Seventeen years later.
Franky, half-hunched with a dimly lit gaze, leaned back against his chair and let out a breath of relief. He sat at the opposite end of a long, expensive-looking mahogany table while several older people, much older than he was, sat at the other end, shoulder to shoulder with jaws firmly clenched shut. He wore a drab grey blazer with fake elbow pads that he suspected were probably ironed on from a sweatshop. The others looked much nicer, more authentic.
They were sitting in a conference room, more dark academia than boardroom.
A whisper sneaks across the room, Dr. Newman still isn't here. Do we keep going?
This has never happened before.
End it already.
A woman with thick red glasses leaned forward. "Are you sure there's nothing else?"
Franky shook his head with a pout that seemed more smug than secure. "No, I think that's about it."
The other side of the room dropped their pens and notepads onto the table. They shifted their bodies and cleared their throats. They made no attempt to hide their discomfort.
The woman tilted her head towards a colleague and smiled back at Franky.
Franky pointed at the door. The woman nodded. Franky tapped his temple and slithered away.
"Good boy," the woman rasped through a forced grin.
Franky shut the door behind him and stepped under the rotunda outside of the room. He pointed his gaze upwards. There was a stained glass image at the very top.
"Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication," his voice hissed as he pulled a cigarette from the inside of his blazer.
Behind him, the door swung open as he kept his gaze fixed on the rotunda's ceiling.
"Congratulations, you've been awarded your Doctorate in Philosophy. Have a nice day," the woman with red glasses called out rather coldly.
Franky, head still pointed upwards, shuts his eyes and slips the un-lit cigarette into his mouth.
"Are you fucking serious? There's no smoking on campus."
Franky mutters something, ignoring her.
"You're playing games. I suggest you leave. Go celebrate anywhere else but here."
The door was shut with enough force to send an echo throughout the rotunda.
"Playing games, playing games," Franky whispered repeatedly, "playing games…"
Whatever light was shining through the stained-glass window was beginning to fade, the colors were beginning to bleed into each other.
"Playing games… do you want to play a game?"
The stained-glass window turned a dark red.
Franky kissed his index and middle finger and pointed them at the ceiling. "Game over Dr. Newman," he whispered in the lightest of breaths.
On the other side of the window was a pale-faced and balding man in a blazer with his sleeves rolled back. His wrists were bound together in a strange metal hand cuff that began twisting and rotating in place. Blood pooling onto the glass below. The man wheezed but could not speak. He dropped onto his knees and slammed his head against the window in an attempt to break it. He managed to split the bridge of his nose instead.
A hundred below the window, Franky took his first steps out of the rotunda, leaving the man to bleed out alone.