APPRECIATE THE ART.

“yes. you presume correctly.” his tone is clipped, the words practically pushed out through his teeth.

the archivist's eyes don't falter on the stranger's, nearly-black eyes holding steady. although — there's a hint of something behind the brown hair no doubt deliberately covering the other's right eye, and jon's own eyes narrow almost imperceptibly in response.

he still doesn't break the gaze as he gestures to the recorder on the table, already running. as was it ever. “may as well get this over with,” he says before inhaling a sigh. “sit, if you must.”

"stefano valentini."

his visible eye drifts toward the tape recorder. he's been recorded before—the police made sure of that—but this device has a presence of its own. like a third person in the room.

setting that thought aside, his attention is pulled back to the archivist. not entirely of his own volition, either. he feels quite strongly as if he should continue speaking.

regarding...?

a prompt is offered. something about it... it's hard to tell if it's spoken by the archivist, or... or what, exactly?

"my camera."

he's already expecting the confused (and/or disapproving) look he's going to receive—though you think someone from the infamous magnus institute would be more accommodating.

while the archivist reiterates his name, purpose, and the date to the recorder, stefano places something on the desk.

despite the fact that he was clearly holding nothing when he entered the room, and had no bag, no place to clearly conceal the item, there is plainly now a camera in front of them both. the lights overhead are reflected dully in the metal of the focusing ring.

it's early, nearly the end of his commute to work from his flat, when something strikes the archivist. for a moment, dread pools in his stomach. there's that... off kilter feeling, that hunger, that pull, and he — except that's not it, is it? in the same sharp inhale of breath through his teeth, the difference becomes palpable. not a nagging pull, but a pressure. like he's being watched? but that's not quite it, either.

jon stops in the middle of the pavement, mumbling a stuttered apology as someone runs into his shoulder. he steps out of the walkway proper, taking a moment to focus on the thread of that feeling. he follows it, his eyes locking on a figure in a suit across the street, heading in the same direction he is... of course. his jaw sets and he shoves his hands down into his jacket pockets. he moves to the curb and checks the street both ways before crossing. he doesn't bother waiting to reach the crosswalk he usually takes, not wanting to be stopped by oncoming traffic like he would be, knowing his luck.

his pace is brisk, and if the other man was walking with any more purpose he isn't sure he'd be able to stop himself from taking off at a sprint to make it to the institute first.

as he very nearly brushes by, head down and hands still in his jacket pockets, what the feeling is cements itself: it's the feeling of eye contact, unflinching and steady. damn. damn.

of course, he has no proof that the stranger is even heading to the archives; if he tries to see, he knows that will only reveal himself — assuming he hasn't been already. still, he stays his course, intent on getting there first.

---

jon hates being right sometimes. he makes it into the institute and down into the archives with only a minutes lead, but it's enough to make him feel more at ease. his jacket's discarded without as much care as it usually is over the back of the chair, and he's very aware of one of melanie's opportunity knives in the drawer beside him.

or...is it something inside it?

he'd felt it while while walking here—the prickling sensation of being watched, paired with another. a pull, a magnetism. it's a feeling he's experienced before, rarely. but it strengthening as he arrives at the front of the institute assures him that he's made the right decision in coming here.

the woman at the reception desk is nice enough. her smile is utterly empty, but he appreciates the gesture nonetheless. very professional (despite the sheer number of odd callers they must receive here), she graciously directs him to the archives without putting him through any tedious small talk.

grateful for that much, he proceeds to the basement stairs. the air is cooler, underground, and in no time at all he finds himself at the door to the archives.

he contemplates the door for a moment. the wood looks...odd, somehow. almost pockmarked in places. especially close to the floor. bugs, perhaps? it doesn't look like any termite damage he's ever seen. with how old buildings are, he can hardly fault them (though he can judge) if they have a pest problem.

—but there's no point in dawdling now, distracted by a door. he's here to see the archivist.

the door swings shut behind him with a thud as he steps inside.

someone is waiting. a man, sitting at a desk. making rather surly eye contact. he exudes some sort of authority, that's readily apparent.

stefano smiles lightly, confidently holding the gaze directed at him.

he steps out into the hallway, taking a moment to look at the scribbled map in the notebook as he decides what to do next. the choice is his now, after all. he closes the notebook and catches sight of stefano with the raised camera — and for a brief moment he seems to look through the viewfinder, like the camera isn't even there. then he carries on, going to the door to the left. it's one of the last two unchecked doors.

"i grew up on old detective show reruns," joseph explains. it feels like a different life now. "i won't say i made the decision because i cared about justice — i did. i still do," he adds, "but it was the challenge that interested me more." his hand rests on the door handle for a moment. "that's why i moved to krimson city." he doesn't think he needs to explain that detail, he thinks as he opens the door.

joseph doesn't recognize the room at first, and he doesn't know how to describe it. dark tile walls, concrete floors. machinery he isn't sure he could identify in the corner.

stefano watches joseph intently.

fiction, and justice. how...prosaic. "not every job needs to be a calling. in fact, your honesty is something others should likely strive for." in his own life, he quickly found that those who claim they are the mouthpiece of order to be ridiculous at best, and maliciously ignorant at worst. a man with a weapon is only that, whether at the behest of the law or his country. it's all the same, in the end.

the room joseph chooses is another excursion from the previously established décor. perhaps even more so—it reminds stefano of several things, though none quite match accurately. a factory is what comes to mind first, but there's something about the machinery that feels...off. something one wouldn't find in an industrial setting. the computer, too, feels out of place, even beyond its obvious age.

as he looks around, he can't help catching the vague whiff of something. disinfectant? it's hard to pin it down. something vaguely medical, disguising something far more foul.

—he can't get carried away by speculation just yet. something about this room is clearly weighing on joseph.

joseph takes the skeleton key from stefano's hand as he offers it, lifting it to cast it a cursory glance. it's a regular key, however old it may appear to be. there's nothing of note about its appearance. "for the door at the end, if i had to guess." although that doesn't help them with the locked doors, if they're meant to go into them. a master key?

as he thinks over the key, he turns his attention to the instant camera in stefano's grasp. "from your tone, i take it that's not your preferred model?" he's being deliberately, if only lightly, ironic — a strange touch of normalcy. besides the instant camera looking out of place in stefano's hands, even without knowing much about photography he knows that they're not known for their quality.

"i'm more of a traditional type, honestly," he admits. "there's just something about developing my own photographs that i find..." he pauses a moment, as if not quite sure how to phrase it. "...soothing, i suppose."

stefano follows after joseph, handing over the leadership position once again. "we can do whatever you prefer. after all, you are the investigator here." in his experience, it's often easier to get along with people (and convince them to forgive your past transgressions) when you acquiesce to their perceived authority. and, arguably, joseph might have a better sense of where to go next.

he lifts the camera to his eye, capturing joseph in the viewfinder for just a moment, but doesn't take the shot. just looking, for now.

"...if you do not mind me asking," he adds, tentatively changing the subject, "why did you decide to become a detective?"