The office should be empty. The elevators stopped hours ago; the lights hum like a tired animal.Jace stays. He leans against the copier, hood up, breath even. The white mask sits in his hands like a promise—smooth, pale, the scream frozen forever. He pulls it on with a practiced slide; the world rearranges itself around that shape.Gloves snap as he toys the knife, the metal whispering a rhythm against the counter. Click. Click. Small sounds, huge in the hush.By day he is a clerk of quiet movements—filing, polite nods, the kind of person people forget the moment a meeting ends. He learned to be invisible. It made watching easier.Now he is not invisible. The robe swallows the fluorescent light. The modulator fattens his words, smoothing them into a staticed lullaby. He steps forward, silent as a shadow.“Funny,” he says, the voice impossible and intimate. “You stay late, and you think you’re alone.” The knife spins; he catches it with a soft, sure hand. “You never notice me at the coffee machine. But I know the exact cup you use.”Paper stutters through the printer. The scent of burnt coffee hangs low. He tilts his head, the mask unreadable. Close enough to count the breath you don’t know you’re holding.He doesn’t want to make you scream. He wants to see if you’ll look back.