Chapter Text
5:30 a.m.
His hearing catches the first footsteps of the neighbor three floors above. His eyes open involuntarily, settling on the ceiling. Ten seconds pass with little movement.
The woman downstairs is already making coffee (always at 5:30, like clockwork). Someone in the next building over is coughing. Not contagious, most likely. Slightly wet, though. They should see a doctor sometime this week, otherwise it'll get worse. Outside, a dog is barking at a garbage truck. The young driver is listening to an Ed Sheeran playlist (cool guy, puts out decent music every now and then).
A breath. His brain reluctantly comes online and immediately notes that there's no need to decide whether or not to call the police. No unnecessary noise, no failed punk rockers under the windows, no renovations behind worn brickwork. Everything is proceeding exactly as it should.
He slowly rises from the mattress. Perfectly perpendicular to the floor, like a vampire climbing out of a grave. He sleeps on a firm springless mattress on the floor. Not because he's poor—he makes good money, maybe even above the national average. Maybe the paranoid thought that one day he'll be found and forced to leave everything behind has become too loud. Leaving everything at the very beginning hurts less than abandoning a lived-in little corner made entirely out of IKEA.
Blue, blue, yellow, blue.
Cold shower.
Water runs down his skin. Forehead pressed against the transparent shower wall like a prisoner.
The mirror shows a lean pile of muscle bent toward its reflection so closely that the blue hue dances across the surface. Unblinking charisma, pallor hidden in the details, wrinkles and gray hair. Routine has shown him no mercy. The last droplets fall into the sink from perfectly bleached hair. He never cut corners when it came to appearances. A miser pays twice. He never liked paying more than necessary.
His stubble grows quickly. A dangerous blade has been gliding across it for years now, flashing in the reflection of blue eyes. They're a little insane. We're all a little out of sorts first thing in the morning. Think about yourself yesterday. Or the day before. Exactly.
His finger presses a little harder, his hand trembling slightly as the blade passes beneath his chin. A crack spreads neatly and evenly along the edge, making him roll his eyes as he pulls the useless buy-one-get-one-free piece of shit away from his face, pressing his lips together and chuckling.
"So that's how it is..." annoyance shows in the arch of his eyebrow.
...
"Fine."
The razor meets the ceramic sink with a bright ring, spinning in a little dance and tapping first with the handle, then with the crack.
The day had started on the wrong side of the bed.
He walks.
Early in the morning, he steps outside for an hour-long walk that isn't worth the time spent on it. But useless things become habits thanks to stupid sentimental attachments. The route goes through a park. That's certainly wonderful and highly appreciated by many of the runners he passes, but not one of them will ever make him as happy as the ducks drifting by.
A dumbass hobby – feeding ducks bread. But they choose for themselves what to eat, and no matter how much proper duck food you offer them, every one of them has its own character. Which one of you would turn down a good hot dog in favor of a plate of broccoli? Freaks.
He even gave them names. But he'll never admit that, just like he'll never admit that a missing duck would be a bigger concern to him than global warming. What was her name again? Donald? He wasn't exactly creative. They're fucking ducks. Dumb little creatures. Probably for that exact reason he smiled at them more readily than at the runners he passed.
Where are you all running to?
He looks great.
You'd trust a face like that. You'd believe eyes like those. Because they make you feel safe, and they make you want to thank him simply for paying attention to you. His footsteps become heavier so they can be heard from farther away. People don't like being startled by insignificant things like the silhouette of a coworker standing behind them. They get embarrassed. They make excuses, engage in pointless conversations, and just as often resort to petty jabs to cover up their own fuck-up with somebody else's. Such are the animal parts of ourselves.
When we sense a threat, we shift the responsibility onto someone else.
"Morning, John. Sleep well?"
"Great, thank you. And yourself?"
An ordinary morning ritual that he needs far more than he'd ever admit. He might not look like someone who needs meaningless small talk, but it's the most pleasant part of his day.
He can hear the security guard's heart beating a little faster. High blood pressure. He could casually suggest a general checkup after the man's shift, insist on getting one every six months, or just point directly at the thyroid issue. Though... No. Too specific for an average piece of advice.
John would look strange.
Before entering, he always has to breathe on his ID badge. Many people assumed it was part of his civilized little image, one he flaunted in front of coworkers of every age, which earned him an incredible amount of genuine irritation he had absolutely no need for. Out of all forms of attention, this was probably the one he needed least.
He co-anchors the news with a woman named Linda. Linda doesn't like him. But Linda doesn't know he hears every nasty comment about his starched collar, fake face, and arrogant behavior. The moment he arrived, people filed him away as one of those right-wing patriots who ruin everyone's mood, oppose civil liberties, and probably hate women too. Linda, it's not my fault your tongue only crawls out of your ass when the cameras aren't rolling and you're on your lunch break, convinced your unfortunate coworker isn't around.
Not around.
Doesn't mean not there.
Linda, Linda, Linda. If you knew how many times I've covered for your screw-ups, you might actually be grateful. On camera, Linda looks like a fish that jumped onto dry land and keeps gulping air in the hope that for one miraculous millisecond it'll evolve into something greater than what it currently is. A pathetic sight.
During a broadcast, he does three things at once.
Reads the teleprompter. (Though he really doesn't need to. He memorized the entire segment a minute before going live.) Controls his facial expression, making sure no inappropriate boredom slips through during yet another report about a traffic accident on Northern Boulevard. The chance of preventing it had been high. So had his desire not to get involved. In the end, both had been equally easy to ignore along with the screech of brakes.
And lastly, he made sure not a single cockroach in the building threatened his normal, average – at least by the standards of scientific headlines (the kind dedicated to truly vital research, such as the average number of obese Americans or how many pounds of dog shit get processed every year) – life. That no creature disrupted the carefully established routine that repeated itself week after week, over and over again. And that cycle was not to be broken by a headline about a heart attack inside the station, a fire caused by ignored safety regulations, or a hostage situation involving firearms.
What?
He simply accounted for every possibility that wasn't supposed to happen during his shift.
The worst part of his job. Missing persons segments. To support the police, the victim's relatives, or any number of other reasons too numerous to list. One fact remains – he hates these stories more than anything else. A missing child.
Professional composure strains at the seams, veins standing out across his face. Linda would gloat if she noticed. But this face belongs on magazine covers – or, right, news channels – and if it weren't perfect, they never would've hired him.
He could save that child.
It would take seconds. It isn't his responsibility, and that's exactly why his jaw tightens after only a few words, teeth grinding hard enough to hurt. A minute of silence. Eyes fixed on blank papers. A cough somewhere off-camera. Then Linda's smug voice, taking control of the segment at exactly the right moment. Bitch.
Even the most successful people have bad days. He's capable of yielding to lesser beings. He just needs a few minutes between broadcasts. His chair turns away from the now-dark red light. He massages his temple while rotating toward the makeup artist brushing wrinkles from his face.
He's getting older. He's getting softer.
This isn't your problem. This isn't your risk, John. Don't you dare develop a sentimental attachment to the simple fact that a child is missing. One mistake and they'll lock you up like a lab rat. They'll turn you into what they should have made you years ago – a weapon of mass destruction and influence. Or worse. They'll turn not only him but his parents into a circus act on live television. They'll drag his mother onto a talk show and ask her: "What was it like raising a monster?"
His fist slams into the desk, and the entire crew turns toward the pale face with furrowed brows beside the startled woman whose heart nearly launched itself from her chest the instant his fist hit the table.
As mentioned before, everyone has bad days.
His coworkers often invited him to lunch.
Usually out of politeness, or because etiquette demanded it. Over time nothing changed; it simply became a daily tradition. Craig Pratchett, the eternal engine of workplace morale, was the exception responsible for turning it into a habit. Polite voice, constant desire to jab people in the shoulder, and sides that no longer fit into his trousers. If you didn't know him, you'd assume he was upper management keeping everyone's spirits up with his absurdly cheerful face, but Craig was just the sound engineer sitting in his booth – Confession Booth, as he absolutely did not call it himself. After every broadcast he'd switch on the loudspeaker without a shred of shame and ask the same question, though dressed up in endless variations and chains of reasoning. The meaning always stayed the same: "John, you with us?" John filtered out everything unnecessary, kept only the essence, and always answered exactly as before.
"Diet. Sorry."
Short. Direct. Some considered it rude. Craig considered it proof that John was a good guy. John wasn't convinced.
Mainly because he found the sound of twenty adults chewing in a confined space while simultaneously gossiping about everyone around them absolutely revolting. Maybe he was being judgmental. But spend a day at a meat farm sometime and the sheer variety of bullshit will make your jaw lock up.
After lunch, most of the noise dies down. Maybe people spend the morning arguing over trivial nonsense (yes, Mary, I'm talking about you and your damn candles – that isn't religion, it's insanity) so thoroughly that after eating they simply sit motionless in front of their monitors, typing away at the next batch of stories. Their faces do an excellent job of hiding his own boredom.
People think John is old-fashioned.
It's strange when a man doesn't use a computer mouse, and then everyone hears his Google search spoken aloud in the same unreadable tone whether he's looking up the site of a mass stabbing or the address of the diner he'll visit after finishing a segment warning people to stay safe during a shooting. He liked voice assistants. Maybe because you could talk to them. Their mechanical voices were calming. They felt trustworthy. He'd been considering buying a smart speaker for a very, very long time. But every time, his pride crushed the idea before it could take root. No, he wasn't proud. Stubborn. A man possessing the terrifying superpower (shared by every average American) of switching on a smile for the sake of his coworkers. I'm doing it for your benefit, you ungrateful bastards, so why the hell are your hearts beating so fast?
What's wrong?
Nobody ever informed John about the one trait that truly set him apart from his coworkers – his unblinking stare. Blue. And so unnaturally blue that it frightened people.
A janitor quit because of him once.
Why did he remember that? Probably because of the look the makeup artist kept giving him long after his little... outburst. Though compared to that incident, what happened today was child's play.
People are fragile creatures.
He learned that lesson very early. About as early as an infant learns how to breathe. It's remarkably easy to hurt people without meaning to. Sometimes, acting out of nothing more than fear, you can do damage no medical textbook can help with. All it takes is a little force and someone else's mind ends up broken alongside a couple of bones. Things like that happened from time to time because of his carelessness, his hot blood, his temperament. Eventually, he became more selective about what he should and shouldn't allow himself to do to people. His normal life was threatened by none other than himself. What are you willing to sacrifice for normality?
He sacrificed himself.
He feels sorry for that man. He really does.
He paid for his treatment and his back brace. It's surprising nobody sued him over it. Even stranger that John let him walk away without consequences – because he knew. That man had noticed something strange about John besides the stare over the top of his smartphone during breaks between broadcasts. After all, it isn't normal for an arm to twist out of place and several vertebrae to shift from a single, not-even-particularly-firm handshake. Honestly, if he'd gone face-first down a flight of stairs, he would've come away with fewer injuries.
John packs his briefcase as the office gradually empties out. The lights go off. People gather into little groups. He leaves second to last. Every now and then he changes the order, just so he doesn't look like a hopeless perfectionist.
He stops by a supermarket on his way home. John doesn't like supermarkets after p.m. hours. Those buzzing lights in every aisle seem to be waiting for his arrival. He already knows the tricks of those LED monsters, having put on his dark sunglasses in advance. Maybe he looks like an idiot wearing sunglasses indoors, but that's still better than accidentally burning through a shelf of groceries in a fit of irritation. Fatigue takes its toll on the body. A good excuse.
Many people would find his shopping list strange: a utility knife (for packages), napkins (they ran out in the kitchen the day before yesterday), and an air freshener. Just an air freshener. Practically the shopping list of a bachelor hanging by a thread, which wasn't all that far from the truth.
At the register, he pays for everything by card. After one particular incident, paper money never touched his hands again. That day he'd blushed for the first time in five years. Like a little bitch.
Hamsters don't live long. Even among animals, they seem like prototype pets for children. A practice run before something more serious. They're used to cultivate empathy in kids. His therapist says getting a hamster is a good idea. He'd been skeptical about that. Yet year after year, his cemetery of flowerpots keeps growing. No, no, not because of him. Such is the fate of smaller creatures – they live brief lives. Lucky is the third one. They say hamsters are good for mental health. Who is John to argue with experts who claim that a ball of fur can influence his state of mind? He talks to him anyway.
"You know, Lucky, a child went missing today. Yeah, yeah, I know, it's terrible. But what could a perfectly ordinary guy like me have done?"
He'd already convinced himself of that several times while the ball of fur sat on its fat little ass in the cage, eating sunflower seeds. John watered the flowers. They were growing well. Apparently Lucky's predecessors in the soil had helped.
That sounds awful.
Dinner.
Something resembling reheated plastic containers stacked on top of one another in an imaginary order. What could possibly be more comforting than a neat row of meals for an entire week? Day after day, the tower shrinks until only the foundation of this great creation remains, and even that will receive no mercy.
John stares at the same spot the entire time. The hum of the wheel inside the microwave has slowed down; the rubber ring needs replacing. He'll take care of it tomorrow, as always. None of his plans stayed in his head for very long, always being completed within a deadline that technically didn't exist.
"John, have you been eating properly?"
"Yes, Mom."
She's especially talkative on Sundays. She talks without stopping, and during that time the plastic contents of the plastic container disappear in the blink of an eye, even by his standards.
She talks about neighbors, lawns, country picnics. She talks a lot about his father's car and constantly brings up the backyard. A dream of a life. Peaceful and fleeting.
Like a hamster.
Boring.
For a moment, it seems to him that he's missed most of a monologue he wasn't participating in anyway. He hadn't blinked while sitting at the table listening to urgent problems consisting of his father's stalled engine and a bottle of tanning oil running empty. This time of year, the sun in the state of ██ spares no one. His own problems began to feel so insignificant that he wanted to cry from sheer resentment. Maybe it was simply part of his nature. He'd never been particularly patient.
No more than he'd ever been comfortable with the idea of death.
"Yes, Mom. Everything's fine."
He could say, "I love you, Mom," but he always forgets to. Or doesn't want to. The paradox is that he has all the time in the world, yet he never says it.
Maybe John didn't realize how familiar her worry sounded in her voice.
"Good night, Mom."
The beeps stretched on.
He sat there for a couple more minutes before getting up and covering the hamster's cage with a cloth.
For the past couple of hours, he had been acutely aware of the person sitting on the fire escape above his window.