Chapter Text
The room wasn’t supposed to be open.
Which, of course, is exactly why Spepticle had found his way inside.
It was wedged between a defunct cloakroom and a barely-used service stairwell off the East Wing. No sign. No lighting. Just a thin plaque half-swallowed by peeling wallpaper: “ARCHIVES E.” The kind of room that didn’t appear on party maps or floor plans. The kind people forgot even existed—if they ever knew at all.
No one saw him slip in.
No one was looking.
The gala still raged behind the polished walls of the Grand Atrium, where dresses billowed like ghosts and laughter floated like perfume. Secrets clinked inside crystal flutes. Everyone was distracted. Exactly how he liked it.
The door shut behind him with a slow, reluctant creak—too slow for comfort, like the hinges were thinking twice.
The room inside was long and narrow, steeped in the kind of stale air that tasted like dust and memory. Shelves lined the walls, filled with yellowing files and ledger books too old to be useful but too official to throw away. A single desk squatted near the back, barely lit by an overhead lamp whose dying filament buzzed like an insect trapped in glass.
Dust danced in the light, swirling toward him like it had been waiting for someone to breathe on it.
Spepticle stepped in with the swagger of a man who knew he shouldn’t be there and adored himself for it.
“Now this,” he murmured, voice a conspiratorial hush, “is what I call narrative bait.”
He spun in place once, slow and theatrical, arms flaring out like a magician mid-reveal. His coat swirled around his ankles—a deep red lined in black satin, worn over mismatched boots and pinstriped slacks tucked slightly too messily. Two scarlet antennae twitched upward from a wild nest of black-and-crimson curls, flicking toward the corners like they could hear shadows moving. A faded bandage angled across his head—loosely taped, barely clinging. It fluttered slightly as he moved, revealing a flash of pale skin beneath.
His face was sharp, but boyish. One eye visible—the other hidden behind the said bandage that slung lazily to the side of his head. That lone green eye flicked around the room with the paranoid grace of a man who was either extremely alert or extremely caffeinated. Or both.
“God, I love a room that looks like it’s got plot.”
He flopped backward into a sagging leather chair with a grunt, limbs spilling over the armrests like he was melting on purpose. The chair wheezed beneath him.
“Feels like someone died in here,” he mused aloud, eyes narrowing at the ceiling. “Or should have. But hey—I’m the comic relief, right? I’m not allowed to die. I’m just here to make you laugh nervously while the plot creeps up behind us.”
He leaned forward and pulled a dented audio recorder from his coat pocket. The little red light blinked faintly as it powered on. Still recording. Still listening.
He spoke into it with a dry smirk:
“Hello again, future me. Or… future you, if someone’s nicked this off my body. In which case: first, rude. Second, congratulations—you’ve officially become a cliché.”
The recorder clicked softly as it logged his voice.
His fingers drummed an erratic rhythm against the desk—three beats, pause, two beats, scratch. A syncopation that didn’t match any song playing in the gala. Something more primal. Instinctive.
“I heard something earlier,” he said, softer now. “Not gossip. Not the usual ‘oh-no-the-caterer-dropped-a-swan-sculpture’ nonsense. Real whispering. Real weird. The kind where someone says a name and someone else says, ‘Don’t ever say that name out loud.’”
He glanced up, directly at the reader now. Yes, you. A sudden stillness. His expression didn’t change, but his posture did—leaning in. Closer. Like he knew you were watching.
Still here?
Good.
You’re the type who stays past the first scream.
“You ever get that feeling,” he whispered, “that a room is looking back?”
He looked down, reached into his coat and pulled out a set of headphones—beat-up, duct-taped at the hinges. Slipped them on loosely, one ear off. They clicked once, twice. Low battery. Probably hours old, if not days. He adjusted a dial, and a faint hum pulsed through them.
“Might be nothing,” he muttered. “Might be everything. Depends on how generous the writer is feeling tonight.”
He looked at you, again.
“People think I’m the comic relief,” he said, just loud enough to cut through the air. “And that’s fine. Comedians survive because they learn the timing. How to keep ahead of the punchline.”
He stood abruptly—chair groaning in protest—and began pacing. Fast. Uneven. Shoulders hunched like he was trying to shake off a coat made of tension. One hand constantly adjusted his sleeve, the other twitched at his belt like it was itching for a knife that wasn’t there.
“There’s a wrongness in the air,” he said, voice cutting sharp through the gloom. “Everyone’s smiling like they rehearsed it. The way Security is watching, but not intervening. The Chief Usher? Eyes darting like he’s counting exits. Like he knows.”
He paused in front of a drawer, crouching. Gave the handle an idle jiggle. Locked. Obviously.
He didn’t really want it open. He just wanted to know it was locked.
“You ever hear a song where the note's just... not quite right?” he asked the reader again, quieter now. “A little too flat. A little too sharp. And then, even when it stops, you still hear it? That’s this place.”
He stood again—too fast—and winced as a jolt hit his neck. His hand snapped to it. Frowned. Flexed his fingers like they were going numb.
The lamp flickered.
Buzzed.
The buzz dropped a pitch.
He didn’t notice.
A laugh echoed faintly from the hallway—shrill, brittle. Not the kind that belonged to a happy party. The kind that got stuck in the throat like a lie.
He turned slowly. Eyes locked on the door. Then the recorder.
He raised it again. Closer to his mouth this time.
“I’m not leaving this here,” he whispered. “You want the juicy bits? Gotta earn ‘em. This tape stays with me, sorry mate. You hear it when I say you can. Or when I don’t say anything ever again.”
A beat.
Then he winked.
“Bet that line’ll get a callback later.”
He moved to the door. Paused. Not touching the handle yet—just standing in front of it like it had said something insulting.
His antennas twitched again. Fast. Sharp. A warning, maybe. Or a question.
He sniffed.
“…Why does it smell like metal in here?”
Nothing replied.
Not a creak. Not a breeze.
Just that silence again—thick and heavy. Like the room was holding its breath.
He opened the door a crack. Looked once over his shoulder. Right at you.
“If I disappear later,” he muttered, voice low and sudden and not a joke, “tell my fans I was brilliant. And possibly a little too perceptive for my own good. Thanks mate.”
Then he slipped through the gap like smoke, leaving the recorder light blinking in his hand.
And behind him—
the lamp blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Then died.