#manmadeandbeyond

The moment you wake up in the elevator, you know. There’s a strange heaviness in your body. As a woman, you recognize it instantly, though you don’t want to. It’s not painful, exactly, but it’s there – a residual awareness, the ghost of what your body went through while you were... gone.

You shift and the sensation becomes clearer, unavoidable. The ache between your legs, subtle but insistent, makes your stomach turn. Your heartbeat quickens, panic blooming sharp and fast. Your mind races, trying to grasp the edges of what happened while you were asleep, but there’s nothing. Just the feeling.

No, no, no. You can’t be here like this.

Panic hits you before you can even think. You don’t stop to question it – you just run.

The elevator doors open, and you’re already moving, heart pounding, desperate to get to the bathroom. You barely see the office, barely register the startled glances as you rush past Irving, past Dylan.

“Hey!” someone calls, but you don’t stop.

You can’t stop. The panic isn’t just fear – it’s disgust, a deep, gnawing horror at the thought of your Outie, of what she did, of who she let touch her. A man you don’t know, a face you’ll never see, a voice you’ll never hear. The idea makes your skin crawl, and you run faster, as if you could outrun the reality of sharing a body with her. As if you could escape her choices.

You’re almost there when Mr. Milchick steps into your path, alarmed.

“Hey, hey, what’s the matter?” he asks, concerned but composed, his voice even, practiced. His eyes track you carefully, reading your panic with laser precision.

You shake your head, trying to push past him, but he follows, his hand gently touching your arm, grounding in a way that makes you want to cry even more.

“Wait, hold on,” he says, and before you know it, he’s in the bathroom with you, the door clicking shut behind him.

You’re crying. When did that start? You’re pressing your hands to your face, trying to stop, but it’s all too much – the soreness, the terrifying blankness where your own memories should be.

“Talk to me,” Milchick urges. His presence fills the small space, but he’s careful not to touch you again. He crouches slightly, lowering himself to your eye level.

“I can feel it,” you whisper, the words shaking. “I can feel what she did.”

The anger surges. You’re enraged at her. Your Outie. You blame her for this. For letting a man touch her. For making you feel this.

His expression shifts, the professional mask slipping just slightly, confusion and fear are all across his face. His mouth opens, then closes, as though he’s choosing his next words with extreme care – care that suddenly feels personal.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks quietly, too quietly.

You freeze, staring at him. His question isn’t neutral. He isn’t asking about some stranger.

“It was you,” you say.

He blanches, lips parting like he wants to say something, to deny it maybe, but he doesn’t. He just watches you, and you see it there – the guilt, the regret, the worry. His shoulders tense, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

“I didn’t think you would– I would never–” he starts, and his voice is tight, shaken. You can see it in the way he swallows hard, in the tension thrumming beneath his skin – he’s terrified, not just of what you might think, but of the possibility that, somehow, even being as careful as he was, he might’ve harmed you. That he crossed a line with you – not her, but you.

The panic inside you doesn’t vanish, but it shifts. At least it was him. At least you know his face. Your body relaxes, just a little, the relief hitting you hard enough to make your knees weak. You sink to sit on the closed toilet lid, elbows on your knees, head in your hands, trying to breathe.

It’s not right, not really, but some part of you, the part that’s noticed him since the beginning, feels... relieved. The theory you’d quietly formed, that maybe your Outie felt the same draw to him, feels confirmed. And that makes the panic just a little easier to bear.

“It’s okay,” you murmur, wiping your eyes, still embarrassed, still shaken. “At least it was you.”

“You– you were running like something was really wrong,” he says, searching your face for cracks you’re trying to hide. There’s panic in his eyes, but he’s holding it down, forcing himself to stay grounded for you, though you can see he’s fighting not to spiral – not to make this about himself. “Are you sure you’re not hurt?”

You swallow hard and look away.

“I didn’t know,” you say, “When I woke up, I just… I could feel everything, but I didn’t know who it was. I was scared of it being someone I wouldn’t like.”

The admission makes you feel raw, exposed in a way you weren’t prepared for. Milchick’s expression softens just slightly, and he takes a small step closer, but not too close.

“Are you sure you’re not hurt?” he asks again, quieter this time.

You meet his eyes, and for the first time, you notice how afraid he looks. Not afraid of you – afraid for you. That realization settles in your chest, heavy and confusing.

“If I knew you could feel it, I…” He trails off, shaking his head as though trying to physically rid himself of the thought. “I never would– I wouldn’t have…”

But saying it out loud seems to shift something in him, and he realizes, with a visible pang of guilt, that he shouldn’t have done it anyway.

“I shouldn’t have,” he says, more firmly, his voice edged with self-recrimination. “I– I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have.”

His guilt, so tangible, makes your stomach twist in a new way– not because you want him to feel bad, but because the alternative is worse. Your mind races, faster this time, until you blurt it out, frantic:

“What if it wasn’t you?”

He blinks, startled.

“What if it’s someone else next time?” you press, the panic rising again, overwhelming. “Is my Outie a slut? What if she sleeps with someone else? What if I wake up feeling… feeling someone I don’t want?”

Milchick looks like he might be sick. He opens his mouth, then closes it, at a complete loss. He doesn’t have an answer.

You both have to face the fact that it could have been worse. And for him, the sickening truth is, he’s the better option. But now he knows you feel what he did, and that knowledge twists inside him, awful and impossible to ignore.

You tried to keep it professional. You really did. You needed this job. After your mom passed, you had nothing – no degree, no work history, just years of caretaking that didn’t count for anything outside of hospital waiting rooms. You were thirty, broke, and desperate. So, you signed the contract.

And then there was him.

You knew you were interested from day one. Seth made it clear that things had to stay professional. He’d say it casually, in passing, but often enough that you understood he was drawing a line. But you kept finding reasons to call him. Small things. A broken lock. A ride to pick up a couch. Silly, needless favors, just desperate to hear his voice. You knew what you were doing. He knew, too.

The night you finally got him in bed with you, it was the best of your life. Mind-blowing, earth-shattering. But in a way, it makes sense he didn’t call you after. He never really wanted anything beyond the professional. You should’ve known better. Still, you’re angry.

You don’t know what you want from him. An apology? An explanation? Another night? You just know you’re not ready to let it go.

So you wait for him in the parking lot after work. When he crosses glances with you, you nod, and he nods back, understanding. You know he’ll follow you home.

“Say you’re not interested,” you tell him as you cross your threshold, giving him an ultimatum.

The door clicks shut behind him. He stands there, tense, like he’s considering leaving. But he doesn’t. You watch him, waiting, heart pounding, giving him a chance to say the thing you both know he won’t.  He’s weighing his words, and you can see it, the way he shifts, the way his eyes flicker around the room, looking for an escape that isn’t there. He doesn’t want to give you too much information. But the way you’re looking at him… he can’t resist. He feels weak. Unfocused. Dizzy.

“You know I can’t say that,” he finally mutters.

“Then what’s the problem? We just need to be careful. No one’s going to find out,” you press.

Something in him changes. His posture, his mannerisms – something subtle, like there’s already been a consequence. Like someone already found out. A cold knot forms in your stomach. Shit.

“Was it her?” Your voice barely comes out. You’re terrified of the answer, and the look on his face is worse than confirmation. He looks cornered. Scared. You’re too smart for your own good, and he knows it. Too smart for this to ever be safe for him. “So this isn’t about the job. This is about her.”

He hesitates again, but doesn’t try to deny it.

“She is the job.”

You stare at him. You blink, once, twice, trying to make sense of it. It makes no sense, but at the same time, it makes all the sense in the world. You try to break the tension.

“Wow,” you scoff lightly. “You fucked me so good even my Innie felt it.”

He doesn’t laugh.

Your confusion starts to turn into dread. “Is she… like a child or something? The way you talk about her…”

“No,” he says quickly, too quickly. Then, after a beat, “Not a child. Exactly. But they don’t know– shouldn’t know about… these things. Our world. They’re… well, pure, for a lack of a better word.”

“And we corrupted her…” you whisper, guilt setting in.

Seth doesn’t confirm or deny it. He just looks at you.

"So I’m not allowed to have sex ever again, or what?" The guilt gnaws at you. You regretted the procedure after the first day, but you had no other option, so you kept going. You decide to tell him. "Honestly, I regretted the procedure after the first day. But even then, it was too late. Now what? I can’t quit. Where am I getting another job like this?"

"You’re very important to us." His voice takes on that practiced calm again, the corporate poise from when you first met him, like he’s reading from a script he memorized a long time ago.

"Who’s 'us'?" you spit, not giving two shits about Lumon right now.

"The work is important." He tries a different approach, but he’s still pulling back, keeping it professional, as if that’s still possible. But it’s too late for that. You crossed the line. You can’t go back.

It creeps in your mind – the unsettling thought that your Innie isn’t some distant, separate version of yourself, but a raw, unguarded mirror. The fact that the line between you blurs so easily, that she can feel echoes of something she’s never experienced, something intimate and terrifying… it should make you stop. Should make you question how deep this connection really goes. But you’re too scared to find out. Too scared to face what it might mean if your Innie feels him, wants him, the same way you do. So you shove it down, lock it away, and focus on what’s in front of you – the heat of his body, the promise of his touch, the distraction of chasing something that’s already wrong. 

You step closer, slowly, deliberately. “You’d prefer if it was someone else?”

His head jerks up, eyes narrowing, but he doesn’t answer. 

“At least it’s you,” you say, softly, like you’re offering him some kind of twisted reassurance. You take another step, close enough now that your bodies are nearly touching. “You really want me to find someone else?”

His throat works, like he’s trying to swallow something down, but the longer you hold his gaze, the more his resolve crumbles. 

“You just need to be careful,” you whisper, tilting your head, lips inches from his.

“I was careful last time,” he murmurs.

You press closer, until there’s no space left, until you can feel the tension radiating off him in waves. His eyes close, and you think he’s going to push you away. But when he exhales, it’s slow, shaky.

When he opens his eyes again, it’s to kiss you. Hard. Desperate. His hands come up to your face, holding you like he’s afraid you might disappear.

As soon as he leaves, you turn to Dylan, expecting an explanation, and he offers you just that:

“They can wake us up,” Dylan says, voice shaking slightly. “On the outside. It’s called the overtime contingency.”

Mark frowns. “What?”

Dylan explains – his house, his son, the way it all vanished before he could even process it.

“He’s not your son, Dylan,” Irving says hesitantly. “He’s your Outie’s son.”

Dylan snaps his head up. “That’s bullshit. He’s my son too.”

Your chest tightens. The panic claws its way back, you're out of breath, hands trembling. It’s too much. The walls press in, your limbs feel wrong, the world tilts – but before it can swallow you whole, Helly cuts through it:

“This is good,” Helly says.

You force yourself to focus. “How is this good?”

“If they can wake us up on the outside, what’s to stop us from doing it to ourselves?” she presses. “We can all see the outside, find out who we are.”

Irving hesitates. “Helly, forgive me, but that’s perverse. We’re Innies. Plus, the controls are surely somewhere we can’t access.”

“Like the Security Office?” Mark suggests, somehow holding up Graner’s key card.

Helly leans in. “Where did you find that?”

Mark stares at it. “It was in my pocket during the Music Dance Experience. I think I must’ve had it with me when I came in today.”

“Why does your Outie have the key card of our head of security?”

“I don’t know.”

Helly crosses her arms. “I think it’s time for a field trip.”

Dylan snorts. “To the security office where all the security guards work? Amazing. Yeah.”

“Who’s to say there are security guards?” Helly counters. “I’ve only ever seen Graner.”

“What about Milchick?” Dylan points out.

A beat passes before you speak. “He can’t be everywhere at once. And I know how to distract him.”

Dylan eyes you. “Disgusting, but sure.”

“That’s not how I meant it. Fuck you!”

“Fuck you!” Dylan fires back.

“Guys,” Mark and Helly say at the same time.

You and Dylan share a begrudging nod before moving on with the plan.

You find Milchick in Cobel’s old office, well hidden in the low light, shirtless, contorted awkwardly as he tries to clean his wound. Your guess is that he doesn’t want her to find out.

“Do you need help?” you ask, trying very hard not to stare at the broad stretch of his bare shoulders, the sharp lines of his torso. Holy shit.

He jumps, whipping around. “Excuse me? No!”

There’s something almost comically affronted in his voice, like the idea of you helping is more mortifying than the bite itself. He looks around, clearly embarrassed to be caught like this.

“Do you wanna see something funny?” you ask instead, remembering why you came here.

He exhales sharply, already rolling his eyes. “What are you doing here?”

“I also have a bite mark on my arm. It’s kind of faded, so I almost didn’t feel it. Let me show you.” You roll up your sleeve, revealing the faint imprint. “I wonder how that happened.”

He goes still. Gulps. Practically sweats cold. Then, as if deciding to pretend he didn’t just hear that, he turns back to his injury, still struggling. You watch him for a moment, waiting. Eventually, against his own will, he sighs and nods.

“I’ll accept your help… be careful.” He hands you the supplies.

You step closer, carefully cleaning the bite wound. Your hands move gently, focused. “You’ll get to feel this healing,” you murmur. “Do you ever think about that?”

“And you think that’s a good thing?” he asks, voice matching yours, allowing himself to be softer.

“You’ll get to walk out of this building with your memories,” you say. “Maybe you’ll have dinner with me, and you’ll think about this conversation – but I won’t. Because my brain is fucked up. You’ll lie to me about how you got this wound, and I’ll never find out.”

You finish, finally looking up at him. “I don’t think it’s about good or bad. I think it’s just not fair to me.”

His fingers brush your cheek, slow, patient. A quiet moment stretches between you, his hand warm against your skin. You don’t let yourself get lost in it. Not yet. Before he can speak, you push forward, because you have to, because it’s been sitting in your throat for too long.

“I’ll never get to see the stars,” you whisper. “That’s been making me freak out lately.”

“Amongst other things,” he says.

“Yes.” Your voice wavers. “I’ll never sleep, or drive a car, or buy a house, or adopt a cat. It’s not fair.”

Tears spill down your cheeks, and his thumb catches them, gentle, careful. He still has his hand on your face, holding you there like he’s afraid to let go.

“I’ll never get to kiss you or touch you.” Your voice cracks. You press his hand closer, closing your eyes for a moment before looking at him again, really looking at him, at his face, his bare chest. “And you’re so, so beautiful. It’s not fair.”

He kisses you.

It’s soft, almost weightless, but it knocks the breath from your lungs. Your heart is loud in your ears, and when he pulls back, you’re dizzy.

“I’m so sorry, I…” He looks terrified, already regretting it, but he doesn’t move away.

You don’t let him spiral. “I’m going back to work now. Don’t worry.”

And with that, you walk out.

You sit at your desk, a blue post-it in your hands, folding the edges in neat, precise movements. The paper softens with each crease, warming under your touch. Your hands move like they’ve done this a thousand times, but your mind draws a blank.

It shouldn’t matter. It’s not like you’re ever going to take an origami class, or see a real star, or – 

You press your thumb against the final fold, shaping the paper until it puffs up into a tiny, five-pointed star. It looks almost smug sitting in your palm, its existence defying explanation. You let it rest on your desk and reach for another post-it, fingers hovering over the stack, when you hear them.

“Milchick totally has a crush on her.”

You freeze, fingertips brushing the paper. Dylan’s voice carries low but clear from the next table. You keep your eyes down, staring at your hands.

“Wait, what?”

“Complete nonsense, that’s what.” Irving’s voice, dry and unimpressed.

“Think about it,” Dylan insists. “Why do you think she’s never been to the Break Room?”

Your breath catches. You glance up without meaning to, but no one’s looking at you yet. Mark sighs like he’s already tired of this conversation. 

“Nothing bad ever happens to her,” Dylan continues, ignoring the general vibe in the room.

“That’s… not true,” you say, still confused about what's going on. You feel their attention shift toward you. “And also, I behave. I never do anything wrong. Why would I get punished?”

You hear the weakness in your own argument as the words start to leave your mouth. You behave, you follow the rules – so does Mark and Irving, and yet you’ve all seen them return from the Break Room with glassy eyes and trembling hands. Dylan is smirking at you like you just proved his point for him.

“You’re red,” he says, grinning. “Look at that.”

You press your hands against your cheeks, trying to will the heat away. You haven’t told them what you’re going through. You haven’t told anyone. The idea of their reactions, their possible judgment, makes your skin prickle. You lower your gaze back to your desk, to the tiny star.

“Don’t listen to them, kid,” Petey cuts in, sounding reassuring as always. “You’re our best worker, and they’re just jealous. Isn’t that right?”

Dylan and Mark nod in unison, both deadpan. 

“So jealous,” Mark says flatly.

“Even the way he talks to her is different…” Dylan mutters under his breath, but you catch it anyway.

You wish you hadn’t.

Your stomach twists. You don’t know what to do with the conversation anymore, so you keep your head down and let them move on without you, their voices turning into background noise as you pick up the blue post-it again.

You should stop. You should crumple it up and throw it away. But your hands are already folding, moving on their own. Another crease, another careful press of your fingers. Another star.

You spend the rest of the day thinking about the conversation, about what Dylan said. You don’t want to. But it clings to you, curling around your thoughts like a vine, impossible to shake.

And when the day is nearly over, you take the second star and press your nail into the paper, watching the indent fade. Then you grab a pen and flip it over, writing what’s on your mind, what you’re feeling.

You stare at the words, heartbeat picking up. Then you carefully fold the note and tuck it into your palm, fingers curling around it.

You take the note to the bathroom, the empty space is so quiet that it makes your pulse sound too loud in your ears. Your fingers tighten around the post-it as you move toward a stall, shutting the door behind you with a soft click.

You take a breath. Another. Then, carefully, you tuck the note into your bra, pressing it flat against your skin. You can feel the slight crinkle of the paper with every inhale. It feels dangerous and reckless, feelings that were unknown to you a month ago.

Flushing the toilet for good measure, you step out, heading straight for the sink. Just wash your hands. Keep your head down. Don’t act suspicious.

You look in the mirror and Mr. Milchick stands behind you.

Your stomach plummets, a cold shock running through your veins. He wasn’t there a second ago. He hadn’t made a sound. And yet, there he is, watching you with an expression that makes your skin crawl with heat and dread.

“Give me the note,” he says.

Your breath catches. You turn slowly, pulse hammering. You should be scared. This is the first time you’ve seen him angry at you. You’ve seen him disappointed, stern, but never like this. Never cold, never furious.

And yet, some part of you wanted this. Some part of you wanted to be caught, to see what he would do. To know if Dylan was right, if Milchick really does have favorites.

You should give it to him. That’s the smart thing. The safe thing. But something stubborn inside you doesn’t want to. Instead, you meet his eyes and force the words out, even though your voice shakes.

“I hid it in my bra,” you say. “Come get it.”

His expression barely shifts, but something in his eyes sharpens. He shakes his head, slowly, disappointed. “This is beyond inappropriate,” he says, restrained, but there’s a warning underneath it, a controlled anger you’ve never been on the receiving end of before. “Give me the note. Now.”

Your knees feel weak. It’s taking everything in you to hold your ground. You should back down. You should – 

But you don’t.

“I said come get it.” This time your voice sounds even quieter, no more than a whisper. It feels physically difficult to say the words out loud.

Milchick exhales sharply, but steps closer. He doesn’t hesitate, just reaches inside your bra, fingers brushing against your skin as he pulls out the note. The contact is brief, impersonal. But your body reacts anyway, heat prickling along your spine. You force yourself to stay still.

He unfolds the post-it, eyes scanning the words.

‘I feel lonely. I wish I could talk to you. Sometimes I love you, and sometimes I hate you.’

For a moment, he doesn’t move. His jaw tightens, his grip on the note firm. When he looks back at you, you can’t read his expression. 

“Believe me,” his voice, somehow, even lower now. “You don’t want this to happen again.”