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The gray strand sat at the edge of his desk, thin as thread, fragile as ash. He’d turned it over in his palm a dozen times, testing its weight against the folded note hidden in his pocket.
It matched. He knew it did.
Mae’s braid trailed down her back in that same silver-gray, pulled so tight it looked like it hurt, wisps always escaping at her temples. He’d seen her gliding through corridors all the time, silent, unremarkable. Just another servant lost in HIM’s endless mansion.
Except… she wasn’t.
That morning, he began to watch her more carefully.
She didn’t bark orders like the guards or clatter pans like the kitchen staff. She moved softly and deliberately, eyes always down. But he noticed how she lingered after the boys passed through a room, stooping to gather their scattered toys without complaint, smoothing out cards abandoned mid-game. He saw her lay small bowls of fruit or crackers on low tables, quiet offerings in case the boys were hungry and too afraid to ask the chefs. He saw her hover near their noise, not as an enforcer but as a witness.
She was always there, just outside the frame.
By evening, the truth pressed down so heavy it was hard to breathe.
He caught her in the north corridor, polishing a brass sconce that already gleamed. Too long. Too carefully. She knew he was watching. Their eyes met across the hallway.
She didn’t smile. She didn’t nod. But as he passed, she let a single breath slip between her lips, no louder than the scratch of her cloth.
“You’re right.”
The words landed like a weight against his ribs.
He didn’t turn. Didn’t stop. Just kept walking, pulse hammering.
But later, long after curfew, when the mansion had gone dark except for the occasional lamplight bleeding from the walls, he opened his door to find a cleaning cart parked just outside. Empty corridor. Silent house. Mae stood a few feet away, pretending to dust the same baseboard for the fifth time.
It was an invitation.
He stepped out, closing the door softly behind him. His voice was low. “So it was you.”
Mae’s eyes flicked up—sharp, cautious. “And it’s you,” she murmured back.
They faced each other in the hush of the corridor. The assistant’s throat felt dry. He wanted to thank her for the note, to ask how long she’d been watching, to demand why. Instead, what came out was a whisper edged with suspicion:
“Why?”
Mae set her rag on the cart. Her hands stilled. “Because no one else will.”
The silence stretched between them, brittle. He studied her lined face, the calm steadiness of her gaze. She wasn’t bluffing.
Finally, she leaned closer, voice barely audible. “There’s a phone. Restricted. HIM’s private office. Used only when he calls out. When he’s gone, it’s dead quiet.”
The assistant’s chest tightened. She was offering something real. Something dangerous.
He hesitated, then whispered back, “I have someone. Outside. Mason. He used to work in social services.” His breath caught. “If I can reach him again, he’ll know what to do.”
Mae’s eyes narrowed in thought, but she didn’t question him. She only gave a small nod. “Then we plan.”
It happened the next morning.
HIM hadn’t come back home last night and wasn’t here in the morning. The staff dispersed gratefully, relieved to be free of his gaze. Mae gave the faintest tilt of her head as she passed the assistant in the corridor—now.
They walked together toward HIM’s office, footsteps careful, hushed. The carved double doors loomed, black wood gleaming under chandeliers.
And then—
“Butch.”
The boy stood at the far end of the hallway, sneakers untied, fiddling with a broken toy. His green eyes blinked curiously. “What’re you two doin’?”
The assistant froze, heart slamming. Mae’s face didn’t change, but he felt her tension radiating.
He forced a casual smile. “I’m just about to walk inside this gym area to count inventory. Yeah, that’s what I was doing.”
Butch cocked his head. “But that's HIM’s office. The gym is that way.” He pointed the opposite direction.
“Oh yes, thank you. That's what I thought. Guess not.” He stepped back, hand on Mae’s cart. “Come on. We’ll check the other hall.”
Butch frowned, confused, but shrugged. “You’re weird.” He wandered off, slapping the toy in his palm as the sound echoed down the corridor.
The second he was gone, Mae exhaled, eyes sharp. “We don’t have long.”
They slipped inside HIM’s office, closing the door gently behind them.
The air smelled faintly of incense and red wine. Velvet curtains blocked most of the moonlight, casting the room in heavy shadows. HIM’s desk gleamed, papers stacked with obsessive neatness. On the far wall, a black telephone sat on its own table, polished and waiting.
The assistant’s palms were slick. The receiver felt heavy in his hand, the dial tone buzzing like static in his chest. He punched in the number from memory, pulse hammering.
One ring. Two. Then—
“Hello, this is Mason.”
The assistant’s throat tightened. “It’s me.”
A pause. “Haven’t heard from you in a while,” Mason said carefully. “Last time you called, you said it was hypothetical.”
“It’s not hypothetical anymore.” The words came out low, urgent. “It’s real. Three kids. Every day it’s worse. I can’t keep pretending I don’t see it.”
Mason’s tone shifted, all trace of casualness gone. “You’re still working for that man?”
“Yes. And there’s another one. Name is Mojo.” He glanced at Mae, standing guard by the door, her braid a shadow in the dim light. “They switch the kids between them like it’s nothing. Neither cares. They’re breaking.”
Mason let out a slow breath. “Alright. Listen to me. If you’re telling me this for real, then you’ve got to know what you’re risking. There’s more to just filing a complaint.”
“I know. That’s why I’ve been documenting. Dates. Quotes. Patterns. Everything.” His grip on the receiver tightened. “But I can’t hold this alone anymore.”
Mason was silent for a long moment. Then: “You’ve got proof?”
“Yes.”
Another pause. When Mason spoke again, his voice was firm. “Then I’ll make a move. I can reach someone who I can trust. She’s not in social services, but she knows how to push cases like this where they need to go.”
“Who?”
“I can’t say yet,” Mason said quickly. “Safer if you don’t know. Just be ready. It’s going to start moving fast.”
The assistant swallowed hard, every muscle tight. “Mason—if this backfires—”
“Then keep your head down. You called me once before. You knew even then you couldn’t sit on this forever. Now you’ve crossed the line. No turning back.”
Static filled the silence between them.
Finally, Mason’s voice cut through, steady as steel. “You did the right thing. Now let me do mine.”
The line went dead.
The assistant lowered the receiver, heart pounding, the words echoing in his skull. No turning back.
Mae moved forward, her hand brushing the phone cord back into its exact place. Her whisper was barely audible: “I hope he’s right.”
They slipped out, silent as shadows.
Back in his quarters, the assistant sat on his bed, staring at the darkened window. His heart was still racing.
For the first time in weeks, there was a thread—thin, fragile, but real. The risk was no longer theoretical. It was in motion now.
And so was the possibility.