reduced to a fraction of their size. The work seemed to be ending. He wondered what they’d do once they finished.

At last, he reached the man in pink. Only one file remained in the pile. Rojif pictured him standing up afterwards, stretching, and leaving the office. There was a strange comfort in the thought. He stepped inside, steadied himself, and announced loudly, “Hello, sir. Can you help me out? I’m kinda lost, don’t really know where I am.” He marveled at his own gallantry compared to the last attempt. Surely this time his request was intelligible.

No reaction. The worker ignored him and tore through the last file, moving quicker than before. Rojif waited obediently. Finally, the man punched in the remaining words and tossed the last paper into the bin. His hands stayed on the keyboard, but they were still now. For anyone else, it may have been nothing. For Rojif, who had grown accustomed to the ceaseless hammering of keys, it was like the air itself had gone wrong.

The man turned, first to the empty table, then to him. No eyes—but somehow Rojif felt his gaze boring right through him. The moment of being properly acknowledged—at last—was strange. He had expected it, yet expectation did not prevent his thoughts from scattering, desperate to escape that hollow stare.

“Th-thank you for finishing your work, now can . . . uhh, well if you’re on break then I-I guess I’ll just find someone else?” No—not like this. He should be seizing this moment, wringing answers out of it, not tripping over apologies.

Pink One rose from his seat. The movement alone was jerky, erratic, but what truly unsettled Rojif was scale—his face reached the level of the man’s waist. Seated, his figure had already been formidable; now, standing, his height felt unnatural, the ceiling itself bending in submission to accompany this transformation.

Pink One raised a hand, pointing toward the empty table, then leveled it on Rojif. He held it there. He didn’t move. Rojif shifted in place, uneasy. Something about this was off. This was a mistake—he shouldn’t have provoked him.

"Uhh… o-ok, I’m sorry. I shouldn't have disturbed you . . . look I’ll leave now, alright?" Rojif stammered, backing away. He blinked once—and when he opened his eyes he saw outstretched fingers inches from his face.

A hoarse scream tore from his throat as he stumbled backward—barely avoiding the grasp—and began sprinting down the aisle. The mere sight of these abnormal men had terrorized him, but now—now one was chasing him. The aisle seemed to stretch, the cubicles bending and twisting around him. His heart thudded in slow motion, each pulse rattling his ribs. Sweat poured into the corners of his eyes. Every second stretched. His legs felt frail, threatening to forsake him at any moment.

Rojif couldn’t think. Breath hitched, thoughts scattered—he couldn’t remember how to inhale properly. He choked on his spit as his legs finally gave way. He collapsed, rolling along the floor, the world spinning violently around him. Through blurry eyes, he saw Pink One advancing. He wasn’t even rushing—more so strolling with leisure. It would have been less horrifying if he was running, but each step was three times his own, effortlessly closing the space between them.

Desperate, Rojif threw himself into a nearby vacant cubicle, scrambling under a table and pressing himself against the carpeted floor, gasping. Eyes wide, body shaking—the pounding of steps grew closer as he tried to stifle his cries.

From where he was, Rojif watched as Pink One’s legs stopped just outside the cubicle, lingering for a moment before his feet turned towards him. He held himself tighter, but an involuntary gasp slipped past his lips. The man stepped into the cubicle and crouched, lowering his face to meet Rojif . . . he couldn't hold it any longer. His scream broke through the tense silence as slender fingers made their way towards his face.

A shrill ringing blasted through the office, cutting off his scream mid-breath. The sound consumed him—so piercing, that for a moment, he forgot the thin, dead fingers wrapping around his throat. Then the pounding began. It was in his skull—small, insistent thumps that quickly swelled until they drowned out thought itself. His head seemed to fracture like glass, little needles embedding themselves in every corner of his mind.

He no longer knew what he was doing, where he was… what he was. It was hurting . . . his head was hurting . . . his head was hurting him. He wanted to die—die now. His eyes rolled back, he let out a soft groan, and the world collapsed into black.