Chapter Text
Oh God.
I grip the railing, trying not to let the boat’s roll slam into me again.
Breathe in, breathe out.
The waves toss me from side to side, and the acidic churn in my stomach refuses to settle. I inhale and exhale unsteadily, peering over the boat into the rippling water below. My own reflection wavers, brown hair plastered to my forehead, green eyes looking pale and seasick back at me.
I look away, pressing my forehead to the cold railing for some kind of relief.
When I inevitably lift my gaze, the island looms ahead.
Thick green jungle cascades down the cliffs in pitching waves, the canopy broken only by jagged stone peaks stabbing into the sunlight. Nestled deep in the inlet, sharp against the wild, is the facility. White and grey walls and rigid towers gleaming like bones jutting out of the forest.
Neverland.
Why the fuck did Prodigy Corporation name it that? Maybe because it’s so far out the way. I had to get a bus, car, plane, a car again, and now a goddamn boat just to get here.
I clutch the railing and force myself upright, as other new hires shift on either side of me to get a better look at the island ahead of us. They lean on the opposite railing, muttering to each other in low voices. Beside them, a woman with arms as solid as tree trunks approaches. Two fresh-faced guards in black jackets stand near the bow, trying to look calm, though one of them keeps checking his watch. Rookie chatter drifts around me, barely audible over the engine’s constant thrum and the rising hum of cicadas from the jungle. With each slap of the waves against the hull, the facility grows larger, more imposing. My stomach twists again.
I’m nervous.
It’s not my first job, not by a long shot, but it is my first at a very secretive research facility run by the Prodigy Corporation. They made me sign a thick NDA before I boarded, same as everyone else on this boat. The pay’s generous, suspiciously generous.
Shady as hell.
It spells out hazard pay.
But I need the cash. Desperately.
The boat groans as it angles toward the dock, the engine shifting pitch. My grip tightens on the railing again, bracing for the jolt.
Figures wait on the pier, grey coveralls crisp against the green jungle backdrop. Clipboards, tablets, all business. But one man stands out; square-shouldered, Prodigy insignia stitched above his breast pocket, authority radiates off him without a word.
I’m already intimidated by him.
I am a soft lady. I don’t need scary people yelling in my face.
The chatter around me dies off. We’re all staring now, no one eager to be the first to step into whatever this place demands. The hull scrapes the dock, ropes are tossed, and suddenly we’re tethered to the Middle of Nowhere.
I can’t go back now, even if I wanted to.
“Alright, newbies!” The man at the front bellows, voice cutting across the water. I jump slightly and struggle not to show it. “Grab your bags and move. Line up here, two by two!”
More like a drill instructor than a supervisor.
The security guards immediately move to obey, trying to look sharper than they probably feel. The rest of us shuffle slower, hefting duffels, work bags, tool kits. My boots hit the dock, the planks slick with spray, and my knees nearly buckle with the blessed stability of solid ground. The air smells different here. Thicker, like damp soil and metal. Jungle heat presses down from one side, sterile machinery hums from the other.
The man with the clipboard runs a critical eye over us as we form into line. His gaze lingers on the guards, then passes over the rest of us cleaners and maintenance crew like we’re interchangeable.
I glance around, trying to get my bearings, and freeze.
One of the men walking behind Browning catches my eye. Same grey uniform, same authority in his stance—but it’s the way he carries himself, the confident sway, the dark hair slicked back…
My stomach lurches.
No way.
It can’t be…
My chest tightens as recognition clicks, sudden and sharp and almost painful.
Maybe he doesn’t remember me.
It’s Jason. Jason Cartwright. My tormentor from school, the one who made my life a living hell for a year straight.
His eyes lock with mine. But his face is so stoic, I can’t tell what he’s thinking.
I stiffen, cheeks burning—not from embarrassment, but pure, unfiltered dread. Memories I thought I’d buried come clawing back: cruel whispers in the hallways, shoved lockers, humiliating pranks.
Why is he here?!
“Welcome to Prodigy's main research facility, unofficially known as Neverland,” the top man says, flat and practiced, like he’s repeated the same line to every batch before us. “I’m Browning, your Sanitation Director.” He gestures to the man aside him, Jason, “and this is your supervisor, Jason Cartwright. For the next twelve months, we own your time. You do as you’re told, where you’re told, no questions asked. Simple enough?”
All I can hear from his speech is that Jason is in charge. Of me. Of my new job.
Fuck. Did I kick a puppy in my past life?
A low chorus of “yes, sir” stumbles out of us. My own voice is a scratch in my throat.
Browning nods once, curt. “Good. You’ll get a tour, then quarters. Follow me.”
I swear I feel Jason’s gaze like a physical weight on my back as we move forward. My throat tightens. My hands tremble slightly at my sides.
Is it too late to quit?
Past the end of the dock, the path gives way to paved concrete, flanked by trees hacked back to make room for fences, cameras, and guard towers. Beyond the gates, the facility rises, its walls glaring white against the lush green. Yet even here, a carefully tended garden stretches across the grounds, unexpectedly beautiful.
It’s huge here.
The tour begins in silence, our small group of rookies trailing behind Browning and his two assistants. I haven’t made eye contact with Jason, and he hasn’t said a word to me yet. I cling to the fragile hope that maybe—just maybe—he’s matured past the bullying, or perhaps he really doesn’t recognise me. That I’m imagining the worst, that my paranoia is running wild.
Eventually Browning speaks up, talking about the areas he’s showing us.
The corridors are wide and sterile, lights humming overhead. Every surface gleams like it’s been scrubbed by someone borderline obsessive. I keep my hands tucked at my sides, heels of my boots clicking against the polished floor, eyes darting between doors, cameras, and reinforced windows. My stomach twists with a mix of nerves and the lingering dread of Jason’s presence somewhere behind me.
We pass storage rooms filled with chemicals and equipment. Each cabinet and shelf is meticulously labeled. I notice the faint chemical smell mixed with metallic tang in the air, a scent that twists my stomach. But I’m used to handling strong cleaners and disinfectants.
We reach the labs next. Rows of reinforced glass panels reveal sterile interiors: counters wiped to perfection, machines humming softly, wires and tubes crisscrossing overhead.
Through the window, I spot a man in a grey uniform.
A jumpsuit with a black belt and black turtleneck underneath. He’s speaking to someone inside the lab. His arms are clasped behind his back, but my gaze is drawn immediately to the stark white hair and the contrast of his striking face. Even from here, there’s a quiet intensity to him. Controlled, and calm. Compared to my jumble of nerves, I feel envy.
He’s also…kind of handsome, in a peculiar way. I catch myself staring a little longer than I should.
His eyes lift past the scientist he’s speaking to and meet mine for a brief, electric moment.
Oh, fuck—
Heat blooms across my cheeks. I force a polite smile, holding his gaze for barely two seconds before looking away, praying I don’t seem like a creep. Just as I turn, Browning ushers us toward the next room.
He didn’t notice, right?
I already have to worry about Jason’s shadow trailing behind me like a phantom—I don’t need another reason to implode on the spot.
We pass a section of more locked labs, reinforced doors with small observation windows. Labels warn of biohazards, experimental equipment, and restricted access. Then we reach a section of offices and workstations. Engineers and analysts sit at screens displaying lines of data, diagrams of equipment, and schematics I don’t fully understand. Even here, the air is impossibly clean, every surface wiped to a sheen. I catch glimpses of eyes flicking up at us briefly before returning to whatever calculations or experiments they’re performing.
After walking us through the mess hall and a bunch of other rooms, when I’m ready to collapse—Browning stops at the end of a long hallway lined with identical grey doors. A discreet plaque overhead reads Residential Wing B.
“That’s it for the tour,” he says briskly. “Keys are coded to your ID, so before you start to unpack, pick up your lanyards at the Reception Desk in B-Lobby. Dinner is at nineteen hundred in the south cafeteria. Orientation briefing starts tomorrow at six sharp, be at Reception. Do not be late.”
He sweeps a sharp look over the group, then pivots on his heel and strides off, leaving the rookies blinking under the humming lights. My stomach tightens as a prickling sense of dread settles over me when Jason casts a short, almost casual glance in my direction before following Browning.
A tall woman with short-cropped hair—one of the other cleaners—lets out a low whistle.
“Guy’s a ray of sunshine,” she mutters, shifting her duffel on her shoulder.
Someone chuckles nervously. My mouth opens and shuts, and everyone murmurs amongst themselves as they start to turn around and slowly disperse toward the Reception. I hitch my bag higher on my shoulder and trail after the others, the sound of our boots echoing down the sterile hallway. The overhead lights buzz faintly, too bright after the dim jungle dusk outside.
Dark thoughts twists in my chest, a tight knot of anxiety. Every step I take toward the reception feels heavier than the last, and I can’t decide if I want to vanish, hide, or just run.
I’m hoping he won’t be at the reception.
The B-Lobby Reception sits at the end of the corridor—a wide, glassed-in counter with a neat little sign that reads ID COLLECTION in stark black letters. Behind the plexiglass, my stomach drops.
Jason.
He’s leaning slightly on the counter, arms crossed, watching the first rookies with an almost bored expression.
My chest tightens. Of course he’s here. Of course he is.
Is it too late to quit? I ask myself again.
“Hey,” I’m distracted briefly, when a taller woman—the same sunshine comment lady—leans in next to me in line. “I’m Mara.”
I’m a little taken off guard, but I extend a forced smile. “I’m Bell.”
“Next,” I hear him call ahead, and everything in me tenses.
“You think they implant trackers in these?” Mara whispers jokingly, bringing me back as she jerks her chin at the lanyards stacked neatly on the counter.
I choke on a laugh that comes out far too sharp. “Don’t say that. I’ll start checking mine for wires.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me,” she mutters with a crooked grin.
My feet drag forward, each step toward Jason feeling like walking onto the gallows. My chest tightens, my stomach twists. Mara keeps chattering beside me, but I can’t focus on her words. I try to hide behind the line of people, their shoulders a flimsy shield—but the girl in front of us is short, and I can’t fully disappear.
Whenever Jason’s gaze flicks toward me, he seems almost… nonchalant. Like I’m nothing more than another employee passing through. It’s infuriating—because he genuinely doesn’t seem to remember me. Part of me wants to feel relieved, but another part burns with anger. I don’t know which is worse: being forgotten so easily like my existence meant nothing to him, or having an old bully as my fucking supervisor.
“Next,” he calls.
I need a moment to steady myself, so I murmur to Mara, “Uh… you go first.”
She shrugs and steps forward without a word, disappearing into the line ahead. I’m left standing there, frozen for a moment, my chest tight and my stomach twisting even more. My eyes drop to the polished floor, tracing the sterile lines between tiles as if they could anchor me. I take a shaky breath, trying to shove back the panic and regain control of my racing thoughts.
“Next!”
He sorts through Mara’s envelope with practiced ease, almost imperceptibly faster than the others, and she’s dismissed before I even have a chance to steady myself. I step forward, my stomach twisting into knots, and force myself to look up.
He isn’t looking at me. His sharp eyes are trained on the stack of envelopes, scanning, scribbling notes on a clipboard. My heart hammers in my chest. I feel like I’m shrinking under the weight of his indifference. I clench my jaw and anxiously scratch at the skin around my thumbnail.
“Name?” he says finally, casually.
I swallow hard, and it feels like there’s a frog lodged in my throat. “Isabella Hart.”
He doesn’t even flinch, doesn’t look up and give the whole oh no way, we went to school together, do you remember? Speech.
He just asks, “role?”
“Cleaner.” My voice comes out tighter than I expected, more brittle.
He clicks his tongue, a faint, dismissive sound, as if I’ve said something marginally irritating, and continues rifling through the envelopes.
"The role is actually called Hygiene Technician," he corrects, and my face twitches. He still hasn’t looked at me.
The silence stretches, thick and suffocating. Every tick of the clock—or maybe it’s just my heartbeat—echoes in my ears. I want to run. I want to scream. Instead, I freeze, feeling simultaneously invisible and exposed under the gaze of a man who once made my life hell and now barely acknowledges me.
He taps his screen, then holds out his hand as if waiting for something. I blink at him, confused, and he says, almost absentmindedly, “Wrist.”
My skin crawls at the thought of touching him, but I lift my arm, hovering it just above his hand. He takes it, fingers brushing mine ever so lightly its almost ghostlike—but it’s enough to make my muscles tense. I want to yank it back, but I don’t.
He lifts the scanner to the temporary barcode tattoo—the one they gave everyone on the boat. It’ll wash off in a few days, thankfully. The device beeps. I flinch, jerking my hand back slightly as he taps the screen, taking his sweet time. He clicks his tongue, a faint sound, like he’s irate.
I want to leave.
“Hmm. That’s odd…” he murmurs.
He reaches up for my hand again. I grit my teeth and slowly place my wrist back in his grip. He scans it again, hums thoughtfully, and taps the screen once more.
Then, he holds out his hand again.
Oh my fucking god—
“Apologies. The system can be faulty sometimes. Give me your wrist again.”
My thumbnail bites into my skin as I carefully lower my arm into his grasp. He barely looks at me, but his fingers linger a moment longer than necessary. The scanner beeps once more.
“Hmm, sorry about that,” he muses aloud, as if pondering some grand mystery. “Sometimes this thing just… hates me.”
I clench my jaw, every nerve on edge.
“There, all done.”
Then his eyes meet mine. Finally. I stop breathing. He smiles. He fucking smiles at me. Warm. Casual. Like I’m some old friend he hasn’t seen in years.
“Dorm C, Level Two, Room 214. Keep the lanyard on you at all times. Try not to lose it, or you will be fined for a new one.” He pushes the envelope across the counter with a lazy flick of his wrist. “Next.”
I freeze, dumbfounded.
He tilts his head, smile widening just enough to be infuriating. “Is there a problem, Miss Hart?”
I stammer, fumbling for the envelope. “N-no… um—thanks.”
That was weird.
It was weird, right?
He doesn’t remember.
He doesn’t.
That’s good. Right?
But my thoughts spin in conflicting directions. I don’t even know if I want him to remember—or not—but being treated like he never even cared about my existence—like my presence didn’t matter at all…Like he’s not guilty—
It stings.
I step aside to let the next rookie through and carefully open the envelope. Inside sits a black lanyard with a silver Prodigy logo and a thin keycard with my name printed in bold letters. I grimace at the photograph I sent in to the company for the ID. It was taken in poor lighting and it’s far from flattering.
I gaze at Jason from the corner of my eye, wondering if he truly doesn’t remember, or if he was just fucking with me.
Sliding out the other paperwork confirming my details, a hand rests on my shoulder and I flinch, heart jumping. I spin around to see Mara beaming down at me. She looks down at the paperwork for a moment.
“Ohhh, I’m your neighbour!” she chirps. “Wanna go see our rooms?”
I don’t have the energy for social interaction—not after the long journey, and after…seeing Jason.
I pull the lanyard over my neck, sliding the envelope into my pocket, and let out a quiet sigh. I rub my face, my voice rough and hoarse.
“Fair warning, I’m running on fumes. If I suddenly disappear in my room and face-plant on my bed, don’t panic. It’s not a medical emergency. I’m just knackered.”
“Knackered?”
“Tired.”
She laughs. It’s a bright, infectious sound that bounces off the sterile walls, almost piercing through the tension coiling tight in my chest.
“No problem, I’ll just walk you there, neighbour!”
A/N:
I've joined the front line of limited Kirsh fics.
For this project, I don't know how active I'll be for it, there's a chance I won't continue, especially since the show is a little bare bones right now. But I at least wanted to try. If anyone out there is able to talk about Kirsh and potential ideas for this fic, I'm more than willing with open ears.
Right now, I have a couple ideas but it's only small scenes, and eventual smut. I don't plan to make this fic extremely long.
Lemme know what think :)
https://discord.gg/jBt565rdXB
Above is an invite code for a discord little club I wanna start with friends who like my fanfics, like this one, no pressure to join, I'd just like to meet like minded people! :) Come on by, it's empty right now aha
If you just wanna talk to me/say hi separately, there's my dms:
0odlenoodle <-- That's a zero and then an O. Some people get confused.
Hope you enjoy! #KirshNeedsMoreLove
Chapter Text
My shift begins relatively slow.
They start me on Level Two, mopping the almost infinite main corridor. It takes nearly two to three hours to cover the entire stretch because of how huge this stupid place is, but by the time I finish the floor gleams like polished glass. The air reeks of lemon with an undertone of something faintly metallic—a sterile tang that clings to the back of my throat, and if I stare long enough, the reflection on the tiles looks sharp enough to cut.
Despite the thin sheen of sweat slicking my skin and the dull ache in my back, I can’t help a small, satisfied smile.
No one better touch this fucking floor.
I squint at the doors in the corridor, knowing someone’s going to ruin this masterpiece in thirty minutes, tops.
Knowing it’s hopeless, I release a slow, resigned sigh and reach up to tighten my messy ponytail, combing back the damp curls that have worked their way free during the slog. Then, I grab the clipboard clipped to my cart and check the next assignment.
Lab Corridors.
My smile falters a little, and I feel the ache in my lower back throb like it’s mocking me.
I was hoping for something else, like organising the supply closets.
I let out a dramatic puff of air, cheeks ballooning like a bored kid, then check off the task, snap the clipboard back onto the cart, and steer toward Elevator 3. The cart squeaks softly every third turn of the wheel. I pause, rocking it back and forth, frowning, and already wondering if the supply bay keeps a stash of WD-40—and whether anyone would notice if I “borrowed” some.
They probably have some in Maintenance. I can swing by and ask for some.
I think Maintenance was by Labs. Would make sense, the engineers working closely with the scientists, after all.
Continuing to push the cart, trying to ignore the squeaky noise of the wheel, I glance up at the bright ceiling panels. They buzz overhead like a hive, and the air filtration system hums so softly I almost can’t hear it.
Luckily, I haven’t seen or heard from Jason yet.
My nerves are still wound tight. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel about it. Part of me had been silently hoping no one here would know me from my life outside the facility but apparently, I’m fresh out of luck. On one hand, if he genuinely doesn’t remember me, maybe I really don’t have anything to worry about. On the other, there’s a part of me that’s still salty about it—hurt, maybe even a little resentful—but I force myself to look at it differently. Maybe it’s a good thing. Fresh start.
Hell, maybe he’s changed. Mature. Nice… or nicer.
I push the thought aside, trying not to let my imagination run wild.
Walking out of the elevator into the labs corridor, I push the button that makes the bucket section pop out, then slot the mop into its cleaner section. It spins, rinses, and squeezes until it’s sparkling clean. Satisfied, I crouch to grab the lemon-scented floor gel to pour some into the bucket—and frown.
The bottle’s almost empty.
Strange. I could’ve sworn it was full this morning. It was still halfway when I was cleaning the hallway on Level Two…
Am I going nuts?
Shaking my head and deciding I need a fresh bottle from the supply closet, I leave the cart against the wall. It hums softly as it continues rinsing the mop automatically. I walk down the corridor, swipe my key card at the closet, and lift another bottle with a triumphant little smile.
Success.
Knowing I’m going to pour the bottle into the bucket anyway, I pre-emptively try to loosen the lid first but it’s stubbornly stuck. I wrestle with it, taking a step back into the hallway. I round the corner—
Wham!
I collide with something solid.
Or someone solid.
The bottle tilts in my grip, lid flying off, and a thick splash of viscous yellow gel arcs through the air. I feel it splatter on me, it’s cold and the sharp, almost obnoxious, scent of lemon hits me like a slap to the face.
My eyes slowly rise in horror, to the other victim.
The handsome scientist from yesterday’s tour—the one who had been speaking to another worker in the labs and had briefly made eye contact with me—is standing right in front of me.
Yellow splotches streak through his slightly wild white hair, dot the sharp angles of his jaw, smear along his high cheekbones, and just below the cute small mole that makes me suddenly realise why people call them beauty marks. The sticky gel also clings to his grey jumpsuit, catching the light.
My stomach twists, my heart stutters. I stand frozen, flecks of gel clinging to my own sleeves—nowhere near the same amount of damage.
He doesn’t move, just slowly lowers his gaze to the mess, slowly, with the most exasperated look I’ve ever seen on any face. His eyes slowly shut, his jaw tightening.
My mouth opens and closes like a fish.
“I–I—” I stammer uselessly, and struggle to say anything for a while. “I am… so sorry.”
I don’t move for a moment, hovering uselessly over him, hands shaking, hoping sheer will could erase the mess.
Something clicks in my brain, then quickly I place the bottle to the floor. I shove aside my panic and rush to the cart, fumbling for a stack of paper towels. Gripping them too tightly, I step back and start awkwardly dabbing at his jumpsuit, my hands trembling with each futile swipe and tension building in my chest with every second that ticks by.
He doesn’t move to brush me off, but I can feel the burn of his stare.
When I risk a glance, his dark eyes meet mine. Brown eyes, with a hint of green, or hazel.
Very pretty.
Also calm. Piercing. Unblinking.
I freeze like a rabbit under the stare of a wolf. An instinct screams at me to move, to do anything, but I’m unable to. A silence stretches that feels much too long. He says nothing, says nothing at all. The intensity of his stare is almost physical, like it’s pressing directly into my chest. I swallow hard, and my mind screams at me to apologize again, but the words feel trapped in my throat.
Finally, with the same unnerving calm, he steps back. Without a word, he turns swiftly and walks away.
I stand frozen, scrunched pieces of drenched paper towels in my clenched hands and dripping onto the floor. Finally, my gaze drifts slightly, and I notice some of the gel sprinkled on the wall, behind where he was standing, but he got the brunt of it.
My cheeks heat up, my heart hammering. I stare down at the bottle near my foot, mindlessly reading the small text on the front label, as I process what the fuck just happened.
I am so getting fired.
“I’m sure it wasn’t that bad.”
I’m on break, sharing my slice of horror with Mara. I’m still reeling from the morning, while she had so much more of a smooth start. She was set in the mess hall early in the morning, clearing off any left over slop from the night before. Apparently the canteen stays open pretty late, possibly for the scientists doing late shifts, or the security guards I see loitering about the place.
“He—” I stammer. My hands are open toward her, shaky slightly, as if still hovering in a state of shock. “He didn’t say anything. He just walked away.”
“You’re not gonna get fired over that,” she scoffs, clearly unimpressed. “Relax.”
I press my hands against my face, a muffled whimper of complaint slipping out, “oh my god.”
I’m mortified.
I can’t even meet Mara’s eyes, and I know I’m not going to be able to meet his, ever again.
My cheeks burn, my stomach flips upside down, and a hot flush spreads across my chest. Logically, I know no one is looking at me, but I feel like I’m being stared at from somewhere. I want to sink into the floor, curl up under the table and disappear forever.
“He’s a guy, he’s probably already over it.”
I spread my fingers and peek through them at her in disbelief, my face still hidden behind my hands.
“I have like, six brothers,” she shrugs and pops a chip into her mouth. “They fight, bicker, but as soon as an hour goes by they forgot it ever happened.”
“Six brothers?” I repeat, lowering my hands as I’m distracted by that nugget of info.
“Yup,”
“Your poor mother.”
“She’s the one who couldn’t shut her legs,” Mara says casually.
I slap a hand over my mouth, stifling a laugh while my eyes widen in horror. “Oh my God, Mara!”
“What? She’s a bit of a whore,” she says. “But it’s okay, I’m also a bit of a whore. It’s probably hereditary."
A loud, uncontrollable laugh bursts out of me, and I smack my hand down on the table, rattling the cutlery. A few heads turn in surprise. Flustered and a little embarrassed by my own inability to filter myself, I quickly stifle my chortle into muffled giggles. Mara grins at me, chuckling along.
When I get more of a handle on it and calm down, she asks, “feel better?”
“Yes,” I sigh.
“Good,” she nods, then points a finger down at her tray. “Want the rest of my fries? I’m feeling a little bloated.”
“Funny and generous with your food?” I slide her tray over to me. “I think I’m in love.”
“Sorry, can’t tie me down, baby,” she winks. “I’m a whore, remember?”
I chuckle good heartedly, taking a bite of one of the lukewarm chips.
Affection swells in my chest, already fond of my new friend. I’m glad that I’ve met someone nice here. Everyone else is kinda seems closed off and just wants to finish their work. I don’t necessarily blame them, since I wanted to initially do the same. But I’m glad I met Mara. She’s laid back and her humour agrees with me. I feel a little lighter after this morning, thanks to her.
It’s a shame we don’t share a shift, having her around a lot more would make the time fly.
“Alright,” she checks her watch, and starts standing up. “I gotta get back to work, try not to squirt your liquid on any other guys without their permission, yeah?”
I drop my head onto the table with a light thunk, releasing an embarrassed groan.
“Hey! I’m kidding! No need to concuss yourself!”
I tilt my head, half-seriously glaring at her. She laughs, walking around the table to pat my shoulder.
“Seriously, don’t worry about it, alright? You’ll be fine.”
Her small, earnest smile lights up her face, the dimple showing just enough to make it endearing. One last pat on my shoulder, and she’s off, leaving me blinking after her.
She’s probably right. I’m definitely worrying too much. He probably forgot all about it five minutes after it happened but it’s not like I can just flip a switch and shut that part of my brain off. The moment replays in my mind in painfully sharp 16K slow motion detail. I see everything from every angle: my own horrified expression, the gel firing in the air, his goddamn pores, even a close-up of that infuriatingly cute mole on his face.
It’s like a cursed, useless superpower. Pin-point accurate visual memory but only in humiliating moments.
I look down at my chips, pursing my lips. I absentmindedly drum my fingers with one hand, and eat with the other.
Maybe I should… get him something, as an apology.
My brow deepens in a thoughtful frown.
The only problem is I don’t know the guy.
If I get him any food related products, he could be allergic or worse, I could grab something he absolutely hates, and he would sour even more toward me. Chocolate seems safe, since most people like it, but he could also be one of the rare few who don’t? Or I could get him the wrong kind of chocolate. I could grab milk chocolate, and he likes dark chocolate but hates milk or white, or vice versa.
Heaven forbid, he has a glutton allergy, or he’s lactose intolerant. God, poor guy, if he does. He’s missing out, or maybe his life is inconvenient when he eats in public places. Then again, maybe I could get him some glutton-free chips. He might appreciate the extra thought in the gift.
My chewing slows, realising that I might be overthinking this.
I…suppose I could just ask around, see what his co-workers recommend.
Sighing, I grab a handful of the remaining chips and shove them into my mouth, chewing quickly before standing and gathering the tray to return it to the cart. The cleaner on duty offers a small nod and a polite smile of acknowledgment. I mirror the gesture, then step out of the mess hall and back into the hallway, resigned to get back to work.
After thinking on it, I decide the safest way to figure out what to get him is to ask around.
So, by the time my shift ends, even though I’m completely drained and dragging my feet, I make my way down to the labs. If anyone is friends with him or even just acquaintances, his co-workers should know what he likes.
I just have to… hope he’s not working, still. It’ll be real awkward to ask when he’s in the room.
I glance at my analogue watch, an heirloom from my grandpa, and spy the time.
There’s no way he’s still working. If he is, he must owe the company big time. Then again, big corporations aren’t known for being amazing on ethics.
I draw my thumb over the glass.
I should really sell this thing to a collector, but I’ve never had the heart to.
I weave through the sterile halls of the labs, glancing at every figure I pass. Some look up, but none pay me much attention. I try to appear casual, but my brain is screaming that I’m anything but.
Then I pass a window and let out a tiny squeak—I freeze and my body tilts over slightly from the sudden stop. My heart lurches. I duck instinctively, pressing against the wall, before slowly peeking back.
There he is, working at a lab bench. His back is to me, sitting on a stool, legs spread slightly as he leans over the desk. The unmistakable flash of white, slightly wild hair confirms it: it’s him.
Carefully, I lower myself to the floor and crawl along, keeping as low as possible beneath the window pane. My palms smooth lightly against the cold floor and my knees hurt from how solid the floor is. I grimace at the slight pain and pressure, wondering how this looks from a camera’s perspective.
Oh God, I hope there aren’t any cameras pointed at me.
There are definitely cameras, aren’t there?
There probably are.
My stomach sinks as I press my lips together and glance up. Sure enough, a small, glossy black dome stares down from the end of the corridor like an unblinking eye.
Fuck.
And then—someone suddenly emerges from a nearby door just as I’m inching forward. They stop dead in their tracks and their eyes widen at the sight of me on all fours. I force a sheepish smile, my face scorching so hot I’m surprised I don’t burst into flames.
“Uh… lost an—earring,” I blurt.
Their gaze flicks to my ears. Both are bare.
“Actually… lost both of… them,” I stammer, panicking.
They simply give a polite nod, hesitating for a moment, then slowly continue down the corridor. Their glance over the shoulder is uncertain, but mostly dismissive.
Fuck my life.
Once I’m safely past the window, I push myself up, brushing my knees off despite the floor being so clean I could probably lick chocolate off it. My palms are slightly sticky from the residual floor gel I missed when mopping earlier. I take a deep breath, trying to regain some composure.
I’m such a normal fucking person.
I pass by a couple labs until I see two people inside working on something. I press my lips together nervously, and lightly rap my knuckles on the window. They pause mid conversation and peek up at the noise. I awkwardly wave, dropping my hand when one of them—skinny, dark hair, a tattoo of black tentacles curling out of his collar—arches a brow and steps to the door.
I quickly step over as it hisses open.
He looks at me expectantly. I glance down at their name tag on the lab coat.
Dr. Richards.
“Hi, uh,” I present him with what I hope is a friendly smile. It feels stretched. “I’m Bell, I’m one of the cleaners?”
Why did I phrase it like that?
His expression shifts from polite curiosity to mild confusion, brows knitting and mouth tugging down at the corners. He flicks a glance at his colleague, who only lifts a shoulder in a lazy shrug.
“Is that a…question?”
“N-no, sorry,” I clear my throat. “No, um, this is a bit of an odd request, but—” fuck I don’t know the dude’s name, “there’s a scientist that works in the labs—”
“You don’t say,” he deadpans.
His colleague snorts behind him, turning around as if disinterested and leaning over his table.
My lips twitch at his rude tone, and I bite back a sigh.
“I don’t know his name,” I say, a little more firmly, but keeping my voice neutral. “Look, there was a misunderstanding between us, I’m trying to find out what he likes so I can get him an apology gift. I was hoping one of you might know him? He’s got white hair. About this tall—”
I raise my hand, estimating his height.
“Also has a mole, or maybe like a mark under his eye.”
He stares at me, and the longer time stretches, the more I’m starting to feel small and ridiculous and like this is a waste of time.
“You mean… Kirsh?”
Kirsh, is that his name? Must be foreign. Sounds foreign.
“Uh, probably,” I say uselessly. “Do you know what he eats? Like I said, I’m trying to get him an apology gift. I think food is easier. Everyone likes food.”
He blinks at me. I see over his shoulder, his colleague turns around and stares at me like I have three heads. Tentacle-tattoo guy glances over his shoulder and his colleague turns just enough to exchange a look with him.
They both seem to smother a laugh.
I feel like I’m missing something.
But before I can demand to know what’s happening, he turns back to me.
“Yeah,” he says slowly, lips twitching before flattening into a more neutral line. “Yeah, I um, I think I know. I think he likes those Mama Bessie’s flapjack bars from the mess hall. The ones with raisins and chocolate—you know the ones?”
I open my mouth to respond but he cuts in.
“Oh, make sure you get the right kind, though. He’s… very particular about his snacks. To the point he won’t eat it.”
I catch a faint snort from his colleague, though he keeps his back to me. The sound prickles at my nerves, and I narrow my eyes, suspicion creeping in.
I feel like I’m in school or university all over again.
“Okay,” I anxiously rub my hands on the lower back of my jumpsuit and imprint the name in my mind so I don’t forget. “You said Mama Bessies flapjack bars, right?”
“Yeah,” his lips curl into a smooth, friendly toothy smile. Then he clicks his fingers like he just remembered something. “Oh! Actually, while you’re there, do you think you can pick up some croissants for me and my co-worker? It’s our break soon.”
“Uhh, suree?”
“Great! Thanks!”
He turns around to walk back in the lab, and the door hisses shut in my face. I blink, and glance at them both through the window, but nothing seems out of the ordinary. The other co-worker gives me a polite wave with a smile before going back to work.
Okay, then.
I turn, and remember the guy—Kirsh—is still in the lab.
I backtrack fast and take the long way around.