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The fact that the day would be damn difficult was obvious even to an idiot — one only had to glance at the calendar.
February 14th. Saint Valentine’s Day.
Leith had been hypnotizing that mark on the triangular desk calendar for the last… twenty minutes? He could’ve checked the clock — it wasn’t that far — but for some reason the little square with the number “14” was far more interesting. Interesting enough that he’d literally laid down on the desk, folding his arms under his head, staring at it without looking away all this time.
A disgusting day. Absolutely disgusting.
When he stepped out of the shower and turned on the television to find the new advertisement for their factory — and with it, another reason to go tear into the marketing department — the entire televised world seemed to have lost its mind. Every channel was drowning in madness of red, white, and pink hearts, and sugary nonsense about tender relationships. He felt like vomiting at the sight of those smiles — bright on the outside, but filled with nothing but hollow pretension underneath. When he crossed the factory threshold, he found himself once again — he’d lost count of how many times — considering going down to the lower floors and asking one of the guards for a gun.
It wasn’t like he hadn’t expected the commotion. After all, he worked at a toy manufacturing company. They gave tours, and it was only natural that for this holiday the factory would redesign its decorations — cardboard displays, mascot appearances, even the tour programs — into a festival of cotton candy and plush hearts. He’d even taken part in it himself — reluctantly, of course. But seeing employees exchanging gifts, and then spotting two idiots kissing around a corner, nearly made him clutch his chest.
When he finally reached his office and shut the door behind him, he sighed in relief. But the moment he turned around, everything went straight to hell again — Stella was standing there, judging by her posture having just placed a box of chocolates on Sharon’s desk.
This day was a complete nightmare.
— Heeey, don’t be mad! I brought you a gift too — Stella laughed as always, pointing at a handmade paper flower tied with ribbon, with a strange paper face attached to it—something between a chihuahua and a battered cat—and a couple of candies on the desk. Leith smiled gratefully, while mentally calculating the losses in colored paper and glue the blonde had wasted trying to cobble together this… gift.
He didn’t actually hate the whole world. He didn’t care about other people, or the atmosphere, or the absence of valentines on his own desk. The man simply did not understand this holiday. A stupid, utterly stupid and useless date on a triangular calendar. True love, if it existed at all, was an exceptionally rare phenomenon, and therefore all this enormous reverence and glorification on this day made absolutely no sense. And what was the point of stupid cards, chocolates, and gifts? Were people truly so foolish that they would rush to kiss someone who handed them a crooked piece of paper, and believe that it was fate?
How horrible. No, Leith did not understand this madness.
Perhaps that was why he now sat completely alone, hypnotizing the calendar.
Fortunately, Sharon’s phone call saved him from spending a full hour locked in a staring contest with the triangle. He flinched, lifting his head as if he’d been asleep all this time. He hadn’t even noticed that a couple of curly strands had fallen into his eyes. Brushing them aside, he reached for the receiver. His body had gone stiff, and for the first time he felt old. As if things couldn’t get worse.
— I hope you called to explain why the hell you’re still not at your workplace? — Pierre glanced at the clock from the corner of his eye and realized he’d arrived earlier than necessary. Still, he couldn’t let her get comfortable, or else she’d end up like—oh God, he remembered his name now… the day could officially be declared ruined—Rich.
— I’m sorry, Mr. Pierre… — The voice on the other end sounded far too guilty. That was never a good sign, Leith was certain. And, as it turned out, he was right.
— I wanted to warn you that I’ll arrive closer to noon. I have… urgent matters, I’m sorry… — The girl spoke almost in a whisper.
Leith nearly tore the phone cord out—especially when he heard the oven door clicking in the background. Sharon seemed to realize he’d heard it too, and faltered awkwardly. Her anxiety was audible through the receiver, and that aura of guilt was yet another one of the billion things that irritated Pierre.
It took him half a minute to bite his tongue before hissing out his reply.
— You have until one o’clock. If you’re even a minute late, you won’t set foot in this company again.
A relieved sigh came from the other end. She was lucky the phone couldn’t transmit his gaze—otherwise she’d feel like she was inside that oven herself, only worse.
— Thank you, Mr. Pierre!! I swear I’ll be there on time.
— You’d better keep that promise.
He hung up without saying goodbye. Not that Sharon would’ve expected anything else.
He leaned back in his chair, burying his hands in his curly hair.
Not a day, but one endless headache and horror.
The fact that he now had to leave his office to retrieve the latest experiment results from Sawyer—since there was obviously no one he could send in his place—made the situation ten times worse.
Leaving his quiet, peaceful office felt like a terrible idea. And considering that the path to the doctor’s laboratory ran through Playcare, where they had undoubtedly set up some Valentine-themed nonsense for children, it was nothing short of catastrophically awful. And yet, the head of the innovation department had little choice — in fact, no choice at all. He needed those papers, and the great scientist Sawyer would certainly never bother crawling out of his poppy-reeking office. His ego and obsession with experiments were far too enormous for him to poke his pale nose outside the lab doors.
Leith ground his teeth. He’d hired him himself, after all.
He remembered how cautiously Elliot had spoken about the young man from the gifted program.
“He lacks humanity,” he’d concluded, distantly, staring at the tabletop with quiet concern.
Leith had scoffed inwardly back then.
As if any of them had ever had enough of it.
The door slammed shut loudly.
Leith made his way to the laboratory as quickly as possible. The festive decorations still made him want to scream hysterically, and the feeling only grew stronger with every second spent on the factory floor. So he sighed with faint relief when he finally reached the dark corridors, free of any trace of greeting cards.
The laboratory sector always felt cold — whether because of the countless refrigerators storing compounds, or the ominous atmosphere itself, or the eerie scientists drifting back and forth like ghosts. Pierre found a strange comfort here, far from the bustle of the upper floors, in the sinister webs of the research center corridors.
It was an almost freezing, dreadful calm — the kind you feel walking alone through an empty cemetery in the fog.
It was the most horrifying place in the factory.
And yet, to him, it was far better than all those bright and colorful rooms above.
Perhaps it was because, unlike the colorful facade above, everything down here was real.
Scientists didn’t greet each other—they rushed past without a word, and that was one of the things Leith liked. No unnecessary conversation. Only work, here and now, always, without pointless social chatter. He would’ve bet that at least part of that was Harley’s doing, with his impossible personality and obsessive attitude toward his work. Leith liked that. He liked, in general, that they didn’t hide the madness they practiced. They weren’t saints, and there was no reason to pretend otherwise.
He approached the familiar, worn door of the office with quick steps. It didn’t open on the first try—Leith was almost certain Harley had broken the hinges by punching it in anger after yet another failed experiment. Sawyer had even had to wrap his hand in bandages. Though afterward, he’d said he actually preferred the door sticking—it was useful in case he needed to quickly hide documents or test tubes.
Leith stepped inside, dragging his feet loudly to announce his presence.
Harley sat at the desk, absentmindedly clicking something on the computer. He hated entering data into the electronic database just as much as dealing with paper documents, constantly complaining to the head of innovation that anyone else could do that job, and that he should be left alone. So his face seemed to brighten slightly at the sight of Pierre. Of course, Leith noticed it purely by accident. He certainly wasn’t searching for those subtle changes in Harley’s expression again and again.
— Well, well, if it isn’t the Head of Innovation himself, in my humble laboratory! — he mocked, clearly having noticed Leith’s irritated expression and finding it a perfect excuse to play with his fragile nerves again. — To what do I owe the honor?
Pierre rolled his eyes. Communicating with Harley was nearly impossible. He provoked him, drove him to trembling anger and steam out of his ears. And yet, Leith would’ve preferred him over everyone else in that colorful hole. Especially now, when the factory was draped from bottom to top in irritating cards.
He smiled faintly, but quickly suppressed it, walking over to Sawyer with a scowl.
— The experiment results. I hope you prepared them in between inventing stupid jokes and violating whatever safety protocols you hadn’t broken yet.
Harley rolled his eyes but stood up, walking over to retrieve something from a shelf. The lamp in the office flickered slightly, as if in rhythm with his steps.
— Does the Head of Innovation not like jokes? Or is he simply not in the mood today? — Harley smirked mockingly, reaching for the folder. Leith shuddered involuntarily. Not in the mood. That was putting it mildly. He was going to get a migraine from all those decorations. — It is a holiday, after all.
Leith nearly howled.
— Don’t you dare mention it.
— Why not? It’s your holiday! — Pierre’s stone expression was difficult to put into words, but Harley immediately burst into loud laughter. — Happy Mentally Ill Day, Mr. Pierre!
The Head of Innovation felt a burning need to throw something at the scientist. The first thing that came to hand—unfortunately for Harley—was a wrench lying on the desk for reasons unknown.
— Ow! — he was still laughing, rubbing his shoulder. — You’re especially angry today. You really should take care of your nerves, Mr. Leith!
— Shut up while you still can — Pierre muttered darkly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. — I’m sick enough without your pathetic humor.
— You’re not of this world! Did you know even prison guards hung hearts on the walls?
— THEY DID WHAT? — Leith nearly shouted hysterically. Who would even think of doing something that idiotic?
Sawyer smiled, retrieving the correct folder and handing it to him. Everything about Leith’s opinion of the holiday was written plainly across his face, black and white, left to right. Harley was almost certain that if you handed him a gun, he’d either shoot everyone on the planet or himself. Truthfully, the scientist didn’t like Valentine’s Day either. More precisely, he saw no point in it at all. That was why there wasn’t a single decoration in the laboratory, not even a hint of greeting cards. Distractions weren’t part of the Doctor’s rules, and he could understand the gloomy expression on the Head of Innovation’s face.
But an irritated Leith was interesting to Harley, and he had no intention of stopping.
— I don’t know which geniuses did it, but I think you should go check. I doubt the experiments appreciated it — Sawyer chuckled.
— I have no desire. Let Eddie deal with it — Leith replied flatly, examining the folder.
— Does the festive atmosphere bother you? Or are you sad because nobody gave you a valentine?
— I don’t like loud words or people slacking off — Pierre snapped, smacking the folder against Harley’s head and leaving before he could respond with something equally sharp.
Harley really did want to say something as the door slammed shut. He glared at it, irritation simmering in his chest, along with a growing urge to provoke Leith even further.
And he had an idea.
He wasn’t allowed to run experiments on a holiday because of the influx of visitors, right…?
***
Sharon arrived on time. Leith was standing in the mini-kitchen, brewing coffee, when she walked in, cheerfully saying goodbye to someone behind her. Judging by the voice—it was Marcus, the hysterical one, whom she apparently got along with very well.
When she turned and saw Pierre, her expression changed instantly—first confusion, then fear, and finally an attempt to calm herself and wipe the smile off her face.
Against the background of the kitchen decorated with hearts and red-and-white ribbons—and even the damn coffee machine decorated (someone—Pierre was almost certain it was Stella—had covered it in rhinestone hearts)—Leith’s displeased expression looked even gloomier than usual.
Smiling was a terribly bad idea.
— M-Mr. Pierre! — she falters awkwardly. — I thought you were in your office.
— And I thought you’d go straight to your workplace instead of chatting with everyone you meet on the way, considering you already missed half the workday.
Sharon lowers her head in embarrassment, despite having arrived slightly earlier than the agreed time. In any case, it’s foolish to argue with Leith—especially when his mug is filling with hot coffee and could fly straight at you the second you open your mouth.
They stand in awkward silence for about a minute, until the coffee machine signals the drink is ready, and the girl suddenly perks up and quickly reaches into her bag.
— Here, this is for you! — she holds out a carefully wrapped muffin, decorated with delicate icing patterns. On top sits a note: “For Mr. Pierre,” and the sounds of the oven from their earlier phone call suddenly make perfect sense.
— I made several of these for people close to me in the company — she smiles. — Rich and Avery already got theirs, Marcus just did too… That leaves you, Stella, Rowan, and a couple people in other departments. Maybe you could also give these two muffins to Mr. Ritterman and Mr. Sawyer? I couldn’t find them — she looks at the pastries with quiet pride.
Leith stares at the muffin.
Sickeningly sweet.
Sickeningly delicious.
A sickening waste of her working hours.
Sharon bites her lip awkwardly, seeing no reaction.
— I… it’s a holiday today! I thought it would be nice… to give out gifts…
— Thank you, — Leith says.
She jerks her head up, eyes wide, mouth slightly open. “Thank you” was the last thing she expected to hear. She’d been prepared for “And this is what you wasted your work hours on?” or “Seriously?”—anything but that.
She smiles.
— Don’t lie and say you consider me someone close. I wouldn’t believe that nonsense for a second. Consider yourself pardoned today, since if I kill you on Valentine’s Day, upper management and the visitors probably wouldn’t appreciate it — Sharon laughs nervously, unsure if he’s joking. Leith grinds his teeth, attributing his mercy solely to not wanting to hear Stella’s complaints later. — And no mentioning the holiday. I’ve already spent half the day losing my mind because of these idiotic decorations and the idiots in the hallways.
— Yes, boss — Sharon nods.
Pierre finally picks up his mug, letting her move to the coffee machine as he heads toward the exit.
— Bring the muffins for Eddie and Harley to my desk. Stella should be in Playcare—they’re running another idiotic children’s event themed around—you know what holiday — he says, standing in the kitchen doorway. — By the way, she left something on your desk this morning. Tell your beloved that if I ever see her enter my office without authorization again, then the next time she falls asleep during a meeting, no one will cover for her so Eddie doesn’t throw a tantrum.
He leaves and shuts the door before the girl—her face flushed red at the mention of the gift—can respond.
There was still far too much work to deal with their nonsense.
He climbs the stairs back to his office, trying with all his strength to ignore the bright heart decorations on the walls, which seemed even more numerous than before, and enters with undisguised relief.
A cup of hot coffee and silence, without those eye-sore valentines — that was all he needed for a perfect next couple of hours.
Leith sets the mug on his desk and stretches, rolling his neck a few times to loosen the stiffness.
And then his eyes fall on a folded sheet of paper, placed directly on his keyboard.
He freezes for a few seconds, processing.
His workspace was usually spotless (unless he’d been throwing papers around in anger — but it didn’t matter, Sharon would clean it anyway), and he never left documents anywhere except the designated tray. Someone had been here while he was gone. And that was strange, because everyone knew that if neither Leith nor his secretary were present, God help anyone who entered his office without permission.
Pierre picks up the paper, expecting another note from Eddie or Harley—or, God forbid, Stella, since they were the only ones bold enough to enter uninvited.
And he freezes again when he unfolds it.
In the center of the page was a horribly drawn Huggy, its arms folded into the shape of a heart. Inside the arms, in a handwriting he knew far too well, was written:
“Playtime Co. cares about its employees, and wishes that on this festive day, everyone may fully experience the atmosphere of such a great occasion! Therefore, I invite you to participate in this wonderful quest, designed by the great mind of our factory (me!!), so that you may immerse yourself completely in the world of love-candy-gum and receive lots of positive emotions, instead of walking around gloomier than a thundercloud! The next clue is on Sharon’s desk.”
For the first two minutes, Leith rereads the note, completely bewildered.
Then he tears the drawing in half and throws it into the trash, boiling with rage.
A quest? A QUEST?!
Was he mocking him?!
Leith slams his fist into the wall. He can practically see Harley laughing as he wrote those lines. Pierre would skin him alive. Did he seriously have nothing better to do?! Had he lost his mind?! The audacity!
He drops into his chair and rolls toward the desk so fast he nearly knocks the breath out of himself hitting the edge with his stomach.
No way in hell he was playing along. Sawyer had gotten far too carried away.
But when he turns on the computer, his anger reaches its peak.
Instead of the usual lock screen, he’s greeted by a colorful image of the cartoon rabbit Bonzo, with a caption below:
“I knew you’d try to ignore my quest. No! That wouldn’t be interesting—it would be rude to ignore my efforts for you, oh Mr. Leith! I changed your computer password (seriously, Mr. Pierre, the Head of Innovation using ‘1’ as a password?), and now you’ll have to complete the quest to unlock it! The password will be in one of the notes, so if you want to return to work anytime soon, I suggest you go to Sharon’s desk and look for instructions!”
The mug—fortunately empty—flies into the wall, shattering into pieces.
Leith practically hisses, red as a tomato with rage. He will not leave that creature alive. That idiot will be personally fed to Boxy—no, to Mommy Long Legs!—alive and in the most horrific way possible! Who the hell did he think he was, digging around in his computer—the computer of the Head of Playtime Co.?!
Pierre shoots a crazed glare toward Sharon’s desk. He could storm into the laboratories, screaming and destroying everything in his path—but he wants to strangle that bastard with his own hands.
He rushes to the desk and tears off the note taped to the monitor with a rough yank.
“Glad you agreed to participate! I hope this quest makes you tremble, scream, and break cups!”
Leith digs his nails into his own palm in fury. He’s openly mocking him.
“The next clue is in the Huggy Hall.”
Pierre crumples the paper viciously, almost imagining the idiot’s face in its place—the idiot who dragged him into this. He would regret it. He would regret it dearly.
He storms out of the office, leaving Sharon to deal with the broken mug shards.
***
If Harley chose Huggy Hall specifically to anger Leith, then Leith is almost ready to applaud him.
Although he’d rather applaud him head-first into a table.
Pierre feels like he needs a gun more than at any other moment in his life when he sees the hall, drenched in decorations, with the giant furry Huggy in the center, somehow adorned with a cord and a dangling heart around its neck. The way the tour guide enthusiastically tells the children and their naive, soft parents about the holiday makes Pierre want to clutch his chest.
This is literally the worst possible place to look for clues.
When he had stormed into the laboratories earlier, Sawyer had vanished. No one had seen him since Leith left that morning. In the scientist’s office, the Head of Innovation, shaking with fury, found only a note: “Don’t be boring.”
Pierre had wanted to scream and destroy everything—but Harley was a clever bastard, and between his idiocy and Ritterman’s irritated face, Leith would prefer the former. At least punching the Doctor would be more satisfying.
And so now, the Head of Innovation stands in the garish hall.
He tries to remain unnoticed as he approaches Huggy, searching for even a hint of folded paper. That part is easy, given the number of people.
What’s much harder is actually seeing anything. Between the countless bright decorations and the swarms of children running everywhere, Leith can barely make anything out.
He stumbles, nearly knocked over by a group of ten-year-olds, and exerts incredible effort not to start swearing on the spot.
He doesn’t like children. He doesn’t like people in general. He would much rather spend time in his office, or the laboratories—anywhere—rather than working with children like Stella does. Pierre struggles to understand what the blonde finds so wonderful about listening to their whining and screaming every day, playing stupid games with them.
What irony that he works for a toy factory.
Finally, he spots a note taped to a panel displaying Huggy’s history. He approaches carefully, grabs it, and quickly leaves the hall before the guide notices him and draws the group’s attention.
The last thing he needs is to fake smiles and congratulate children and their parents on the holiday. If Harley or Stella saw that, they’d record it and torment him with the footage forever.
Pierre leans against the wall and unfolds the crumpled paper with tense hands.
Inside is another crooked drawing — this time Kissy, as if someone had tried to recreate the safety rules banner.
“Hope you got knocked over at least once on the way! If not, that’s unfortunate—but congratulations on finding the first clue! There won’t be a password here, so don’t even think about backing out. Let’s continue!
Your least favorite place in the factory. Very loud. Especially at a time like this!”
Leith grinds his teeth.
Least favorite place? He hated every department in this factory! Harley was an insufferable idiot. May his own creations bite his head off.
He exhales sharply, still seething.
He hates these games. Harley knows that perfectly well. That’s exactly why he started them—to drive Pierre insane.
It would be easier to go to IT—but that would mean admitting Sawyer had won, forcing Leith to give up and ask for help. And rumors would spread—another thing he despised with every fiber of his being.
The Doctor knew that.
The Doctor was a damn step ahead.
And that only made it worse.
From the corridor leading to the warehouse comes loud chatter, and suddenly Leith understands what Harley meant.
The warehouse.
Oh no.
No. No.
Pierre lets out a quiet, strained groan through clenched teeth.
That’s exactly what he was missing. The warehouse. Harley knew perfectly well where to send him to officially ruin his day.
Leith felt a powerful urge to hang himself every time he was told he needed to visit the warehouse. Even though the main problem—Rich—had long since been transferred out, nothing had improved. Every time, some genius would decide to repeat his feats, ranting about corrupt management and a terrible company, breaking or losing important crates.
Going to the warehouse was the worst part of his job.
And Sawyer—that bastard—knew it perfectly well.
Leith pushes himself off the wall, his expression darker than one could imagine.
Seeing Pierre in the warehouse is not a pleasant event—for anyone involved. Some of the more superstitious workers even say it’s an omen: “To meet Leith in the warehouse is a sign of a terrible day and lost shipments.”
When he appears in the doorway, his face twisted with irritation, the cheerful noise dies instantly.
The warehouse workers aren’t happy to see him. He isn’t happy to see them either.
Perfect. That suits everyone just fine.
The problem is, he has no idea where to look. Sawyer left no clues, and the warehouse is far too large to stand around searching aimlessly—if this is even the warehouse the scientist meant. Leith glares viciously, silently signaling the warehouse workers to get back to work instead of staring, and unfolds the paper again.
Aside from Kissy’s drawing, there’s nothing—no mention of which warehouse, no hint of where to search. He bares his teeth in irritation and approaches the first worker he sees, grabbing his shirt none too gently.
— Hey, you! Uh… Avery, right? — he reads from the man’s badge as he turns around. — Was Sawyer here?
— Yes, — he nods. — He asked us to move to another section of the warehouse. Did something, then left.
Pierre curses under his breath. Of course Sawyer denied him the chance to interrogate someone about the note’s location. The warehouse worker gives him a slightly displeased look and returns to work while the Head of Innovation finds himself with nothing to say. Eventually, Leith walks away, too angry to even comment on the heart-shaped box of cookies labeled “from Rich” sitting on Avery’s desk.
At least now he knows which warehouse.
He steps back, examining the walls.
Harley is smart. A complete bastard—but smart. He left clues. Pierre just hasn’t found them. Maybe the Kissy drawing? He doesn’t see a single poster of her on the walls, which only irritates him further. He’ll shove Sawyer’s own artwork down his throat when he finds him. Leith sits down on someone’s desk, ignoring the disapproving looks, studying the scientist’s scribbles over and over again.
The realization hits him only minutes later, and Pierre springs to his feet, ready to strangle Harley if his suspicion proves correct.
It does.
A strangely folded paper, shaped like an envelope, is taped directly behind the door.
Leith slaps his hand against his face.
Sawyer simply couldn’t resist mocking him here, too. Ever since the rules gained the line “do not hide behind doors to scare Leith Pierre,” Harley had taken every opportunity to do exactly that. He would appear from behind doors, speaking loudly and scaring the Head of Innovation half to death. No matter how much Leith yelled or cursed, the scientist never cared.
Of course he wouldn’t miss this chance either.
Leith doesn’t have the strength to explain or shout. He slams the door loudly as he leaves the warehouse, leaving everyone inside confused.
His desire to snap Harley’s neck is growing exponentially.
On the other hand, at least now it isn’t the factory decorations driving him insane.
Now it’s the Doctor doing that very successfully.
***
He only bothers to unfold the note after putting a great deal of distance between himself and the damned warehouse, half an hour later. Not that he was sitting in his office the entire time cursing Sawyer and trying to guess his computer password manually.
He simply had… things to do.
This time, there’s no mascot in the drawing. Instead, there’s a large light bulb.
“Heard someone say today that love is light—it shows the way, illuminates hearts, yada yada yada, just like you love to say… Doubt those people could handle high electrical voltage, but let’s take their word for it.
So! Your next stop, my most radiant little light bulb—the cafeteria!”
Leith exhales sharply, folding the paper. The cafeteria is better than the warehouse, at least.
He’s incredibly lucky Harley didn’t send him there during lunch hour. Or maybe he did think of it—and decided to show mercy. Though that’s completely unlike the Doctor. Leith would sooner believe Ritterman fell asleep during a meeting, or that Stella hated working in Playcare, than believe Sawyer possessed something as basic as conscience or pity. Not that Pierre himself possessed those things either. So the Head of Innovation simply accepts the fact that sometimes Harley isn’t a completely deranged bastard. Once every three billion years, and apparently, Leith hit the jackpot.
The cafeteria is almost completely empty. The few unfortunate souls lingering there outside lunch hours disappear quickly the moment they see the gloomy Head of Innovation standing in the doorway. “Your miserable face works like a special frequency for animals—it scares everything away for miles!” Harley had once laughed. That’s fine. Leith won’t let it slide. He’ll sic Ritterman on them deliberately. Though forcing those words back into Sawyer, with hands tightening around his pale throat and his choking cough, had been far more satisfying.
On the other hand, this is better. No one to stare at him.
Leith scans the cafeteria. “Light bulb.” If Harley expects him to unscrew a chandelier in broad daylight in front of the kitchen staff, the Head of Innovation will gladly beat him with it afterward.
Unfortunately, he understands the Doctor’s intentions better than he’d like. It takes only a few steps to notice the shadow cast onto the colorful tile beneath one of the lamps. Just perfect.
Leith grinds his teeth. A folded note is stuck between the ceiling panel and the lamp.
Pierre doesn’t even have the strength to sigh. He stares at the crumpled paper as if sheer hatred might pull it down without forcing him to humiliate himself by reaching for it. How the hell did Harley even get it up there? That Doctor is unbearable. Revolting. Insufferable—
— Mr. Leith? Do you need help?
He blinks several times. Through the dark spots dancing before his lamp-blinded eyes — and the emerging mental image of Harley suffocating under his steel grip — he recognizes Darwin Silva.
Darwin glances briefly at the paper, then looks back at the Head of Innovation.
Leith exerts the strength of three Huggy Wuggies just to force something resembling calm onto his face. Not works quite well. Perfect.
— Good afternoon, Mr. Silva, — he says through clenched teeth, doing everything he can not to snap. If he starts yelling at the head of Warrenbach Construction in the cafeteria, it will not reflect well on their cooperation. And Eddie would not be pleased. Not at all. And Pierre has absolutely no desire to deal with Ritterman as well. — I’m just… looking. Something seems to be stuck in the lamp.
— I saw — the builder nods, returning his gaze to the piece of paper. — Mr. Sawyer shoved it up there for some reason. Asked me for a ladder and a screwdriver, and, well… there it is. I don’t know what it was, but my folding ladder is nearby, so I can get it down if needed — he adds, as if already anticipating the request (in reality, the order) from the Head of Innovation.
For the first time that day, Leith thinks that not everyone in this world has conspired against him.
— Get it — he replies, and Silva simply nods, walking off to fetch the ladder. Leith frowns after him.
Silva is one of those people who doesn’t ask unnecessary questions and simply does what he’s told. That didn’t come without help, of course — Eddie made sure of that. But either way, it works in Pierre’s favor now, because Harley probably didn’t expect the Head of Worrenbach Construction to conveniently be in the cafeteria at this exact moment. More likely, he had expected Leith to have to search for something to climb on and humiliate himself in front of lower-ranking staff. Well. Not this time.
Silva returns quickly, placing the ladder beneath the lamp with a metallic clang that echoes through the cafeteria.
— Is this some new method of communication? Or another strange Playtime Co. tradition? — Darwin jokes, and Pierre barely restrains himself from unleashing a string of vicious curses.
— The former. Next time, Mr. Sawyer will be looking under the ceiling for his termination notice — he replies with complete seriousness.
It wasn’t a joke, but the builder likely didn’t realize that, because a dull chuckle comes from above as he unscrews the ceiling tile.
— Well — he says. — If you ever want to screw him to the ceiling in his office, call me. I’ve got another spare ladder! — he smiles, pulling out the folded note and handing it to Leith.
This time there’s something else besides the paper, but Pierre has no intention of examining it in front of Silva. Otherwise, the temptation to use the spare ladder improperly and earn himself another visit to the trauma clinic—on top of his already unpaid therapy bills—would be far too great.
He simply slips the paper into his jacket pocket, his gaze returning to the builder screwing the tile back into place.
— Thank you — he nods, and Darwin mirrors the gesture after a short delay. Gratitude is rarely heard from the Head of Innovation.
— May I ask why you’re in the cafeteria at this time? It isn’t lunch break — Leith cuts in, frowning at the builder. At least he’ll take out his frustration on someone today. No slacking off—doesn’t matter that the man just helped him.
Silva, cornered by the sudden question, looks away.
— I… actually, I was finishing an inspection of one of the sites during lunch break. There was an extra screw left over during the installation, we were checking where it belonged — he nervously adjusts his vest, slipping the screwdriver into his pocket. — That’s why I stopped by here later. Besides, I still have a couple more sites to inspect — he lowers his voice, frowning into nothingness. — Before I go to Mr. Ritterman.
Ah. There it is. Leith mentally wishes the builder luck. Successfully avoiding Eddie is impossible. At some point, either you come to him yourself, or he appears directly behind you—and it’s better if it’s the first option. Otherwise, Ritterman won’t let you off easy—and he’s often more terrifying than Pierre himself when he wants something. Especially when it concerns Silva. At work, and especially in the cafeteria, you can’t hide from him for long.
At least not when those cold, freezing eyes pick you out of the crowd and you don’t have the physical or mental strength to even try to move. Leith knows. Leith is lucky he has enough authority, nerve, and recklessness to stand his ground against Eddie Ritterman. If Pierre terrifies with aggression, Ritterman terrifies with deathly calm. And it’s unclear which is worse.
— Well then, return to work, Mr. Silva — the Head of Innovation nods.
He doesn’t even reprimand the builder for being in the cafeteria. Silva already has enough problems waiting for him with Eddie. And Pierre has his own idiot scientist to deal with.
Darwin takes the ladder and, throwing a sharp “Happy holiday!” over his shoulder, leaves the cafeteria, glancing around as he exits. Leith exhales in frustration.
For a moment, the idea of ordering coffee crosses his mind, just to make this running around more bearable — but if he looks at the cafeteria sign decorated with hearts, he’ll howl. So he hastily leaves as well, searching for the first empty corridor where he can see what else the soon-to-be-dead Doctor has come up with.
When he finally storms into an empty hall (or, more accurately, a hall that immediately empties at the sight of him), Leith reaches into his pocket. The crumpled paper is folded into a small envelope, and knowing Harley, that promises nothing good. Tearing paper, however, works as excellent stress relief. Pierre knows. Pierre tears reports like that every day.
A small packet falls out of the envelope, and the man quickly picks it up from the tiled floor.
From the paper, a poorly drawn red bear stares up at him—one whose name Leith doesn’t remember and doesn’t want to remember — and Pierre can only pray Harley hasn’t decided to send him to Playcare.
“You know, today everyone gives each other gifts. Flowers, candy, other sweet, stupid things… But I want to give you something you’ll actually need! I have some myself for when you come into the labs! You’ll need them—especially since your next clue is with Stella!”
Leith presses his forehead against the cold wall in a quiet hysterical fit. The fact that the packet contains earplugs doesn’t make him feel any better.
Playcare is his second least favorite place after the warehouse. He thinks about that as he descends in the suspended cabin. Playcare is different from everything else in the factory. It was created with Elliot’s sincere belief in the possibility of making people’s lives better—but instead it became the epicenter of hell, its origin and most rotten core. He hates this place, because here the amount of horrible lies reached an unimaginable level.
He feels no guilt — after all, their actions are for the good of humanity! But it would be so much easier without the awareness of how deeply the image is distorted behind such a beautiful facade.
He expects to see a huge crowd of children in the center of the pseudo-town, but he is still caught off guard by their sheer number. And by the number of absurdly bright decorations surrounding them. The festive Playcare makes his head spin with its size, its colorfulness, and for a few seconds Leith forgets why he’s here.
Stella waves at him cheerfully from the crowd.
He flinches and quickly makes his way toward her, stepping around the playing children. She smiles, holding a half-eaten muffin in her other hand.
— So you decided to stop by Playcare after all?
— Only because of Sawyer.
She nods and reaches into her jeans pocket.
— Here. He told me to give this to you when you arrived — she says, handing him the note, and Pierre nods gratefully. — Are you playing some kind of quest?
— Unfortunately — Leith sighs. — It’s called ‘find the idiot scientist and kill him, or go kill yourself instead’.
Stella bites her lip nervously.
— Well…have a good game, I suppose!! Tell Sherry her muffins are divine — she smiles widely, and Leith painfully remembers that he never did get his coffee and dessert.
Damn Harley. He’s not getting his muffin.
Playcare is cleared faster than the warehouse was, and that pleasantly surprises Leith. Not that he enjoys the game Sawyer started. Dragging him through all his least favorite places is cruel and underhanded. But it’s very much like Harley. And it involuntarily makes Pierre genuinely curious about what the scientist will come up with next.
He sits down on a bench in the ascending cabin and unfolds the new note.
It shows a drawing of Mommy Long Legs near a slide at the Game Station playground, and the Head of Innovation already knows where he needs to go.
***
The Game Station isn’t very different from Playcare, really.
The same huge number of swings and slides, the same bright walls and posters, the same noise, and shouting, and decorations, and… children. The same children.
Leith sighs. Sawyer is walking a very thin line, and he will pay for it.
Even though only one child can participate in a mini game at a time, the playground is always packed with kids waiting their turn to “play.” They run and laugh, knocking into scientists who barely manage to maintain what is generously called order. More than once, Leith had caught himself thinking it was almost amusing to watch—from above, from the observatory, where no one could see him, but he could see everything. The chaos below resembles an anthill—chaotic, strange, loud.
— Isn’t it fascinating? — Harley had once rambled, standing beside him, resting his forehead against the glass, staring down. In his hand was a report about some child whose name Leith hadn’t remembered—and not that it mattered. The paper bent against the glass whenever Harley, swaying slightly in satisfaction, gripped the clipboard too tightly. Pierre had only stared gloomily, head resting on the desk, watching the paper wrinkle more and more. He had been too tired then. Exhausted from endless meetings with investors. He hadn’t even managed to leave his office properly all day, let alone reach the labs, or even drink a cup of hot americano. At the end of the workday, after the partners had left the factory, Harley, holding two cups of coffee (a rare and shocking act of generosity, which made Leith think he’s hallucinating), had dragged him here under the pretense of filling out documents. They finished those in the first fifteen minutes. The remaining forty, Harley simply couldn’t shut up, rambling about everything and nothing, leaning against the glass and playing with the reports as if they weren’t BBI documents but meaningless drafts. Leith would have told him off, but he had been too tired. And the coffee had been enough of a bribe.
— Isn’t it fascinating? Those little figures down there? So small — and yet such a massive step for humanity! — A spark flickers in green eyes. Too familiar for the Head of Innovation. Madness. It never seems to go out. — Leith, isn’t it fascinating?
Leith doesn’t have a better answer than to simply shut the scientist up by grabbing him by his badge and pulling him into a kiss, not even bothering to lift his head from the cold desk. No one would see them here anyway. This observatory — covered in notes, cluttered with documents, suspended like dark mint high above the bright playgrounds — is the perfect place for words no one should hear, sights no one should see, and things no one should know.
Unfortunately, he isn’t up there now. And it’s far less amusing to be inside the noisy anthill himself. Leith pushes through the crowd toward the slides, trying with all his might to remain unnoticed. Oh, how he does not want some insane scientist to call out to him and introduce him to the children. The noise presses against his temples. He isn’t sure he wouldn’t kill such a kamikaze on the spot. Harley knows exactly how to torment him.
He manages to reach the slides without incident—aside from a few children pointing at him. Seeing someone without a lab coat here, besides Stella, is rare. Fortunately, one sharp glare at a nearby scientist is enough for him to quickly pull the children away. The note is hanging on the wall behind the slides, behind one of the drawings of Mommy Long Legs. It almost seems like Sawyer himself hadn’t wanted to linger here in the deafening noise. Typical of him. In any case, it works in Leith’s favor — he leaves the Game Station like a bullet, unwilling to remain there even a second longer.
He unfolds the note, leaning against the corridor wall, as far from the noise as possible. He expects another drawing. Instead, there is only text, and a small poppy flower, clearly torn from the laboratory flowerbeds.
“Congratulations! You found the password! Now the great Head of Innovation may return to his not-so-beloved work! I hope you enjoyed this humble quest and absorbed the atmosphere of this wonderful holiday!
— Harley Sawyer”
Leith frowns.
He rereads it again, flips the note back and forth, trying to find something else—but aside from the flower in his other hand, there is nothing new. And that’s it?
The password?
He stares at the crudely written numbers as if he’s never seen numbers before. One minute. Two. Five. Until something clicks in his mind with sudden realization.
This really is the end of the quest.
...
…Is he serious?
His fingers dig into the paper far too hard, driven by the familiar, rising fury inside him. Harley is playing with him. Playing with him, like a child plays, like a child that doesn’t know its place! He dragged him out of his office, wasted his working hours, led him through all the places he hates most, all decorated and festive, and all for this?! Leith went through this entire farce, he played by his rules, damn it! And all he gets is a stupid password with no explanation?! The scientist didn’t even bother to show up in person!
Leith clenches the note so tightly in his fist it feels like he might grind it into dust—or break his own fingers.
He should be glad about the password. He should just turn around and go back to his office, leave Sawyer and his idiocy behind, turn on the computer and forget about all of it, eat the damn muffin, and work. But no. Damn that Doctor! He knew exactly what he was doing. He knew perfectly well he was wasting someone else’s time! Worse — he knew Leith wouldn’t go to the IT department for help — his pride wouldn’t allow it! — and that’s exactly why he did all this!
And on any other day, maybe he wouldn’t be so mad — but today, of all days?!
No. No, damn it. He will not let this go.
— M-Mr. Pierre?
Leith gathers the last crumbs of his sanity so he doesn’t punch the wall — or more likely Sharon, who already seems to regret calling out to him. She clutches a folder of documents to her chest like a shield. As if papers would help her.
— S-sorry, I—
— Stop stammering like an idiot and speak. I’m not going to stand here all day — Pierre hisses. One more second of stuttering, of wasted time, and he will snap. Fortunately, Sharon realizes this quickly. She takes a deep breath and holds out the folder.
— …You asked yesterday for the production and sales reports on the toys. You have a meeting with investors tonight… I gathered almost everything. Only the ‘Nightmare Creatures’ reports are still with Mr. Ritterman — the secretary swallows nervously.
Leith clicks his teeth, irritated. Now he has to chase Eddie too. Wonderful.
God only knows where Ritterman disappears to and how to find him—his movements around the factory defy even the most basic logic. Which is useful when you’re hunting down violators, but unbearable when you’re trying to find the Head of Research himself.
He clenches his fists so tightly his knuckles turn white.
— You’d better find him before I return to my office — Pierre nearly growls, turning sharply on his heel and striding down the corridor.
— Where are you going?! — Sharon manages to call out, frozen with the folder still outstretched.
— If you find Eddie, tell him to make Sawyer explain where the hell he’s hiding! — he snaps back, and she blinks in confusion. — And take your damn muffin with you!
If Harley thinks playing with him is funny, then he will explain himself to Leith personally.
***
Silence is an absolutely beautiful thing.
The perfect environment to focus. The perfect environment to realize something is wrong. The perfect environment to descend deeper and deeper into the endless depths of your own mind and pull out the thought you need.
The perfect environment for laboratories.
The laboratories are always silent. During work. During breaks. Day and night. During operations and when nothing happens. Even when the monsters scream in agony and terror so loudly it makes you want to fall to your knees and scream yourself — when it feels like your ears will tear apart from the horrifying sound — the laboratories remain absolutely silent. It is an unspoken rule respected by every scientist. Silence is the key to success. And everyone follows it.
Silence is also an excellent way to know when someone is approaching you. Or, if you are observant enough — to know exactly who.
Harley excels at this.
The Doctor smiles. A smile so wide the Cheshire Cat himself would envy it. His office, saturated with the sickly-sweet scent of poppy flowers, lies half in darkness. Only a desk lamp illuminates the table scattered with notes — and their owner. Everything is silent. Except for footsteps in the corridor.
Footsteps!
Oh, Harley knows those footsteps. He has learned them well.
He quickly hides the unfinished document in a drawer and leans back in his chair, tucking his hair behind his ears.
People may look alike, but their footsteps never are. Their rhythm. Their speed. Their emotion. Even their shoes! Ordinary people may not notice, may not listen, but Harley — Harley is a genius! He always observes.
The footsteps he waits for are always fast. Precise. Sharp. The moment you hear them, you already know what awaits you. You can already feel phantom hands around your throat.
Harley doesn’t need to turn when the door slams violently into the wall behind him.
— YOU! — Leith half-rasps, half-shouts. His curls, charged with his fury, fall wildly over his flushed face.
— You came after all! I knew you would — Harley declares triumphantly, rocking back in his chair.
Leith swears he sees stars from rage. A star. A falling one. A meteor. Preferably falling directly onto the scientist.
For a few seconds, all he can do is gasp for air, like a fish thrown onto land, furious. Then he pulls himself together — and the scientist’s neck along with it.
— YOU! WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?! — Pierre shouts, finally catching the culprit behind today’s suffering. Just to think of it! When he realized what date it was today, he thought the holiday itself would be what drove him insane. Turns out there are worse things in this world — in the form of the Doctor, with his sick mind and ego! May his own creatures tear him apart, that idiot!
Harley doesn’t even flinch. He just lets out a hoarse chuckle.
— Oh, come on… kh— Someone had to shake you up at least a little! Such a holiday, and you looked like you’d drowned! — the Doctor bares his teeth, feeling the grip on his throat tighten and noticing how the other man’s face turns nearly crimson at the mention of the holiday. — Kh—And besides… ngh… I had nothing to do with it… You chose to do the quest yourself…
— BECAUSE ONE SCIENTIST HAD THE AUDACITY TO DIG THROUGH MY COMPUTER!!! — the last fragments of restraint collapse into pure rage. His fingers tighten on Harley’s throat on their own, squeezing, pressing until it eases the pressure in his chest, shaking him as if that might shake the anger loose. Harley never makes it easier. He provokes him just by existing—his face, his voice, his tone. — AND FOR THAT YOU’LL BE FED ALIVE TO YOUR OWN DAMN BOX!
If he could, Leith would have thrown him out long ago. Given him to Boxy. Or to experiments. Maybe if the Doctor were stuffed into some voiceless toy, like that brainless dinosaur, he’d at least be tolerable in the same room. But the truth is, Playtime Co. needs BBI experiments.
And Leith…
— You need me… khh… That’s why you could never do that — Harley finishes for him.
Leith almost howls.
— You are a disgusting, horrible, selfish, narcissistic bastard!!! — the Head of Innovation shouts.
— Did you enjoy it? — the Doctor asks carelessly.
Like slamming his head into a wall.
Pierre shoves Sawyer away, only to slam his fists down on the desk several times instead. Shame it isn’t the scientist’s face. White spots flash in his vision from sheer fury. Even breathing is difficult.
Not that it has ever stopped Harley.
— So that was a ‘yes’?
— SAWYER, JUST SHUT UP!!!
The Head of Innovation’s shouting can probably be heard on other floors, let alone in the perpetually silent laboratories. His anger has probably seeped into ten rooms around him, poisoning the holiday atmosphere three floors above, driving everyone away. Anyone else would be shrinking in fear right now. Anyone else.
But Harley Sawyer doesn’t care at all.
Before Harley can produce another sound with his insufferable mouth, Leith shuts him up the first way that comes to mind. And since the only thing in his head is that damned grin — the first thing becomes a rough kiss. And his hands are on his neck again. Of course they are. Harley responds immediately, shamelessly pulling Pierre closer, not even pretending to resist.
Absolute bastard.
Honestly, Leith would have thrown him out long ago. No one has ever tortured his nerves like Sawyer does. He’d wipe that arrogant smile away, bury it so deep it would never surface again, so he would never have to see it. But sometimes, in moments like this, when Sawyer drives him mad, when steam practically pours from his ears, when his hands tighten around his throat, when he can barely see, breathe, speak, or even think, he understands something he would never admit. Without that damned smile he would have gone insane in this rotten, false world long ago. Because if nothing else, Harley’s idiocy is real. The only genuine smile among thousands of fake ones he’s seen here over the years.
February fourteenth is a disgusting date. Even worse when combined with Harley Sawyer’s disgusting personality.
— So it was a ‘yes’ after all? — the Doctor smirks. Leith responds by biting his lip hard. One day, he’ll figure out how to truly shut him up.Until then, any method that silences him—even for a second—is good enough.
A notification appears on the computer.
Harley practically refuses to let him go, glaring when Leith pulls away — hands and lips both — to check it.
“IT Department. Five minutes. Need to discuss something with them. Waiting for you. The CEO’s presence wouldn’t hurt.”
He smirks.
— If you try to leave, I’ll set one of the experiments on you — Harley says, a dangerous note in his voice, reaching for Leith’s bow tie. If it were anyone else, he could’ve actually do it. But two can play that game.
Pierre flicks him on the nose, smiling mockingly.
— Happy Mentally Ill Day! — he calls, sweeping out of the office triumphantly, leaving Harley staring after him with an offended expression.
Sweet revenge.
One–one!
Leith smiles. God, it feels good to put Harley in his place!
He reaches the IT department even faster than usual. The smile still lingers when he approaches Eddie and Sharon at the entrance. Ritterman looks him over with displeasure, his gaze lingering on the wrinkled bow tie, but only rolls his eyes. Sharon clutches her folder and muffin, smiling uncertainly.
To hell with your insane scientists.
To hell with your stupid holidays.
***
Leith is absolutely certain that HR writes “seeking the most unbearable people possible” in huge bold letters in their job listings. It’s the only explanation to why everyone in this company is worse than the last.
He’s been lying face-down on his desk for fifteen minutes now. Curly strands have fallen into his eyes, but he doesn’t have the strength to move them.
Eddie has been lecturing the IT department for an hour and a half already.
Sharon escaped within the first thirty minutes. She wanted to organize the documents before the new meeting of the higher-ups, and Leith had been stupid enough to let her go. Now he’s alone, glaring at Eddie from under his brows, who seems to be repeating for the fifteenth time during his monologue how important it is to clean and organize the company’s email. Or the sixteenth — honestly, Pierre lost count back at four. Eddie speaks monotonously and tediously, to the point where even the IT workers themselves are nearly falling asleep at their computers. Good thing that, unlike them, Leith doesn’t need to pretend to listen to avoid getting his head bitten off. Bad thing is, he can’t leave either, because he needs to pick up the documents and hand over the damn muffin. He should have guessed that “a couple of minutes” coming from Eddie Ritterman meant a full couple of hours.
He finally stands up, sleepily sweeping his gaze across the office. Of course, everyone looks just as exhausted. Even Rowan Stoll, who usually listens with bright eyes and genuine interest, is cleaning his glasses for the seventh time with a drowsy expression. After talking to Eddie, it’s simply impossible to work. Maybe that’s why he mostly stays quiet. Leith sighs grimly. He’d rather deal with Harley and his unbearable mockery, or Stella with her ridiculous friendliness.
Eventually, it seems Eddie himself grows tired of the sleepy faces of the programmers, because he throws out some loud concluding phrase, fixes them with his trademark cold stare — the kind that makes every employee instinctively reach for their keyboards and nervously resume working — and turns to Leith.
— Let’s go.
Pierre makes a titanic effort not to yawn and crawls out from behind the desk, slowly following Eddie.
— The production reports for the new ‘Nightmare Creatures’ line, correct? — Eddie asks, and Leith nods a moment late, spotting a familiar silhouette in construction uniform at the other end of the corridor.
They reach Ritterman’s office, and he opens the heart-covered door, letting the Head of Innovations inside. The man casts a gloomy glance around the room. It seems that before visiting the IT department, Eddie had stopped by Playcare or joined one of the tours, because now bright postcards lay scattered chaotically across his shelf.
Even Ritterman. What a horror.
— Here, take it — Eddie pulls a folder from the drawer and hands it to the frozen Leith. He nervously thanks him, taking it, and notices that the corners of the yellow folder are covered in sketches and written ideas for new constructions for the factory tour sections. Eddie has an idiotic habit of drafting plans everywhere. Once, he and Harley had nearly gotten into a fight because Ritterman had drawn a project for new Playcare statues directly on Experiment Report 1163.
Leith places the muffin on the man’s desk, unwilling to explain anything. Ritterman understands anyway. They say their goodbyes, and Eddie throws out a final “Happy Valentine’s Day,” the words slicing into Leith’s ears like a knife. Pierre wants to scream, but somehow manages to hold it in. Eddie, that son of a bitch, knows perfectly well that Leith hates this holiday.
— I saw Silva in the hallway — the Head of Innovations replies casually, disappearing faster than Eddie can lift his head.
From the way he crawls back into his office, one might think he’d been run over by a steamroller. Sharon looks at him sympathetically, and Leith incinerates her with his glare in response. Traitor! Leaving him alone with Ritterman is the peak of cruelty! And they say he’s the one who bullies her!
As moral compensation, he takes her cup of freshly brewed coffee instead of his own, which has gone cold on his desk since lunch, when he found Harley’s first note. Sharon doesn’t even try to protest, handing him a candy as well. Fears for her life, no doubt. As she should.
— Mr. Harley stopped by — she says casually, returning to her documents. — I think he brought you some papers.
Leith doesn’t even have the strength to sigh.
Just what he needed. Harley. Again.
A couple of papers lie on his desk, and that confuses him. Harley bothered to come up to his office just for a few documents? Either something happened, or he’s lost his mind. Leith picks them up like they’re some kind of bomb, carefully sorting through them. Three sheets are filled with experimental data. The fourth is folded in half, sloppily hidden between the others, strange and worn.
Pierre glances back to make sure Sharon is still there. She sits at her desk, paying no attention, quietly eating the gifted candies.
He unfolds the paper.
And freezes.
At first, the document looks completely normal. Just like previous experiment reports. The standard Playtime Co. form, with Doctor Sawyer’s signature.
It looks normal right up until Leith’s eyes land on his own photograph, clearly taken from security camera footage. He’s standing in the Huggy hall, craning his neck, probably looking for a clue.
What the hell?
There’s more text on the sheet than Sawyer usually writes. He doesn’t like writing essays.
“This isn’t a literature lesson. Write clearly and briefly, without unnecessary formalities,” Leith once heard the Doctor say mockingly while reprimanding new scientists. They lowered their heads, not daring to answer. Pierre had wanted to say back then that “clearly and briefly” also meant not writing enormous words and expressions only Harley himself understood, words that confused even the smartest lab scientists, written in wide, nearly illegible handwriting — but the truth was, that was Harley. And that comment wouldn’t have changed anything. Not that Leith wanted to change it.
He had simply walked past back then, not waiting for Sawyer to finish reprimanding them, ignoring the Doctor’s stare burning into his back.
But obviously, this was a completely different case.
And the unusual amount of text only made it more intriguing.
“Observation of Subject No. 1402 (Leith Pierre) under conditions of enforced irritant factor ‘Valentine’s Day.’”
Leith frowns irritably.
So now he’s a lab rat too?!
He should have guessed. Harley wouldn’t have missed the chance to amuse himself with the sight of the enraged Head of Innovations, storming furiously from department to department just to put an end to this circus. No wonder Pierre hadn’t found the scientist in the labs. He was either watching him—or had planned everything in advance. Clearly, he had far too much free time if he was pulling stunts like this. And he could, by the way, finally deal with the paperwork! That stack had been untouched since last year. Eddie had been chewing everyone’s brains out in meetings for the past two months, and Harley didn’t care at all.
Harley would definitely be in trouble once Leith got to him.
The grim future in the form of a report on the death of Doctor Harley Sawyer is the only thing saving the scientist—the fact that Ritterman’s lectures can drain even the barely flammable Head of Innovations. Leith would have preferred to strangle that walking headache a little later, so instead of erupting in a furious tirade, he sits in his chair, scanning the mocking rows crudely inked onto the tattered paper.
Harley analyzes every room. Every clue, every reaction Leith gives. Comments sarcastically, just like on ordinary reports. He even grades them according to some criteria only he understands. A full, detailed report—minus the BBI stamp, of course. Pierre shakes his head in disbelief.
Incredible.
Apparently, Sawyer’s mind had completely gone off the rails in his unfortunate, poppy-scented lab.
Downstairs, the Head of Innovations reads the conclusion:
"Conclusion: Subject exhibits a strong aversion to Valentine’s Day and demonstrates increased irritability in environments where the holiday is frequently mentioned. Under appropriate circumstances, however—will endure. It is recommended to conduct one more similar experiment to confirm observations—next year, possibly? Only with the subject’s consent."
Below, as if waiting, lies a blank line.
Leith grips the paper tighter, crumpling it and nearly tearing it under the force of his fingers.
He doesn’t know what angers him more—the fact that Harley ran after him across the entire factory just to produce this half-assed report, wasting a ton of time and energy, both his and Pierre’s, dragging himself out of the labs just to mock him—or the fact that Sawyer knew Leith would follow his route exactly.
…Or the fact that at some point, Leith had even gotten caught up in this half-baked quest, hardly noticing or being irritated by anything around him.
Ideally, right now he’d storm into the labs again, kick the door open, and before Harley could even utter a word, squeeze his neck so hard that it would teach him a lesson. Tighten the grip until that smug smile vanished from his face, until he understood his place, and that with Leith Pierre, jokes were a bad idea.
Instead, Leith holds this damn report.
This damn, overly detailed, overly stupid report, this ridiculously unserious waste of working hours, which for some reason he cannot let go of.
Maybe it’s because, though Harley is an unbearable idiot, he knows Pierre better than anyone. Maybe because they both understand perfectly well what Sawyer means by “appropriate circumstances.”
And very loosely, because this disgusting, deliberately irritating, humiliating, infuriating, scrawled—Leith doesn’t even know how he learned to decipher the Doctor’s handwriting—report slightly brightens his day among the sickly pink-and-red heart-shaped cards.
And again, Harley knew perfectly well this would happen.
Damn Doctor. May Boxy gnaw his head off.
Leith finally sets the report aside—too carefully for a piece of paper that infuriates him so much—placing it in the top drawer of his desk, and leans back in his chair, sighing (though really smirking slightly at the corners of his mouth, but that’s just because Harley’s idiocy makes him do it—honest Pierre-style), taking a sip of coffee.
He won’t write anything on the blank line. No point.
Harley already knows the answer. It’s that, at this very second, the scientist isn’t choking on his own writing shoved down his throat.
After all, Leith can’t kill him on Valentine’s Day. It wouldn't be romantic!
Finally, after the whole day, he manages to drink his now-cold coffee with the muffin. Harley’s muffin, by the way.
Two—two!