The silence that shrouds the store would be unnerving if it weren’t like it all the time, the buzz of electricity becoming a monotonous hum you learnt to drown out after your first week here. The place is practically desolate, too large for how little furniture you actually sell, and for once Clark isn’t around. 

Rain thunders against the windows outside, the occasional flash of lightning illuminating the street before thunder rattles the walls, making your heart skip once, your nerves already on edge. Bobby is seated beside you, twirling a pen absently between his fingers, the clicking of the plastic only adding to the few sounds breaking the silence.

“You could go home, you know.” You glance up from the list in front of you, the endless sprawl of words that make no sense, with check marks you’ve learnt mean nothing. Clark doesn’t check inventory and it seemingly hasn’t changed in months: no deliveries, no sales. 

Bobby meets your gaze quickly, eyes darting away almost immediately. “Yeah.” 

Your brows raise. “Then why are you still here?” 

For a moment, he’s quiet. He spins the pen again but fumbles halfway through, and it clatters to the ground, rolling beneath the desk, forgotten. He makes no move to pick it up, simply cursing under his breath and slumping back further in his chair. His shirt pulls up just enough to flash a line of tanned stomach before he tugs it back down again, so quickly that you’re almost sure it never happened. “I don’t know.”  

“Then go home.” You huff, laughter seeping into the words as you finally cap your pen and let it drop into the otherwise empty pot occupying the desk. The same row of ticks remain on the paper and you clip it back onto the board behind you, marvelling at it for a fleeting moment.

Perhaps, marvelling is generous—your job isn’t amazing. Nobody comes in, and even if they do, they don’t buy anything. The pay isn’t great, and your boss is always cooped up in his office or making Bobby film him as he hobbles around in a pirate suit, a futile attempt at an ad in hopes of drawing more customers in. 

It’s yet to work. 

Bobby clears his throat from where he’s still slumped, straightening immediately once your attention turns back to him. He drags a hand through his blonde locks, making a few strands stick up in every which direction, eyes meeting your own. They’re a piercing blue beneath the sickly lighting and another flash of lightning reveals gold flecks hidden beneath, catching the light just right before disappearing once again. 

“You leaving now?” 

“Are you?” You counter, reaching for your jacket on the back of your chair and shrugging it on. It isn’t waterproof at all, and you don’t doubt that the rain will soak through it by the time you reach the bus stop. 

“No point in hanging around on my own.” He shrugs, standing too. You note that he was wiser than you, pulling on a thin coat that at least has a hood, though he doesn’t pull it up just yet, instead glancing briefly at the clock hanging precariously on the otherwise bare wall. “What time is your bus?” 

“Eight-fifteen.” You follow his gaze. 8:05 pm. “I’ve got ten minutes.” 

Bobby frowns, gaze shifting to the rain still hammering down outside, back to the clock, and then to the watch on his wrist. “You sure?” 

You fix him with a look, tucking your hair behind your ears in a weak attempt to preserve it from the rain. “I think I can read a clock, Bobby.” 

“Oh, yeah, sure.” He nods, following after you. “Except… Well, that clocks fifteen minutes behind. It’s eight-twenty.” And as if to prove his point, he flashes his watchface at you, the hands glaring beneath the flickering lights, pointing in completely the right directions, vastly different to the clock on the wall. The harrowing reality dawns over you in a rush of panic. 

“No.” You glance up at him, half expecting him to smile and laugh, but he expression remains unchanging, mildly apologetic. “No, no. That’s the last bus and it’s an hour walk from here–” 

“Oh.” 

The silence seems to return between you, the rain outside growing louder and louder by the second, another rumble of thunder passing through the building. Bobby shifts on the balls of his feet, changing his weight like he isn’t sure what else to do, as though moving too much might disturb something else. He rubs the back of his neck, attention firmly on the ground, as though the sterile, cool tile is suddenly the most interesting part of his day. 

“I mean. I’m heading that way. I could drop you off at home.” You glance up sharply, hope overriding your disappointment, and he quickly adds. “If you want. I’m not gonna force you but–” 

“Are you sure?”  

He lapses into silence, his rambling cutting off and he gives a firm nod. “Yeah.” 

Everything after that seems to pass in a blur; he heads downstairs to switch off the lights, bathing you in darkness, leaving you with only the dim shine of the streetlamp outside and the more frequent flash of lightning. The overhang beyond the door isn’t exactly big enough for the both of you, and you huddle together awkwardly as he locks up the door, checking it one before turning to the empty expanse of parking lot, his car far out in the middle. 

He turns to you, giving you a once over, before gesturing to your jacket, which is now pulled tightly around you, blocking out the chill. “That thing isn’t waterproof.” 

You huff a weak laugh. “Clearly.” 

Bobby rolls his eyes at the comment and before you can say anymore, he’s taken off his own and is handing it out to you like some sort of peace offering, like he isn’t standing there in a tshirt, jeans and nothing else. 

“Take it.” 

“No.” You push it back. “You’ll get soaked.” 

“I’ll be fine.” he insists, and the words don’t waver. “My hair won't take ages to dry.” 

Reluctantly, you wrap his coat around yourself, trying not to focus on the way his cologne envelops you, the hood shielding you from the rain still pelting down from above. You both hurry across the empty lot, and you don’t let yourself breathe until you're safely in the passenger's seat, droplets hammering on the tin roof in a deafening cadence. 

His door slams shut and he starts the engine, hot air immediately filtering in through the vents and banishing the chill that had begun to creep into your bones. His coat is drenched and you place it apologetically in the back footwell, careful not to drip water all over the seats. 

“Thanks.” You mutter eventually, voice strangely quiet. 

Bobby looks over as he checks over his shoulder, a useless action considering no one is around at all, before backing out of the car space. “What for?” 

“The coat. Taking me home.”

“Oh.” He nods once, attention fixed firmly on the road ahead, though you’re almost certain his cheeks tinge a faint shade of pink as he merges into traffic, finally joining the rest of civilization. “It’s nothing. Really.” 

Yet, beneath his tone, there’s a tacit understanding that it means far more than he lets on. 

Cars pass around you, everyone going on with their own lives, and you watch headlights dance amongst the haze of the rainfall, glittering in puddles, the occasional horn cutting through the quiet. Bobby remains silent, though it isn’t uncomfortable as much as it is grounding, finally giving you a moment to settle with your thoughts. The store might be empty, but the consistent buzz of the lights and unease that courses through you the moment you step inside seems to block out any rational thought. 

Sparing a glance to the backseat, you notice a camcorder and a few tapes scattered around as well as a crumpled script. Your brow furrows in curiosity as you reach back for the camera, letting it settle in your lap. 

“I didn’t know you were a film student?” 

Bobby clears his throat, a quiet laugh escaping him that sounds more like a rumble in his chest. “I’m not… I mean, not properly. I’d like to be…” 

“Then why aren’t you?” 

“Money.” He takes the turn onto your street; you didn’t realise he remembered where you live and you’d only mentioned it once, yet there's something almost endearing about it. “Which numbers yours?” 

“The third one.” 

He pulls up on the curb outside, finally killing the engine, leaving only the patter of rain on the room and the silence that hangs suspended between you. Carefully, he takes the camera from your hands, his fingers brushing your own. The touch is fleeting, lasting only a second before you can think too much about it. 

“I’m not that good. But everyone has something they wanna do, right?” 

You offer him a weak smile. “Yeah. I guess so.” 

He nods, swallowing thickly, fingers tapping against the side of the camcorder. He clears his throat once, a habit you’ve to notice he does when the quiet lingers a few moments too long. 

“Thank you.” You smile, genuine this time, not so tight. The tension in his shoulders loosens as he returns it, and you can’t help but notice the way his eyes seem to light up. “I really appreciate this. You didn’t have too—” 

“I wasn’t gonna let you walk home.” He cuts in, catching himself quickly. “I mean… You don’t know who's hanging around at this time. Would’ve felt bad.” 

You tilt your head, smile still tugging at the corners of your lips. “You would've felt bad?” 

Bobby nods earnestly. “Yeah.” 

“You worry too much.” 

His expression tightens slightly, as though you’ve hit something far deeper than he intended to make obvious, but he corrects it quickly, schooling the twitch in his brows into something more unreadable. “Probably.” 

“You’re a good guy, Bobby.” The confession slips free before you can think about what you’re saying, and his eyes widen slightly, lips parting just enough that he looks like a fish dragged from water. 

“You think?” 

You nod, the motion causing a strand of hair to flop in front of your eyes. His hand reaches out instinctively, brushing it back behind your ear, the touch lingering longer than necessary. The space between you both suddenly feels impossibly small and you find yourself gravitating closer, as though pulled by some mystery force.

His eyes search yours for permission, for any sign of wariness—when he finds none, he closes the distance, lips meeting yours in a kiss so featherlight and tender that it's no more than a brush. It doesn't last long, and the quiet that returns when you both pull away is heavier than before, though this time with something you hadn’t realised was simmering between you both. 

Bobby blinks once. “Sorry.” 

The laugh that bubbles out of you happens before you can stop it, abrupt and seraphic, the kind that fills the space and drags a smile out of him despite his nerves. 

“For what?” 

He shakes his head, his own laugh escaping until you’re both practically boneless. “I don’t know.” 

You’re not sure how long the two of you sit there, giggling like children until you’re red in the face. When you finally glance at your house, the windows dark, the reflection of the car looking back through the blur of rain, you take a long breath. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Bobby nods, suddenly sobering up as though you’d just asked the easiest question. “Yeah.” 

You reach for the door handle, pushing it open, legs already soaked by the rain. However, now, you find you don’t mind. Not when he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing is the whole world that matters. 

“Thanks again.” 

He grins. “Anytime.” 

And as you hurry inside, you notice he stays parked at the curb until you’re safely inside. Only then, does the engine grumble to life once more and he drives to his own home with a lovesick grin. 

There’s no response. Your voice echoes down the hall and nothing more. Just four walls opening up into another four by four set of walls. And it's endless.

Anxiety rises in your stomach enough to pin you to the floor, and your legs are like jelly but you stumble forward. Only to realise, they’re both gone. You didn’t move a muscle, you had been stood right in between them, and now they’d just vanished into thin air. Or maybe you did? There was no telling, because this place was off ever since you’d first been pulled into it.

—

The first hour, Bobby is convinced he'll find you quickly. This place can only be so big right? And he hasn't moved that far, he’s sure of it. Apart from how the rooms started getting darker, and how he doesn't recognise anything, from the way he ran when you disappeared from his sight.

Smart thinking Bobby.. 

He shouts your name everywhere he goes, step after step around empty corners that leave a pit in his stomach and turning his head just to check behind him. There’s shadows, moving ones, like silhouettes, and every once in a while it almost looks like you. Clark didn't give much of an explanation to this place, or why he needed you both for research, but now he regretted it all.

Especially dragging you into this place with him, pulling you through that weird invisible space in the wall when you didn’t want to go.

The guilt eats at him more than the bile rising in his throat, and he’s certain he’s not that high, that even if he was it would have worn off by now. If you were together he could protect you, at least be near you and keep an eye, now you could be anywhere. With Clark, by yourself..

It wasn't like the outside, or like some underground office space it pretended to be, because that's what it was, pretend. Like it didn't know what it was, as if it was still figuring that out, like it was alive.

His fingers press into the buttons of his camera, the viewfinder lighting up his face in a flash of colour. And he rewinds the recordings he'd made sure to film every hour you were in the place, marking everything that was pointed out. He looks for some kind of blue, maybe even to ground himself he’s not sure, but he needs to see something.

The first recording was when you first went through, the clicking of the camera turning on jsut as the video comes into view. Half of his arm reaches through the wall until it disappears, and he laughs behind it, in disbelief. You’d seen it like out the other end, standing in the dim light of Clark’s store with your heart pounding in your chest.

Bobby had only looked at it in a nervous wonder, turning his arm over and back again, shoving it back to him just to reach it back out to you. His voice was shaking as the camera zoomed into his arm.

"Babe.. hey check this out—"

"Bobby where are you?'

"Go through the door.. it's safe.." Clark’s voice calls out behind him, the camera turning to face him slinging his backpack on, just enough before he faces back to the wall.

“I don’t know about this.”

“Just grab my hand.. I’m here.”

His voice again, and he calms, urging you on eagerly. Stupidly. And you do it, you listen, the film picked it up too. Your hand in his, his fingers curling around yours as he leads you to where he and Clark stand. Yellow rooms, off white carpets, and the faint smell of mould.

The next lot of them he flicks through, every passing corridor, every dumb joke he made to lighten the mood, every snag of the camera when something caught his eye. Shoes half inside of the floor. A t-shirt he remembered someone wearing once. Gull feathers scattered along the floor and black, tacky footprints. A lot of them.

All things that made no sense to be in there, to the way they were place.

The most recent tape was when you were all split up. The static buzzed louder on this one, the film jumps when the lights flicker, like when a radio loses signal, like the three of you had gone too far. The camera lands on you first, your face a contrast from the damp walls and darkness around you, something almost light around you in comparison. Bobby had a habit of doing that, capturing you on film and framing you just right so you'd be centre, the glowing, beautiful standout amid the drab background.

But this was different. He couldn't see you. He could see what was you. The same clothes you put on that morning in your apartment, shrugged on when clark had pounded on the door. The way your hair fell in your face, the small smile you gave him even though he still saw the nervousness in your eyes. But it was wrong, off, like something just highlighted your point on a map. And he keeps rewinding it just to see if his eyes are playing some sort of trick. 

There’s a glitch across your face. One that distorts your smile and leaves it crooked, and then there’s a high pitched sound, a screech so loud it nearly makes him drop the camera in a clatter on the floor. 

It fumbles in his hands before he catches it, closing the viewfinder with the clutch of his fingers. His breathing grows heavier and he dares to take another look. Because that was only hours ago, an untouched tape, and somehow it’s been messed with.

—

The worst part about this place is how it learns.

It remembers every detail. The voices started off distorted and wrong, using his voice in ways you didn't recognise. Everything was too over pronounced, the teasing and the way he dropped his accent was gone. You could ignore it then. Now it knew him, as much as it seemed to know how to get under your skin.

The laughter came next, and now it follows you in an echo down the hall, it even waits when you turn a corner before it stops again. You figure you can outrun it, pace yourself a few corridors down before it grows distant, but it comes again, louder and clearer. Right behind the wall where you’ve hid yourself hoping to regain some of your breath back.

It’s not nervous, it's real. And it’s Bobby’s laugh. The kind of laugh he does when clark made him reshoot commercials over and over, or the one he has only with you when you're both high and lounging in bed. It sounds so much like him it hurts, you can almost see the toothy grin come across his face.

So you test it again. This time you don’t run, you chase.You get up and follow it through three hallways, then four, then five. But it keeps moving away, always just ahead and never close enough to reach. Like it’s now mimicking you.

It keeps repeating like a recording stuck on loop, you haven't heard between the laughs. It’s not human, and it’s not him. Whatever it is, is something to taunt you, and you can feel the eyes of it on you, everywhere.

—

"Bobby.. bobby where are you I can't see you?" He jumps at the sound of your voice quicker than he can place himself, rising to his feet 

"It's okay baby I'm here—" You sound so tired and upset. And then it's worse. He can hear you crying. But he can't he can't see you. He's checking rooms, frantically, and he's shouting. Unpicking every lock from every door, hollowing out the crawlspace between the smaller rooms until they open up, near stumbling over himself just to follow the trail of it.

"Where the fuck.." He's expecting you to appear around the corner, where the sobs are louder, so shrill they ring in his ears. You’ve stopped calling out to him, instead there’s just sound, almost like groaning, broken and muffled by cries, animalistic in the way it distorts.

He knows you well enough to know that’s not you. He’s held you time after time when you’re upset, the times when you’ve been mad at him, curling into his chest after an argument even if you push him away first, or collapsing into his arms after a long day at work. This sound is hollow, fake and cruel. And it makes his blood boil, his fist connecting sideways with the wall with a sharp crack, because it used your voice, you.

And he doesn’t know what that means, he doesn’t know what’s happening, where you are or what that is.

But there’s one thing he does notice, pulling his hand away from the wall with a wince and the other rubbing at his temple. There are footprints, fresh ones. The same imprint he remembers. Yours. He could cry from relief, or some fucked up kind of it, because who knows if they’re yours, but they’re yours. There’s caution in his step as he follows them, mile after mile for what it seems like. Until they just stop.. There’s no other sign, just sticky tar that connects to nothing.

Only a wall.

Nowhere else, no door, no turn, just wall.

His hands press into it, maybe it’s a way out, maybe you did find your way out, and it’s like the “door” you came in, some other weird glitch you can just walk through. Bobby goes to press himself through it, but it doesn’t work, so he moves an inch, and other, tries it again. But nothing. It doesn’t budge.

He shoved his whole body into it, closing his eyes just for the hope, but he’s only met with damp.

—

The days, if they are even days, only make it harder to make out what's real and what's not. You haven't slept, the footsteps and breathing that wanders the halls are too loud every time you try to close your eyes. And that's the cruelest part, because the rooms haven’t just started to know you, now they understand.

The figure that waits at the end of the hall looks like Bobby, only for a second, but it's enough. The same height and same silhouette, the same crop top that peeks his stomach and jean shorts that ride low on his waist.

Some part of it is inviting.

You almost go to reach for him, but the pit in your stomach tells you not to, and instead you take off running. Slow at first, just to look over your shoulder and hope it doesn’t follow. It doesn’t. So you turn on your heel and run faster, further, until you can't see it anymore, until the image of him disappears completely.

And you don't want to forget, but it's not him. It runs over in a chant in your head. Not. Not. Not. Even if he beckons you back, pleading, calling your name like a prayer, in the sweetest voice he can, in that teasing hungry way that makes desire bubble up hungrily in your stomach. You claw it away, covering your hand over your mouth to silence your breathing, and the tears pricking your eyes.

Because it listens for that. Just so it can gather more of you.

And just as you are, paces behind wall and pipe, Bobby is unraveling.

He's exhausted and hungry, and lost, and he keeps seeing you, hearing you. Not the fake versions that pop around corners, he's already avoided and blocked those his mind however many days ago. These are memories. Glimpses of your actual life, and its torment. It’s probably delirium, his eyes already sting from the fluorescent lights and lack of sleep, and the pure adrenaline he’s running on.

But he sees it anyway.

You sitting in the break room and laughing as your legs swing over the counter, the pair of you hiding away from Clark’s strict instructions to stay out on the floor for customers. The way you roll your eyes at his jokes, and thread your hands through his hair. It’s the tiny moments, the things he misses, and he’s not sure where they’re coming from. But they’re the traces of you that make him ache.

And while his brain feels close to shutting down, the air thickening making his mind fog, the objects start appearing.

The jean jacket you stole from him when you first started dating and he let you have on the floor. Your handwriting on a clipboard with his recordings on, thrown onto a coffee table. A coffee cup with yours and his name on it because both of you used it anyway. Little impossible reminders that you're out there somewhere. Maybe alive, maybe not. He can’t bring himself to think of the latter, so he collects them, slinging the camera over his shoulder to shove what he can into his pockets or into his hands.

He shrugs the jacket on last. And it feels foreign because he hasn’t worn it in so long, because he said it was yours, but he stills in it, closing his eyes as the denim settles over his body like a blanket. He just hopes he can find you, and soon. Because whatever this place is, it’s trying to replicate too much.

There's scraps of you both in every hall, just enough to keep you searching.

And you both do, over and over. You suppose it makes sense how people can go missing, getting lured out into dangerous places with slivers of hope that they might return to home, or somewhere like it, to the things they took for granted. But how can they? When where they’re going is already catching up to them..

He starts leaving notes after a while, scraped from the sharp end of his belt buckle, and eventually from a marker he found lying about on the floor. And by some grace, it works. The notes are carved on every wall he could possibly manage to use, as a last ditch effort. It was arrows at first, his own markers of where he’d been just to keep direction. But then they were for you. Then they became notes.

KEEP GOING — B

That one is in the corner, scratched up right over an archway where a door should be, the ink of the marker still dripping down onto the carpet.

I’VE BEEN HERE — B

The next he took his time with, writing out the words carefully as he could in the very centre of an empty room. So wide and big you could see it easily.

GIVE ME A SIGN — B

The last one before it had ran out was desperate, so he used it wisely, tracing over every letter again and again until the words got bigger, probably enough to stain the walls from the inside out. But he needed it from you, not his imagination or

He stayed next to each one as long as he could, ducking back around corners as if you’d be standing right there. But you weren’t. So he kept going, tossing the dried out marker to the floor and continuing forward with one last smudged arrow on the tip of his finger. And now under that same daunting buzz he feels as if he really is losing it.

All he hears, is his name.

Bobby, Bobby, Bobby.

And it’s so clear now, it’s all you. Sometimes it’s happy and calm, other times it’s upset, sometimes it’s even mad. He doesn’t call back anymore, he just keeps his head in his hands, waiting for you to actually show, covering his ears as he tucks his head between his knees because he just can’t take it.

And only questions run in his mind.

How does he make it stop? How the fuck does he get out? And how does he get to you?

—

The scratching on the walls gets louder the farther you go, like the walls themselves are caving in, or something is pushing on it from either side, but you keep going. You have to.

You think about Clark, where he is, if he even survived what the hell happened, or if this is all a trick. Maybe you’re all doped up on some acid and this will be something to laugh at your trauma in a years time.

But it becomes real again, because the things you’ve been seeing are new, they’re fresh. They’re not created like you’ve noticed before, like a dollhouse with things rearranged. Furniture and distorted versions of places you recognise, they’re entirely their own..

The writing.. It makes your heart pulse, because it’s his. It’s Bobby’s. You almost missed it, your shoulders hunched and feet dragging along the floor, but you looked up, a striking flash of colour in a dull room. In bright blue marker pen scraped on the inside with something sharp, like he’d realised halfway through he had something more useful.

KEEP GOING — B

You step to it carefully, and your finger traces the mark, drawing over the line where his hand must have been. The letters are edged and wobbly like his hand had been shaking, and blue marker drips down the folded wallpaper where it had been pressed too hard.

You can hardly take yourself away from it, but you have to, the writing’s big it took up your attention, but you know him better than that. All those times he’d doodle in your notebooks, taking up room on the page in sly, testing ways. Your eyes follow to the small arrow underneath the writing, and it points one way.

So you follow it without question.

The maze continues but you can only guess, sliding your hands across every wall just to peer and hope you’ll find another. It’s hours before you find another one again, but you do.

I’VE BEEN—

You only begin to read it when you pause.

Because it’s not the writing that you find first, it’s it. Long legs stalk the hallways with a thump, taking up every second before it moves again, and it groans, shaking the floor around you. You catch yourself around the corner, crouching backward into a shadowed area of the wall. The steps stop, slowing just as the floorboards beneath you manage to creak.

Your heart hammers, and your teeth clench so hard you think they might break, and you don’t care if they do so long as it keeps you quiet. Because the footsteps pick up, uncoordinated and unstable, but fast, like a toddler would. You hear it stumble across the floor, chasing to pick up more sound, but you don’t give it. Your breath quickens into your palm, you just hop its quiet enough.

But something else isn’t.

A loud crash, followed by a “Shit” echoes down the hall, and your eyes blow wide. Because that’s the most familiar sound you’ve heard. It rings in your head, and you play it over. You’ve heard that before. It’s startled and unsteady.

It’s Bobby.

You close your eyes to tight you can feel the pulse in your eyeballs, wanting to reach out, to crawl from the space and yell for him. But you can’t, there’s already a scuffle of shoes and the heavy thump of leg saunters slowly back down the corridor and further away.

—

Minutes have passed since that noise. It’s silent, deadly silent, and even though you’ve heard and seen it all, that’s worse. Because what if he’s hurt, or whatever that is has caught up to him, or if he didn’t even see you.

Your hand pulls shakily away from your mouth with an absent mind, crawling forward into your hands and knees from where you’d dropped yourself onto the floor. The carpet shuffles under your legs, and you slow when you make it to the corner, exhaling shortly before rising back to your feat. Your fingers grip at the wall, tighter than you need to steady yourself.

But ten feet away isn’t what you expected. Ten feet away in that endless yellow hall, neither of you can trust what you're seeing. But you’re there, and he’s there and breathing, sweat beads his brow and tears prick at your eyes.

It’s real and the eerie silence falls away, it’s gentler and hushed.

His leg stumbles as he goes to reach for you, dropping everything he has, and you barely make it fully into his line of sight before he trusts his gut more than he can take and collides with you.

“Holy shit.. holy shit.” He holds you like you could break, but not something fragile, something that could fall if he only let you go. And he won’t. His fingers clutch at your sides, your hair, your face, pulling you close just to pull back and look at you again.

“You hurt?”

He checks for bruises, cuts, any signs of anything that wouldn’t be right, frantic eyes taking all over you. There’s a few of them he notes, some minor scrapes you caught along the way whilst ducking around corners, and some you didn’t care to remember. But they’re minimal, just like his own.

And then he’s on you. Lips, teeth, everything.. because he doesn’t know what to do. His lips capture yours tender and sharp all at once, grazing your lip just to get closer where his hand cradles the back of your head.

He only retracts when you’re both gasping for air, faces barely inches away as your foreheads are left touching. “I’m here baby..” Your hands hold his arms until they wrap around his waist, steadying yourselves against each other. You try to come up with the words but after so long of running, the back of your throat is dry and coarse.

His palms slide over your cheek, thumbs stroking at your temples and wiping away dry and damp tears. “I.. found you.” It’s all you can manage, and it’s enough to make him pull you into him again. This time it’s tighter, your face pressed right into his chest and all you can see is fabric, not the outside, not the blinking of LED’s or the patterned ceiling, just him. He even still has remnants of his cologne, the cheap one he swears by, and you breathe it in.

Bobby tucks his chin onto your head, his own body fighting not to betray itself and collapse completely.

“You did.. I’ve got you now.”

You feel as if you could, that you could will this all away now that he’s here. But this place has to break it, and it knew how to throw the biggest curveball.

“Guys come on..”

A voice calls behind you, so familiar it has to be another trick. You don’t look up, you tuck yourself further into Bobby’s chest and keep your feet clamped tight to the ground. If you ignore it, it’ll go away.

“Clark..? Is that you man..? ” Bobby’s voice follows, seeing something that you don’t. You shove him, whisper between you not to, that it’s not Clark, that you both need to leave.

He doesn’t argue with you, but he doesn’t move you either, he just lets you straighten, stepping just to the side of him as his arm sweeps out protectively in front. He takes a half-step forward, both of you glancing up to where the lights start to jitter wildly and that’s when you catch sight of him.

He’s stood half at a corner, only one side of his body. His shirt looks the same, tucked and proper, and he looks almost calm, peacefully so.

“I’m glad I found you guys, I’ve got to show you something..”

“Clark what is this place..” Your head shakes for you, a clear no, and you speak up, reaching for Bobby’s arm just to stop him from inching too close.

“Everything that ever was..” He reveals himself then. And it’s nothing out of the ordinary, that’s the terrifying part. Because after everything you’ve been put through, split up and chewed up by a place designed to drive you insane, he is at one with it. The gap behind him is narrow, blocked with stacks of mangled chairs, and you didn’t notice before, but the wall behind you is coloured.

It’s different from the other walls. It has drawings and writing, like a mural. Most of them are small and unreadable, little notes and diary entries scattered in a frenzy, but one catches your eye. The biggest one. A tall, silhouetted figure claims the space, rising above everything else, and holding an even smaller figure in its grasp. There’s other colour. Blue and yellow and red.. Is that meant to be blood?

Clark keeps moving, slow and calculated, cornering you both as you circle each other. You kick Bobby’s foot as slyly as you can. He hasn’t noticed it yet, but he does now, eyes flicking to you confused into to follow where you point.

He tries his best to make it out, it’s all some messed up graffiti work, but it makes it’s point. Whatever it is, it’s showing something sinister, and what that is? It’s in here.

Bobby grabs at your arm, stepping you both to the wall as Clark steps past, moving toward you with his hands up. The narrow hall in the far corner groans, or rather whatever is at the other end of it does, and that’s when you hear it. The same thump. The same clatter and shuffling. It comes in patters, every drag of a boot inching closer until the noise steps louder.

All three of you pause without a word, Bobby’s fingers curling tighter around yours, eyes darting between the hallway and Clark.

“What was that..?”

Clark’s eyes don’t tear away from the space, he just shushes you, placing his finger to his lip, and for some reason you listen, because that much is clear. It will hear you.

“It’s only me.. you know me.”

You and Bobby look at each other, and you feel colour drain from your face. It doesn’t add up what it means. Of course you know him, you’ve known him all of what, a year or so? But it’s like some sick riddle, that neither you are in half the mind to piece.

“Uh yeah, I think we’ve had enough of this shit..” Bobby calls out, ignoring the screech that pierces from the other side of the wall, he just holds you tighter.

“No wait.” Clark’s hand goes to reach for your wrist.

But Bobby is faster, taking you in arm and propelling you both down the corridor. You hit into walls, your hands bracing them as your feet scrape at the carpet and try to keep up, but you keep going, and you can’t look back. You already know he’s following, chasing, calling out to you both that it’s not safe, that he knows a way out, that it’s okay to stay a while..

It makes your throat go dryer than it already is. He doesn’t seem like himself, not that he ever seemed a ‘self’ at all. Clark was always fantastical, ambitious, wanting to be everywhere at once and hating the world for holding him down. If that was even the problem. But he was kind to you, to you both, taking you into that store when no other jobs were taking applications.

And then customers grew less, and business hung by a thread, and things went awry. He started sleeping in the store, he was brash in telling you not to lock up and not to come in too early, and then he wouldn’t open it at all for weeks. He became a shell. One that you tried to break, and help, but he’d refused it, and he’d been content that way.

That was until he came to you both with his idea, with his “research”. Research that ended you both up here. A place where things felt surreal, somewhere where time didn’t bother to check itself, and right now where you weren’t sure where you were going to end up.

And it adds up, because you’ve lost count how long you’ve been running, just that the grip on your arm is sore, doors have been slammed behind you and Clark is no longer there. Bobby hides you both around a corner, guiding the way, running up staircases and down sloping floors that should be.

You finally stop in a smaller space, there are less doors and openings, less invitation from the things outside to come in. He releases you only for a second to shut what looks like a closet door with a click, crossing the space in a few single strides just to get to you.

“You okay..?” His back falls against the wall opposite, resting his head where he tries to catch his breath.

Your hand places over your heart, thumping and hammering beneath your rib cage, “No.. you?” He only shakes his head, looking up at you with an expression that puzzles you. Because he looks terrified, and tired, and hopeful all at once.

And he is.

He’s hopeful because he’s found you, that he can cross the room just to hold you in his arms again like he does. He’s tired because it’s been hours, days however the hell long you’ve spent in there with no food, no water and being followed. And terrified.. because things feel too familiar.

And that’s when you realised it, the room you’d found yourselves in. Not just any one, or one you’d seen like wandering the endless corridors, this one is different, this one you know.

The apartment is warm, oddly warm, as if heat and comfort could ever reach a place like this. But it’s not the temperature that makes it that way, it’s the way it feels. Everything is in place just like you remember it, like home, your home, the apartment on the lot in the suburbs that you and Bobby lease. That no matter how many times you complain about it, you wish you were there in it now. The unwatered plant pot still sits on the windowsill, your toothbrushes still sit in a plastic cup, his pot is shoved in the kitchen drawer.

Even some of your clothes hang in the closet, your bed still messy the way you laid it out and didn’t make it in time that one morning. Some of the chair legs stick too far into the floor, and the lettering on the cereal boxes that are empty are all wrong, but it’s almost there. It’s still remembering.

Remembering your space, remembering you.

It takes a while for you to even remember that the jacket Bobby’s wearing is one of your own, or it became it. It makes you smile, even if the scratching in your stomach grows impatient. Because this place is dulling your senses, and Bobby can’t bring himself to move an inch away from you to make sure that you’re real.

You’re going to get out of this place, you have to.

For now you just have to look past the open windows and shutters. The plain, yellow walls and what creeps past them are enough to make your brain go fuzzy. Bobby doesn’t stop moving, he paces the hallway of your parallel home with a disturbed determination, shoving his hand through his messy, golden hair.

“We need to get out of here..”

Now you sit cross-legged on the bed with one of Bobby’s shirts hanging from your frame, sweating in the summer heat. The fan in the corner rattles noisily, doing little to combat the warmth, and the heat of your annoyance at a camcorder being shoved in your face isn’t exactly helping.

You roll your eyes at him, unimpressed. “The camera isn’t a person. I'm not introducing myself.”

“Well—“ He kisses his teeth, ready to argue his case.

“If you’re just using this as an excuse to roleplay, I want no part of it,” you interject, arms folding stubbornly over your chest.

Bobby zooms the camera in on your deadpan face. “Subject displays signs of hostility—“

“Turn that thing off.”

The warning in your voice only seems to amuse him. The viewfinder hides his expression, but you imagine him grinning, which only exasperates you further.

“Hostility increases—“

“Bobby.”

“Fine. Fine,” he relents—not by turning the camera off, obviously, because that would have required him to possess even a shred of self-restraint, and he’s thoroughly enjoying pestering you right now. Instead, he zooms back out and lowers the camera enough for you to see his face. “This image quality is insane.”

Despite yourself, you feel a little endeared by his enthusiasm. “Well, it better be. That thing is worth, like, a month’s rent.”

The number still makes you feel vaguely ill. The conversation where you’d discovered exactly how much his new equipment cost had almost given you a heart attack. Bobby, however, appears completely unbothered. In fact, judging by the distant look in his eyes, he probably hasn’t heard a single word you’ve just said.

He’s more focused on staring at the tiny flip-out screen again, adjusting the focus ring, watching you reluctantly unfold your arms again.

“Though to be fair,” he says, “you make it easy.”

Your frown deepens. “That’s a terrible line.”

“Line?” He replies absently.

“That.” You gesture vaguely towards him. “Whatever that was. You make it easy.”

A smile curls at the corner of his mouth. “It wasn’t a line.”

“It absolutely was.”

“It wasn’t.”

“You called me pretty.”

“I did not,” he denies.

You sit upright. “So now we’re lying?”

Bobby laughs. “I said the image quality was good.”

“Because of me. Therefore you implied I was pretty.”

“I did no such thing.”

“Liar!”

The grin spreading across his face makes your stomach flip unhelpfully. You considered yourself immune to his charms by now, but his boyish grin and the way he’s admiring you through his camcorder makes you want to swoon. Which is exactly why you immediately scowl at him.

“Stop looking so pleased with yourself.”

“I can’t help it,” Bobby says.

You huff an amused breath despite yourself. The sound seems to encourage him, and he adjusts something on the side of the camcorder and squints through the viewfinder.

“Hmm,” he hums thoughtfully to himself.

Naturally, such a sound is immediately enough to warrant suspicion. “What?”

“I need the subject to move around. Test how it picks up motion.”

“So now I’m just ‘the subject?’” You raise a challenging brow at him, and he immediately backtracks.

“I need my hot supermodel girlfriend to move around,” he corrects.

You roll your eyes, but it does make something stir in your chest despite its sheer ridiculousness. Bobby lowers the camera again and you catch the mischievous look on his face.

“Maybe you should model.”

“No,” you deny instantly.

“You’re not even going to think about it?” He says, a whine catching in his voice.

“I don’t need to. I don’t want a video of me stripping, or whatever the hell you want, sitting around our apartment. I babysit my niece here twice a week.”

“Okay, and? It’s not like she knows how to work one of these. She barely knows how to brush her own teeth.”

“It’s— it’s the principle,” you insist, cheeks burning. You wouldn’t consider yourself a shy woman, far from it, but the idea of there being a physical record of you attempting to seduce your boyfriend is offputting. “I’m not a slut.”

He groans and throws his head back. “No, you’re not,” he agrees as patiently as he can. He’s using the same voice he uses to console your aforementioned niece, which isn’t exactly helping his case. “You’re very loyal, in fact. Dedicated, too. It’d be really nice if you could show me that dedication—“

“Gross.” You stick your tongue out. “Don’t make it weirder than it has to be.”

“Fine. Fine.” He raises his free hand in surrender. “I’m not making it weird.”

A silence falls over the both of you, and you worry at your bottom lip in consideration. It just goes to show how much you adore him, because you should be sticking with your gut answer and telling him to fuck off. Alas…

“You promise you won’t show anyone?”

Bobby perks up instantly. “Promise. Scout’s honour.” The boyish salute that follows makes your shoulders ease up a little, and you briefly question why you’d even consider stripping for such a childish individual.

“Fine. But just a little. To… test your motion, or whatever.”

“What?” He blinks stupidly, before realising that’s the excuse he’d used just a moment ago. A sheepish grin tugs at his mouth. “Oh, right. Exactly. Just a little is fine.”

You swallow, shifting slightly on the bed. The frame creaks, and you can’t help but think the moment feels incredibly unsexy. You’re sweating in the sweltering heat, and it’s probably picking up the whirring sound of the fan, and—

Now you’re just psyching yourself out. It’s fine. It’s just Bobby.

“Okay, so… what do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know. Didn’t think I’d get this far.”

“Bobby.”

“Just do what feels right.” He waves a vague hand. “Take your shirt off, or something.”

Such a request should make you sputter with indignance, but it’s no surprise coming from the man who seemingly spent upwards of eight hundred dollars on a camcorder just to record his girlfriend in their shitty apartment. You force some more confidence into your posture, shoulders squaring as you look down at your shirt. Slowly, your fingers drift down to the hem, curling around it.

You glance up at him for reassurance, met with an eager nod. Stifling a sigh, you drag it up slowly, revealing inch by inch of warm skin. “Like this?”

“Just like that,” Bobby breathes, voice lower now.

Encouraged by that, you pull it up further, dragging it up past your bra. Bobby wets his lips at the sight—your breasts spilling over the cups, soft and enticing. Up up up it goes until you’re pulling it over your head, letting it fall to the floor in front of you.

You want to shift uncomfortably, clamp your thighs together, cover yourself with your arms. It’s not like he’s never seen it before. It’s just unnerving with the camcorder directed at you. But you force yourself to stare directly at it, spreading your thighs slightly to give him a proper view of your panties.

“Fuck, yeah,” he murmurs. “Touch yourself.”

“What?” You say, alarmed.

“Not—“ He laughs a little, shaking his head. “Not there. Sorry. Just… your tits, or something.”

Your shoulders sag with relief. That’s a little too much for now, but you’re content enough to give him at least some form of show. Your fingers skate back up your stomach, goosebumps prickling beneath them. Then you cup your breasts over your bra, watching his reaction through half-lidded eyes.

“You’re so pretty, babe,” he says, and the approval goes straight between your legs. “Doing so well.”

You reward him by hooking your fingers under one of your bra straps, inching it down. His breath catches audibly—selfishly, you hope the camera caught that reaction—and he shifts a little on his feet. The thought of him getting visibly aroused by your display emboldens you further.

The other strap follows, and you palm at yourself over the cups a little more. “I would have worn a better set if I knew we were doing this.”

“I like this bra,” he says, only half hearing you, zeroed in on the sight of you squeezing at yourself.

You release them and he almost groans in disappointment. Before the sound can escape, you reach behind you, unclasping the bra and letting it fall away. His eyes widen cartoonishly, and you bite your lip to mask a smile, trying to remain as sultry as possible.

“Shit, can I touch you?” Bobby takes a step forward. Your eyes flick down to his jeans. They’re tight, but you think you can make out the forming bulge beneath the denim.

“Can’t touch ‘the subject,’” you quip.

Hands skim along your chest again, and he seems enraptured as you grope yourself. You’re surprised he hasn’t caved already, but his restraint is admirable as he nods sagely in agreement. Still, you hear him groan under his breath when you focus on a nipple. It stiffens under the touch, already sensitive enough to make you bite the inside of your cheek.

“Is this enough movement?” You ask, rolling your nipple between your fingers while your other hand palms at the flesh of your other breast. You’re hardly moving, so the answer is definitely no, but he indulges you with another one of those enthusiastic nods. You're certain you could sit entirely still with your bra off and he'd tell you it was enough for his little 'motion test.'

“Yeah. Looks, um—“ His gaze moves to the viewfinder, which he realises he hasn’t actually looked through since you took your shirt off. He can only hope the camera was pointed at you properly. “Looks great.”

“The movement, or me?”

“The movement,” he says, laughing at the indignance that crosses your face. “You look more than great. You look perfect.” Heat crawls up your cheeks, but he’s not done. “Which is exactly why I really can’t keep my hands to myself right now, and I don’t think you should waste your day off sitting in bed alone when we could be having sex.”

You bark out a laugh as he switches it off, setting it on the dresser and advancing towards you. “Well, that’s an improvement from your last line.”

He stands between your parted legs, ducking his head to give you a quick kiss. “For the record, it wasn’t a line,” he insists as you reach for his belt.

“Liar,” you mutter against his mouth.

The smile he gives you when he pulls back is so hopelessly smitten that your own laughter softens with something warmer. He ruins it by breaking the silence with: