11:48AM. You slump back in your chair.
Quadrilateral artificial suns blaze from the ceiling at three-tile intervals. Their light scorns your eyes. A dark, rectangular impression on your vision lingers ghostlike when you glance aside at the expanse of pure white wall. When it dissolves your eye is drawn to a thin, dust-laden cobweb, anchored to the stippled texture of the stucco. 'I could reach over with a tissue and clean it away', you think to yourself. This thought has occurred hundreds of times and never translated to motion. The web exists until it is interfered with. You will not interfere with it. It will exist forever, fluttering on the imperceptible current of the air conditioner.
A spell hangs about this place. Bright-eyed young men and women enter and end up right where they belong. On the second floor they scurry about in the dark like cockroaches in perpetual, aimless motion. On the third, the sole survivor of the IT and security crew remains, meditating amidst a sea of cables on the cusp of cybernetic bodhi. Here on the fourth, dead-eyed zombies in department store suits shamble semi-conscious between the labyrinth of desks. In those rare moments your colleagues speak to one another at the photocopier or water cooler, they speak of families with 2.5 children, vacations at exotic locales, and reality television. Things they never had, places they've never been - once people enter this place, most never leave.
Perched at the base of your monitor is a plastic frog, or perhaps a toad. The trinket is the only color outside of the spreadsheet on your screen with its cells in muted green, yellow and red, a rainbow of conditional formatting. You're one of the lucid holdouts, but even you can't remember exactly how long you've been here, feeding information up to Mister Hugo on the fifth floor. At great risk you retrieved a personnel file from HR for him, and he'd surreptitiously stuffed the little amphibian into your hand when you delivered it unscathed. "A token of my affection," he'd said in a hushed tone. It makes a farting sound when squeezed.
The file had been for an employee exposed as a Witch Hunter, one of many. You never saw him again after that.
Mister Hugo, however, stayed in contact. For the tenth time in as many minutes, you glance at the clock in the corner of your screen. He'd left instructions to wait by the elevator at precisely 12:00. It's a lunch meeting, supposedly, but you wonder what life-threatening task he has for you this time. Each service contributes to his ascension, conveys your ardent devotion - the frog is evidence your loyalty hasn't escaped his notice. Hugo only gives you the need-to-know, but you're smart enough to understand the ultimate goal. It's magnetic, his determination, his iron rule of the lower floors. There's nobody else at Sintracorp burning with ambition like him.
Steeling yourself, you depart your station deep within the hive. Sideways through the mindless throng of zombies, right turn, weave under the empty desk and to the other side. After so long you could navigate it blindfolded. Left turn, give the drone with the 'Hang in there!' poster a wide berth - he'd stabbed you in the arm with a fork the first time you got too close. Straight ahead, right, straight ahead, right. Pinch your nose and step over the corpse that's been laying there for weeks. Try not to look at the puddle of red-brown effluent ingrained into the carpet, the gnats swarming it. Follow the path to the end to the cubicle blocks, stick your head out. Is the Dot Matrix awake and stalking the thoroughfares? If the coast is clear, walk out and over to the elevator. Wait, like he told you to.
It's not long before the mirror-surfaced doors part, dragging your distorted reflection away with them. Your corrupted image is replaced by a man in a grey suit standing expectantly beneath the artificial glow. Slightly shorter than you but much wider, with brown, center-parted hair - Mister Hugo himself.
"Hey, you made it!" The way his whole manner brightens as he beckons you inside warms you like the fluorescent suns never could.
"Wouldn't miss an opportunity to meet with my favorite boss." He's not officially your line manager, but he likes it when you call him that.
He holds his key card to the scanner until it responds with an affirmative 'beep'. His hand moves too fast to follow as he punches in some code. Hugo's eyes habitually flick upward, taking stock of cameras. He's doing his best to disguise the tic as an innocent, wandering gaze, humming a tune to himself as the elevator whirrs into motion. It sounds like a familiar jingle, but you can't quite place it.
"Where are we heading?" The elevator is bound upward, away from the canteen, and passes the fifth floor.
"To the roof!" He grins. The normally red LED on the camera is dead. Did he cut the feed somehow? "There's nothing like having lunch on the roof on a clear day!"
"Oh, I didn't realize there was roof access from the lift."
"There isn't. Usually." He winks.
True to his word, the numerals indicating the floor ignite one after the other - eight, nine, ten - and elapse the maximum. You've gone beyond the ordinarily accessible range. The doors give way to a featureless concrete room, a box for the elevator shaft and some broken office furniture, crusted over with ingrained dust.
A rush of cool, crisp air blows in from outside as Mister Hugo pulls ahead of you and shoves open a heavy metal door, revealing the vista on the other side. As far as the eye can see, a forest of shiny black obelisks, thrust up from the earth and stretched toward heaven. The Capital sprawls out all around, glinting with promise beneath the high sun.
"Ahh! Feel that fresh air, that sun on your face!" Hugo stretches and you can see wet patches under his armpits, thin white shirt turning semi-translucent. He must've spent the morning running around. "Isn't this sight just marvelous? You ever been up here before?"
"No, I usually go to the canteen on my break." You and Hugo approach the precipice together. There's no fencing or guard rail here, just a waist-high concrete wedge to lean on. "It's not as nice as the eighth floor with its gardens. Maybe I'd have come up here sooner if I knew you could take the lift... otherwise, it's an awful lot of stairs to climb."
"Hahah, you're telling me!" Hugo chuckles. A hearty slap to his ample stomach shows he understands better than most.
"I didn't bring any food. I'm crunched, spent all of my credits on extra office supplies. There are many things," you gesture around the word, "that need stabbing."
"Oh, and you are just great at that!"
"Is that why we're on the roof? Can I help you with something else? There aren't any cameras up here."
"Well, aren't you a go-getter! But, no. I don't have anything for you right now. Just keep doing what you're doing - staying out of trouble, keeping an eye on the fourth floor for me." That alone is quite a tall order. The fourth floor is enormous. So expansive, in fact, you suspect Sintracorp's curse is warping space. It's definitely larger than the floors above or below it.
"So... you called me to the lift and brought me up here to just... hang out?"
"Yeah. It's lunch, after all. Is that so weird?"
It takes a moment, because you have to consider how others see him. His colleagues on the fifth floor nervously placate or avoid him - the longer the association, the more likely a person is to end up dead. He has no real friends here. It must be extremely strange for him to be faced with someone who clearly realizes his true nature and not only accepts it, but seems to relish it.
"No, not weird at all." You reply when you're done digesting. "I just wasn't expecting it. You're usually all business." You feel off-balance. It can't really just be a social visit, can it?
He shrugs and the jacket pulls taut across his shoulders with a creak of strained seams. You'd never noticed the poor fit before. "Relax! It's fine not to think about work for a little while."
You dreamed of this scenario, of being alone with Hugo like this, able to speak freely. Now that you're here, though, you're at a loss. What is there to talk about when you can't leave and your life is confined to a cubicle?
"Mister Hugo, it's kind of selfish of me, but since we're just talking… can you tell me a little bit about yourself?"
"Selfish? No such thing between friends! There isn't much to tell. I'm from a low social class like you." You can't help but notice he didn't specify exactly what class. "Been with Sintracorp as long as I can remember, started out in a lower position and worked my way up. I like a good movie and a good meal. Is that enough for you?"
The discussion of his origin draws you to the edge of the roof and you lean out to look down at the city where all that matters. The Capital teems with ant-like specks busily queuing and marching: people traversing the concrete grid. Off-white air conditioning units hang off the sides of buildings like tumors. It's all impossibly distant, as if you're viewing it from behind glass. "We should... go out and see a movie together, and get dinner after... someday."
It was supposed to be a casual invitation - a response to what he said - but once the words leave your mouth you realize you've admitted far too much. Out of the corner of your eye, Hugo freezes as if pinned by a spotlight. He straightens his tie as he recomposes.
"That would be… nice." He sidles closer, almost shoulder-to-shoulder, and you can feel his eyes on you. "Hey, are you alright? Don't lean over the edge like that, you're making me nervous."
"This job... I'm exhausted and dazed most of the time. Getting less and less sharp by the day." You know what's happening, what you're becoming. But saying it aloud will manifest it into reality. "Lost track of time completely. I have no idea how long I've been stuck here."
"Ninety-one days." Hugo's answer is immediate and decisive, sending a small shock through you.
"Hugo, you..."
"Hey, don't worry." He needs to reach up a little to clap a reassuring hand on your shoulder. "Just hold on a little longer. My big promotion's coming down the pipeline very, very soon. I just need everything to stay exactly as it is." The hand stays, a steadying pressure… or just short of a push out into empty air, you can't tell.
Despite your exhaustion, it's like dawn breaking. Mister Hugo's tireless efforts are finally due to bear fruit. Judging by the 'Employee of the Month' photos lining the wall on the fifth floor, he's been at this for a year at the very least. "They're moving you up to executive? To the ninth floor? Are you sure?"
The corners of his wide mouth curl upward. It's a dark smile. "You'll see."
"That's incredible! Not even a little hint? Come on, you can trust me."
"I do, but I'd better not. If I told you, I'd have to kill you! Haha!"
The pressure of Hugo's broad, meaty hand on your shoulder is suddenly unambiguously ominous, a guillotine waiting to fall. Panic flares in your chest.
"Kidding, I'm kidding! Just a little bit of dark humor. You should see the look on your face! Wouldn't that be something, though?" With a guffawing laugh the persona you're more familiar with reemerges. They're both honest sides of himself, though. The cold-blooded, determined cutthroat. The down-to-earth, genial middle manager.
He's not kidding. Not in the slightest. Every second of this conversation, he's been deciding whether to keep you or kill you.
Still, the fact that you're up here having this talk means he hasn't chosen yet. It would have been easy for him to send you on an impossible "job" or to just give you a shove when you leaned over the barrier. That's a common avenue for employees to leave Sintracorp, though normally self-directed.
"Hugo." The toad-like smile fades when you address him. "I think I understand now. Everything's set and you don't need me anymore. Actually, after everything I've done for you and everything I've learned, keeping me around is a liability."
"Clever, aren't you." His voice is level, betraying nothing of how he feels about all of this. "No hard feelings, then?"
"No. You should kill me if you have to."
You instantly regret it. Hugo doesn't respond, doesn't move a muscle. Just one good shove, that's all it'd take for you to go over the edge and embrace the sidewalk. The rushing of wind twisting between the brutal skyscrapers and the din of idling motors suddenly sounds very, very close. Each moment that passes is a stomach-twisting nightmare, your body anticipating a sudden drop and simulating the sensation of freefall over and over.
But, what more could you do? Beg for your life? That'd end up a big blubbering mess, and Hugo hates messes. Flee? Far too late for that now - should've thought of that before he had you over a ten-storey drop. Fight him off? You can't budge a man of his girth.
The weight on your shoulder eases, then is gone. Hugo lowers his arm, balling his hand into a tight fist and sticking it at his side. Your acquiescence granted you a reprieve.
"I need... everything... to stay exactly as it is." He repeats, this time with grave emphasis. Hugo lowers his head with an air of defeat. The compromise is painful. He's come this far and done everything in his power to assure his victory, and now he's going to leave you, a loose end, hanging. "That means you stay on the fourth floor, doing your usual work. Don't try to contact me. Don't speak with anyone you don't have to. Don't do anything unnecessary."
"Yes…" You manage an unsteady reply. The grey, sun-bleached rooftop warps as your eyes dart around, the heady dose of adrenaline ebbing from your veins with the rescission of your imminent death. "I'll disappear into the hive until you say otherwise."
A barely perceptible dip of his double chin is the only acknowledgement he gives to your promise. An uncomfortable silence descends on the rooftop and wears on far too long. Mister Hugo refuses to look at you and keeps his eyes instead trained on the patch of concrete between his feet and yours.
"I think," Hugo clears his throat and pulls his cuff back to check his watch in a practiced, officious affectation incongruous with his ill-fitted suit, "that we should head back inside. Lunch is almost over."
That can't be right, can it? It feels like only ten, maybe fifteen minutes have passed. Reading your own watch confirms Hugo's assessment. Accounting for the time it takes to return to your workstation, dodging horrors and navigating the putrid maze, lunch is indeed almost over.
Are things going to be completely different next time you meet him, once he's promoted? Will you ever see him again? It feels like the door is rapidly closing ahead of you.
Arresting, painful yearning squeezes your chest as you consider Hugo. Were it not for his relentless resolve and cunning, he'd be such an unassuming man, painfully average in every sense. The type of coworker you'd share a pleasantry with when you cross paths in the kitchen, but otherwise forget once he was out of sight.
A benevolent dream reveals itself, unbidden and fleeting. Hugo, speaking animatedly over a luxurious dish in a restaurant, soft face bathed in moody candlelight. Hugo, stuffed into a slightly-too-small theatre seat beside you, leaning over to whisper a piece of trivia as the silver screen unfurls. Hugo, holding your hand as you walk beneath city lights.
"Wait..."
He hums a note of question as you stumble forward on uneasy legs, driven by blinding adoration. Your hands come to rest on his broad shoulders. The last thing you see is his expression, eyes boggling and brows shooting up, when you dive in and press your mouth to his.
Your lips feel the subtle cracks of Hugo's slightly chapped mouth where they land. They remain clamped in a tight line. He's shocked solid and holding his breath. Aromatic aftershave hangs about him, woody and sweet with notes of anise, almond and neroli. It conjures images of executives in bespoke suits with 24-karat gold cufflinks, the kind of man Hugo aspires to be. You cannot imagine where he must've obtained it.
Your heart's beating a rapid tattoo against your ribs as you pull apart. The man before you doesn't look like someone who's just been kissed. If anything, his expression reads vaguely hateful. Hugo glowers up at you, dark brown eyes hard and cold.
"You didn't have to do that. I'm not going to kill you anymore, okay?"
You blink, trying to make sense of that response. It takes a moment for your overwhelmed mind to catch up to the import of his words after you almost died at his hand, then impulsively kissed him.
"Oh…" You feel your stomach drop. It's a different flavor of despair than staring straight down the side of the Sintracorp building. "No, no. You misunderstand. That's not it at all..."
His thick suit bunches between your fingers as they hug the curve of his massive shoulders. His frame feels so solid and reassuring beneath your hands, from just that little point of contact. What you'd give to be held by him, to be honestly held.
"The first time we met I did as you said out of fear. I was afraid of you, like the rest of them." You briefly recall those who'd warned you away from him, managers from the fifth floor and a scattering of fellow nobodies from the fourth. Now they avoid you, too. "Well… I still am. Even so, I've been coming willingly for some time now."
"Uh-huh. And?" You're not saying anything he doesn't already know. Hugo quirks a brow skeptically, waiting to see where the conversation is heading. Still, he hasn't made any attempt to move away.
"I stopped being afraid once I understood. You're going to do whatever it takes to achieve your dreams, and I admire that. I wanted to see you succeed from the bottom of my heart. You've been working tirelessly for so very long. It must be hard."
Hugo's eyes widen, drops of chestnut suspended in all white. You've never seen him wear such an expression and it makes you want to kiss him all over again. You didn't speak the words that hang heavy on your heart like chains, but you didn't need to. It's clear he understands. This is not you begging for your life or clinging to his coattails.
"Yes, well…" He speaks slowly, for once out of his element and unsure how to proceed. "That's what it takes to survive in a place like this."
The choice of word is not lost on you. Not 'succeed', as you'd put it. Survive. This is no ordinary company and Hugo knows things about Sintracorp that others don't, even the other lucid holdouts. Not for the first time, you get the sense there's far, far more to Hugo's story than you know.
Your hands float up from his shoulders to his face, cradling his round cheeks. The skin against your palms is magnificently smooth, having been recently shaved. You chase the urge to lean in and hover your face close to his. "Do you regret anything you've done?"
"Why should I? I've always done what I had to." He answers, a soft gust of breath fanning out over your face as he speaks. Not exactly a 'no', but close enough. You wonder what regret lies in that infinitesimal margin. "Anyone in my position would do the same."
You tilt your head at that response. He's unreadable and unflinching, standing stock still since you grabbed his face. Mister Hugo vastly overestimates the average person's propensity for murder, in your view.
"I see." Your thumbs caress him, passing gently over his cheeks in your grasp. "Compared to you, I'm an average employee... but there's one way we're alike. I want something, too."
All it takes is an inch more and you're kissing him again, more fiercely now, confirming the shape of that want beyond any shadow of doubt. No more holding back. You throw your arms over his shoulders and delight in the proximity, the softness and heat of his body pressed against yours, a sensation you'd fantasized countless times, now real.
This time, the manager reciprocates your kiss, turning his face up to meet yours and capturing your bottom lip between his own. Slight hesitation betrays his inexperience. A wave of bliss washes over you as Hugo's hot, sturdy hands settle on your waist and pull you just that little bit closer. A surprised sound of satisfaction rumbles in his throat and resonates through you, making your stomach clench. You slip your tongue into his mouth to taste him, emboldened.
Hugo suddenly tears himself from your embrace and stumbles backward with alarm. You almost fall, flummoxed by the abrupt retreat.
"You need to go." The order is sharp. Hugo wipes his mouth on the back of a hand and averts his gaze. Panic has overwritten everything else on his face.
That door, already closing, slammed shut and locked. There's nothing you can do to prise it ajar again.
"... Thank you for spending lunch with me." A simple statement. Sincerity is a rare commodity at Sintracorp. You hope he received your feelings. Your back curves under their weight as you bow in farewell, chest aching. "Good luck, Mister Hugo."
"You too," comes the murmured reply. He pivots and returns to the ledge, leaning on his elbows. A blast of wind shooting up from below tousles his hair as he looks down at the city, down the path he briefly considered for you. You would give anything to know what he's thinking right now.
You linger a moment more to recompose yourself. The shattered shards of your resolve are easily gathered, but not so readily reassembled. A final glance at his slumped back confirms your dismissal before you disappear into the darkness of the stairwell.
You stand at the foot of that monument of glass and steel, that illustrious bastion of capitalism - the Sintracorp building. It's strange returning here a month later, bent back and gazing skyward at that very same podium you and Mister Hugo looked down from. The thought turns your attention to the little rubber frog he gave you. Even now it's a constant companion, suspended from your bag as a keychain.
That day one month ago, a young man with soulful brown eyes and a slightly anxious mien joined the company and was immediately promoted to middle management. A Witch Hunter, undoubtedly. In less than twenty-four hours, the Witch was slain.
When the curse lifted you went searching for Hugo, defying his order to stay put. Like the other survivors, you wandered the halls with the contents of your desk in a box, trying to navigate the building as it shrank to fit reality again. None of his colleagues could provide an answer as to his whereabouts and, unsurprisingly, were glad to see him go. By all accounts, he vanished on the evening of his birthday and was never heard from again. You never knew he was a taurus.
Had Hugo's delicately-laid, years-long plan culminated in this exorcism? The timing is a match, but it's hard to imagine such a heroic motive with all the blood on his hands. Were his machinations at Sintracorp a bridge to another company, jumping ship without a farewell? That one sounds more like him. Or perhaps did he, like many others, die in obscurity in the building's bowels? If so, it's karmic that his final resting place is the same as the countless others he'd cut down in pursuit of his dream.
You've accepted these questions will remain unanswered. With a sigh you turn to regard the movie theater on the other side of the street. Bombastic posters plastered on the street-facing windows promise a variety of one-and-a-half hour entertainment: 'Rogue Helix', 'Unspoken and Unseen'', 'Tales of Count Lucanor'. You wonder which one he would've picked.
You have another job now, one without curses beyond having to help bring coffee for the office once a week. Your new coworker emerges from the nearby eatery, arms laden with the precious beverages. A fragment of music wafts from the open door and evokes a memory. It rises up through your mind like an elevator through darkened floors. You take one of the trays she's juggling and follow, humming a familiar jingle you can't quite place.