Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The heat of early August beat down on White, making him lift his cap every thirty minutes to wipe the ever-returning sheen of sweat from his brow. Heat rolled off the pavement, wafted off the cars crawling through afternoon traffic, and collected under the fabric of his postal uniform. The dark clouds rolling overhead painted the bustling city in a hazy blue, and the humidity they brought made the heat sticky and muggy.

White adjusted the strap of his mail bag, hiking it higher on his shoulder. The damn thing kept slipping down, what with his uniform being a size too big, and the constant readjustments made White even more miserable. He didn't understand how the sidewalks were so crowded, how they were always so crowded, and the fact that he had to weave through the hordes of people made his sour mood worsen—not to mention how the crowds caused him to run late, which had irritation bubbling in the back of his mind. If he didn't need the money, he would've brought his bag right back to the office and called it a day.

But he did need the money, so White continued on towards his next stop and used his sleeve to wipe his face of the freshly beading perspiration.

It wasn't as though the weather was unfamiliar to White. There was a constant drizzle about the city, an ever-present humidity worsened by the fact that Cyber City was built along the coast. If the rolling clouds ever parted, which they rarely did, it was always in the dead of night. Then, the lights of the city drowned out stars above, which flickered like dead pixels against the expanse of the sky. White couldn't remember the last time he felt the warmth of the sun on his skin.

Just add it to the list of things he'd do when he finally got his big break, he figured. He'd pack it all up, move somewhere warm and sunny where nobody knew his name or his face, and then he'd make sure everyone knew it for all the right reasons. Yeah. That's what he'd do.

His daydreaming led him through the mulling crowds in a daze, but the trance ended at the sight of an achingly familiar building. The building wasn't as big as it was overwhelming—in fact, this building was somewhat smaller than some of the other marketing firms in the city. It was shorter than the surrounding skyscrapers, with windows dotting it's surface. A large billboard covered most of the front of the building, advertising some new brand of shoes. The sight dredged up memories from the back of his mind. Dread rolled in his stomach as his fingers grazed the smooth handle on the glass door. Just a quick stop in the mail room. Two minutes, three at most. He'd be in and out before anyone would see him.

He slipped through the door, ducking past the young woman at the front desk who was—thankfully—far too busy jotting down appointments for someone on the phone to notice his entrance. He didn't need to stop and ask where this building received their mail. He could practically draft up the floor plan from memory, if asked.

With quick steps, White entered a small room lined with mailboxes. Keeping his head lowered, he dug through his bag, quickly stuffing envelopes into their respective boxes. He only had to jump to reach one of the boxes, the wall clearly set up for men much taller than him. He fumbled one of the envelopes, having to stoop and retrieve it before putting it in the mailbox correctly.

He seemed to hold his breath the entire time. There wasn't even anything important on the bottom floor. The receptionist, maybe. But it wasn't like they had to take the elevator down to harass her. That's what phones were invented for, after all. There was no reason for anyone to be down there. He was safe.

"White!"

Damnit.

White ducked his head further, hoping that familiar voice would believe he made a mistake. With shaking hands, he dug through his bag to look busy.

A thin hand clapped down on White's shoulder, making him jump. Much closer, that familiar voice boomed, "well, if it isn't Ms. Addison White! Hardly recognized ya, you look so much like a–"

White shot the man beside him a lethal glare from the corner of his eye, not bothering to look at the salesman directly. He knew what the guy looked like: black hair tied back tightly in a short ponytail, sharp features not unlike White's own, but with a ruddy complexion he lacked. White knew he wore the same God awful combination of a black blazer and green slacks, with a little pink business card tucked into his breast pocket. White worked with him long enough to know men like him didn't change.

"What do you want?" White muttered. Pink had to want something, otherwise he wouldn't have bothered stopping himself before the last word of his sentence. White had heard him say it often enough to know he didn't stop himself out of courtesy.

Pink cleared his throat in the silence that stretched between them, his smile never faltering. "Well, I- er, how's the mail thing working out for you?" he asked, leaning on the mailboxes as he looked down at White, who continued to rummage through his bag in an attempt to look busy. "This part of your master plan to make it big?" His voice took on a condescending tone, one that never failed to make White want to punch him in the mouth.

"It's just fine," White responded through gritted teeth. He snagged a few envelopes from the bottom of his bag and shoved them into the correct mailboxes. "You gotta start small before you go big, y'know. Make a name for yourself. 's what I'm doing," he spat.

Pink considered his words. "Right," he deadpanned, his tone not at all convinced. White's hands curled into fists. Pink sighed idly and crossed his arms. "Listen, why don't you just cut the crap and come back? You've made your point. Your old position's still up for grabs."

Silently, White reached for his keyring, sorting through the keys to find the one to the outgoing mail box. When White didn't respond, Pink continued, "and hey, if you want a different position I can always pull some strings. Blue's got an open spot in his department, I hear he needs a new secretary."

White shoved the key into the slot and wrenched the door open with more force than necessary. He could hardly imagine it. Him, following Blue around with a clipboard, jumping to his beck and call in a low-cut shirt with that name on a name tag clipped to his chest. He'd be gawked at. The idea made nausea curl in his stomach. "No, thanks," he sneered, grabbing up the mail with jerky movements.

"White, don't be like that. Y'know, I'm trying to help you out here. You'll have a real job again. Marketing's tricky, but we'll get you through it." White knew better than anybody that Pink didn't know when to stop running his mouth. Last time White decked Pink, he decided not to file assault charges on a coworker. White doubted he'd still be given that same benefit.

"Twenty-four isn't too old to get your life together. Plenty of gals struggle through this stage of their lives, but if you came back–"

White slammed the mailbox closed. "I said," he grit out, "I'm fine." He knew his face was red, warmed from a mix of fury and embarrassment, so he kept his head down. He made sure to keep his mouth shut. If he said anything else, security would have to pull him off Pink.

He hooked his keyring back on his bag and all but stormed out of the room. He heard Pink's scorned voice following him as he stomped away. "Fine, then! Call us when you're a big shot!"

The only reason White didn't slam the building's door shut was because he didn't have the money to fix it if he busted the damn thing. Instead, White took a deep, shaking breath, and readjusted his hat before setting off down his route.

By the time White made it back to his apartment, the rolling clouds darkened and poured down rain in thick sheets. He was soaked, his clothes and hair sticking to his skin. He could barely hear the clicking of his shoes against the sidewalk over the rain slapping down heavy around him.

He long gave up on trying to keep himself dry, so he resigned himself to trudging through the puddle before the stairs leading up to his apartment building. Water splashed around his shoes and seeped into his socks. He didn't bother pushing his hair out of his eyes.

Just as his fingers brushed the door handle, movement in his peripheral caught White's eye. A mangy black cat weaved between the railing bars. It sat down and laid its tail over its front paws. They stared at each other with only the sound of the storm around them.

The trance was broken by the old cat letting out a raspy yowl, causing the hairs on the back of White's neck to stand up. He sneered and whipped his hat off, waving it at the cat in quick motions. "Go away! Get! Bad cat!" he shouted. The cat hissed and jumped down from the landing, disappearing into the shadows between White's building and the neighboring one.

With a frown, White set the cap back on his head. "Damn pest," he muttered, turning back to his door. They played this game just about every week; White tried to get his neighbors to quit feeding the damn thing so it wouldn't come back, but no matter what he did, the cat wouldn't stay gone. Like White needed any more bad luck in his life.

White towed water all the way through the lobby and up the stairs to his apartment. He winced every time the carpet squished beneath his shoes. Thankfully, the hallways were empty. His neighbors must've known better than to go out in this weather. At least no one was there to see him in his sorry state.

It took a couple tries to get the right key to unlock his door. When the right one slid into the lock, he turned the handle to enter his apartment. But the door didn't open.

White sighed. He felt like slamming his head against the door. Instead, he put his weight into his shoulder and drove it into the door, which opened after a few good shoves. He really needed to get someone to fix the damn thing, he thought bitterly as he wrenched his key out. He kicked the door shut behind him as an afterthought.

He moved practically on autopilot, tossing his cap and jacket up onto the coat rack by the door. His body ached and his head throbbed. God, he really could've gone without seeing Pink. That bastard knew just how to get under his skin, intentionally or not—and knowing Pink, it was more than intentional. The day sagged on his shoulders. He needed a nap, a hot meal, and a cigarette. He needed quite a few other things—most of which included cash deposited directly into his checking account—but he decided to keep his wishes realistic for the time being.

With a heavy sigh, White scrubbed his hands through his hair and—

When he stepped forward, something crinkled under his shoe.

He looked down and lifted his foot. There, with the wet pattern of his shoe's tread stamped across the paper, was a small white envelope. He stooped to pick it up. He didn't have a mail slot, so someone had to have slid it under his door while he was at work. It was probably just junk.

Flipping it over, his heart sank when he saw the word NOTICE stamped across the envelope.

Shit.

White tore the envelope open with bated breath, his feet unconsciously carrying him over to his rickety old couch, which he dropped into heavily. His eyes darted across the tri-folded paper inside. He picked at his cuticles as he read, leaning his elbows on his knees.

NOTICE TO PAY OR VACATE

Damnit. Damnit, was he really that late on rent already? He dragged a hand down his face as he stared at the words before him. His throat had gone dry.

Seven days. That was all he had to scrape together six hundred dollars.

He tossed the paper onto the end table beside the couch, letting his head hang as he ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. Where the hell was he going to get that much money in a week? He had about three hundred in the bank, and he didn't get paid for another two weeks. He could skip getting his meds refilled—they made him drowsy anyway—and he could ration whatever food he had in his cabinets to avoid having to get groceries, but that was still left three hundred dollars. Three hundred dollars he didn't have.

White stood and trudged over to his hanging coat, snagging his cigarettes and lighter from the pocket. He lit one with shaking hands. He could always borrow some money, just until he knew he wouldn't be out on the streets this time next week. But from who? He'd already exhausted most of his options; too many people in this city knew he wasn't the best with loans, specifically the part where he paid them back. But what other choice did he have?

He mentally tabbed through his possible creditors. He still owed Swatch money from the last time he borrowed off of them, and he was pretty sure they'd send their lackeys after him if he showed his face around their cafe. He could try their boss… but he shut that idea down as quickly as it came with a shake of his head. He didn't know her well enough to have a chance there. Who else, who else?

Pink's face popped into his head, his stupid salesman's grin annoyingly vivid. No, White firmly pushed that idea aside. Like hell he'd go to him, or any of his old coworkers, for that matter. White would have to be real desperate to go crawling back to those assholes for some money.

White took a long drag of his cigarette and slumped back against the wall he leaned on. Smoke curled from his lips, floating lazily in the air. Something twinged behind his eyes, something that wasn't quite a headache but was reminiscent of one. A reminder. A small business card, worn yellow and wrinkled, sat on the bathroom counter. White frowned. That was… a last resort. He wasn't sure why his mind had wandered to it, but he knew that he'd only reach for that card if he had no other option.

But the memory of the card brought another man to mind, one that had White's eyes widening in realization. Of course, it was so obvious! White nearly laughed with how simple it was. He'd go to a recent pal, who knew better than to ask questions (at least, not ones that mattered, or even made sense), who made more than enough money to loan him until White could (eventually) pay it back.

White let himself smile. After work tomorrow, he'd be off to the circus.

Chapter Text

"–sorry, you have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service. If you feel you have reached this recording in error, please ch—"

White slammed the phone down on the hook with a metallic thunk. He waited a second before picking it back up and pressing the receiver between his shoulder and his ear, rummaging in his coat pocket for a quarter to shove into the payphone. Leaning on the box, he waited for the dial tone to sound before punching in the number. His fingers drummed a quick rhythm on the top of the box.

Come on, he thought, almost desperately. He waited a few seconds.

"We're sorry, you have reached a number—"

He pressed the phone into the hook, his hand lingering on the receiver a moment longer than necessary. He sighed and rested his head against the payphone, his fingers curling into a fist. Damnit.

It'd been two days since he got the notice. Two days. He felt the time ticking down like a guillotine over his neck, the blade dangerously close to dropping. But he didn't have much of a choice; a high volume of incoming mail back at the office meant White worked overtime to get everything sorted out, ensuring that he had no time to go visit his friend yesterday. A day wasted. Time he didn't have.

Consciously, he knew it was just a coincidence, but he couldn't stop the feeling that it was arranged somehow. How often was it that he had to stay at the office past his scheduled hours? The feeling that something—someone—was stopping him from leaving the city clung to his shoulders. Usually, that just meant he'd forgotten to take his meds too many days in a row. For now, the thought was easy enough to ignore.

He had found himself at a payphone the night before, feet and mind aching from the day he had. He called, and he got no answer. So he had tried the guy's work phone, his home phone—but there was nothing. They'd all been disconnected. His only means of contacting him, gone. Just like that.

When he came to this payphone, he hoped—well, he didn't know what he hoped. That he had put the numbers in wrong, maybe. That his only current option to staying housed would answer the damn phone. He should know better than to hope.

Straightening, he rubbed a hand over his face. He was tired. Sleep wasn't coming so easily to him these days. He was sure he looked it, his hair sticking out in strange directions and his eyes sporting deep bags.

He turned out of the half-booth the payphone resided in, looking up to meet the eyes of some fella in a pink jumper and a fedora sitting on a bench on the sidewalk. Staring at him. White scowled, and the guy scrambled to appear very engrossed with the newspaper in his lap.

White tugged the brim of his cap down as he walked away, fishing his cigarettes out of his coat. Maybe he'd just have to take some of his things up to the pawn shop? He wasn't sure how much good that would do, though. He didn't really own much of any value. Although, he could always up-charge…

As he passed the guy that had been staring at him, something stood out at White from the corner of his eye. He stopped in his tracks just past the man, and did a double-take at the newspaper. The man glanced awkwardly up at him, and then tried to look even more interested in the paper.

White should've let it go, but he could've sworn he recognized a name in one of the headlines.

The guy was very pointedly looking anywhere but at White, and his nervousness grew the longer he stood there. White sighed. Better try to save this somehow.

He flashed his best, award-winning smile and extended his hand. "Hey, pal, mind if I take a look at the paper?" he asked, hoping to keep his tone friendly.

The guy only looked even more disturbed as he quickly shoved the newspaper into White's hand. "S-Sure. Keep it, it's yours," he stammered. Before White could so much as let the guy know he wasn't getting mugged, he scrambled off the bench and disappeared into the crowd.

White couldn't help but feel a little hurt, his grin dropping into a scowl. He didn't think his smile was that awful. Maybe he just wasn't smiling wide enough.

He shook his head and flicked the newspaper out, turning his attention back to it. His eyes skimmed the page in search of the headline that caught his attention. He had to be mistaken. There wasn't a way in hell that it actually said—

JAMESON "JEVIL" FAUST DEEMED UNFIT TO STAND TRIAL

Well. Color White surprised, then.

His brow furrowed as he skimmed over the passage, suddenly finding his knees much weaker than they were moments before. He sank down onto the bench, ignoring the passing glances he received from the bustling city crowd.

…After nearly two months of ongoing investigation, Jameson Faust was deemed unfit to stand trial by means of insanity for the murder of Joe Sawry and Finn Hathy. Both victims were employees of the Card Casino Faust was previously an entertainer at, but investigators cannot find anything else connecting the victims.

The current owner of the Card Casino refused to make a comment about Faust or his crimes when asked by reporters…

White stared at the paper. Murder? He knew– well, Jevil made sure White knew very little about his actual job—because even White could discern that there was more to it than being an entertainer at a circus-themed casino—but he knew that the clown had gotten mixed up in something serious. But murder? He couldn't help but find that unbelievable, even for that nutcase.

He folded the paper and hung his head in his hands. He felt like praying. He didn't know for whom.

That evening, White did a little bit of research. He found the psychiatric institution Jevil had been placed in by calling around a bit and put in a request to visit the guy. He knew his original goal of getting money out of him was entirely off the table, but he still felt the need to talk to him. Maybe out of some convoluted sense of loyalty. Maybe morbid curiosity. He wasn't entirely sure.

He spent the rest of his night chasing off that damn cat, gathering some of his meager belongings to take to the pawn shop, and laying awake in his bed for eight hours. It was a rather productive evening, if you asked him.

In the morning, he took the last half-pill he had in the bottle as he dressed and prepared for the day. Honestly, he was less torn up about his pills running out than he should've been. He always felt lighter when he was off them, anyway. More awake. He knew he had to get them refilled eventually, but that would be the least of his issues if he didn't cough up three hundred bucks by the end of the week.

After work, his trip to the pawn shop was a shorter affair than he expected. It wasn't like he had much to go through: a beat up TV, a VCR that barely worked, an old Walkman, a cheap tool set, and his Ma's rosary. He managed to con the broker into believing that practically everything there was antique (save for the tool set, that was a lost cause), and he up-sold the rosary after mentioning the fact that it was genuine sterling silver.

He felt an odd itch under his skin, something akin to guilt, when he slid the rosary over the counter. Even after he left, with the wad of cash resting heavy in his pocket, cold against his thigh, the feeling lingered. He'd bring it up at confessional, he reasoned.

With everything he sold, White was one hundred-forty-five dollars closer to making rent. It was better than nothing, but still far enough away to have him gnawing his nails down to the quick as he walked. He shoved his apartment door open, his shoulder sore, and he hauled himself into the apartment. Before he could shrug his jacket off, he kicked the door shut behind him and stepped over to the end table beside his couch. There, he set down the old rotary phone he brought with him.

It was a stupid idea, on account of the fact that the phone was absolutely busted beyond repair, but he thought he might've been able to get a quick buck out of the thing. Turned out, no amount of lying through his teeth could hide the fact that the rotary dial didn't turn past four, and the cord was too frayed to even plug it in without risking an electrical fire. It had been worth a shot, though.

White shrugged out of his work uniform and tossed the wad of cash atop the rent notice, right beside the phone. His options were narrowing. Maybe he'd have to go to Swatch after all, or, God help him, his old coworkers. The former would probably just have him removed from the establishment, and, if White didn't punch one of them in the teeth first, the latter would all have the time of their lives making fun of him.

He all but collapsed into his mattress where it was pushed up against the wall. He lay on his back, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes.

White turned the laminated ID badge in his fingers, the fabric of the lanyard cold around his neck. The buzzing of the fluorescent lights above him buzzed as his shoes clicked against the linoleum in time with the steps of the nurse walking beside him. They passed locked doors on either side of them, small pictures hung on the walls between the doors in an attempt to bring some life into the long, white hallway.

The place made him feel smaller than he already was. But he was there already. He couldn't back out now.

"I'm surprised he's taking visitors already," the nurse beside him spoke up. She was a little taller than White (who wasn't?) with a slight frame and soft, soothing features. She had a calming air about her. He supposed it made sense, given her profession. "He's been rather calm recently, though, which is an improvement. But it's still best to err on the side of caution, so if he starts to get agitated just stand up and step back," she explained. "We'll be watching, so we'll make sure nothing disorderly happens."

White swallowed and nodded awkwardly. "Right. Uh. Noted," he mumbled, consciously fixing his slouch.

The nurse must've sensed the apprehension in his voice, as she clarified, "but, I'm sure that won't be necessary! Like I said, he's doing very well." She glanced at White, offering him a soft, reassuring smile.

White put on his best approximation of an easy smile. Hers faltered in return. With a sigh, White looked away.

She came to a stop in front of one of the doors on the right of the hallway, pushing it open with ease. She gestured for White to go on. "Just sit down, and the orderly will bring him in shortly," she instructed him sweetly. He offered her a tight smile and a nod as he stepped in. The door shut behind him.

The room was small and windowless, separated in the middle by a bolted-down table and a large glass pane with a telephone on either side. Plastic chairs were tucked into the table on either side, and there was a door across the room similar to the one right behind White. Cameras on either side of the room pointed at the chairs. He gingerly sank into the seat on his side, lacing his fingers together. His leg bounced restlessly. The lights hummed overhead.

After what felt like half an hour, at least, the clank of keys and the loud buzz of an electronic lock from the other door had White's head shooting up. He could faintly pick out some muffled voices before the door scraped open. A man in white scrubs stepped in, stepping aside to allow the next person to enter.

White hardly recognized Jevil when he saw him. The man had a weak smile on his face, his hair hanging down around his head and shoulders in limp strands. His wrists were cuffed in front of him, and he moved with a sort of sluggishness that White had never seen such an excitable guy exhibit. White had never seen Jevil without his makeup and costume—which always inspired a rolling coulrophobia-induced anxiety—and seeing him then in that white uniform with an uncharacteristic slouch made White frown.

A security guard stepped into the room as Jevil slumped into the chair on his side. The orderly uncuffed one of Jevil's wrists, connecting that end of the cuff to an anchor point on the chair. With that, the security guard and the orderly exited the room, leaving Jevil and White with the illusion of privacy.

White shuffled forward in his chair and reached for the phone on his side, bringing it up to his ear. With slow, sluggish movements, Jevil did the same.

Jevil took a long breath. "Boo hoo, boo hoo, uee hee hee… Oh, puppet, so lonely, lonely I be," Jevil sighed, his words somber and lacking their usual enthusiasm, though they were hummed with a sing-song tone and that weak smile. His voice crackled through the phone's receiver. "So little fun to be had here..."

White sighed and chewed the inside of his cheek. "Cut the shit, J. Have you lost your mind? What did you do?" His knuckles were white on the phone.

Jevil chuckled softly, his head still down turned in a way that obscured his eyes yet left his grin visible. "I am innocent, innocent. I just wanted to play a game, game. But the King found such fun to be troublesome. But he could not catch me. I am fast, fast, clever, clever. He rallied the magician against me, but not even that was enough. Now, a prison around the world sits, and I remain free, free," he hummed wistfully. He shook his head. "Now you know how my tale has gone, gone. But that is not what you seek. Why else have you come here?"

Innocent, huh? He wouldn't put it past Jevil to see everything as one big game—he spoke that way often enough. But what to make of it? But a magician? A king? He barely understood Jevil at the best of times, but now? Fat chance.

Before White could answer, Jevil continued. "Could it be? Could it be? The puppet tires of his games and seeks freedom?" His voice grew brighter as he spoke.

White scoffed. "Right. Yeah. I'll take advice about freedom from the guy in cuffs." White couldn't help but roll his eyes.

Jevil's grin grew wider. "From where I sit, you are the one behind the glass," he laughed. "Oh, but do tell, do tell. You look unwell, old friend. Plagued by unkind times?"

Shit, was it that obvious? Made suddenly aware of just how exhausted he looked, White sat up a little straighter. "…You could say that," he mumbled. He grit his teeth. God, what was he wasting his time here for? Jevil couldn't help him. And if he was as innocent as he proclaimed he was, it wasn't as though White could help him either.

Jevil tilted his head. "I see… Luck has run out for you, and the clock nears the final hour. Is that so?"

White paused. His eyes had drifted down to the tabletop when he was speaking, but when Jevil spoke his eyes snapped back up to the grinning clown. How did he…

Jevil's grin grew even wider, showing off his yellowed, crooked teeth, appearing almost shark-like. "What you need," he began, "is a friend, friend!"

For just a moment—a second, even—White could've sworn that Jevil's eyes were a piercing shade of yellow.

He blinked. Jevil looked at him through his hair, his grin still wide and sharp. His eyes were brown, nearly black.

White took a moment to respond. "…a friend," he repeated dumbly. He had plenty of friends. He just needed ones that weren't fucking crazy.

Jevil laughed, growing more animated with every word. "Yes! Your house of cards, cards, crumbling, crumbling! The puppet in need of only a friend to help, to take hold of his strings and cut, cut!"

"Would you– Jesus, knock it off with the 'puppet' shit," White spat. It had become a nickname of sorts in the time that Jevil knew White, and White couldn't help the odd way his skin scrawled each time he heard it. It was… unnerving, to say the least. He didn't like the image Jevil's words painted, of marionette strings tied around his limbs, pulling him around.

"Oh, oh! You don't know? Of course, how could you? You haven't seen, your eyes not yet blinded by darkness. But once you gaze through the looking glass, through the crystal…" Jevil trailed off, his voice taking a contemplative tone. Then, his shoulders began to shake with laughter. "Oh, the games you'll play, the fun you'll have! Beautiful chaos! I simply can't wait!"

White watched as Jevil threw his head back with laughter, loud enough that he could still hear it when he pulled the phone away from his ear. He heard the sound of the doors scraping open on either side of the room, and White whipped his head around to find the nurse from earlier poking her head in the doorway.

"It's not good to get him so worked up like this," she said quickly with a smile, though the way her eyes darted from White to Jevil betrayed her nerves. "Why don't you come with me, and you can come back to visit him sometime soon?"

White turned back to Jevil, the phone still in his hand. The security guard was back in the room, and the orderly re-cuffed Jevil's hands quickly. Jevil seemed to be incapacitated with laughter, having to be basically dragged out by the two other men.

Slowly, reeling from everything he'd just seen, White hung the phone back up and stood from his seat. With his shoulders slumped, he followed the nurse back to the reception desk. He didn't bother setting up another visitation date.

When he returned home that night, he found himself sitting on his mattress, turning the business card in his hands. It wasn't so much a business card as it was a torn piece of paper with a number scribbled on the front. Jevil had given it to him ages ago, back when they had first gotten in contact.

"Freedom awaits you, whenever you are ready to find it," Jevil had said when he pressed the paper into White's hand, his painted face grinning too-wide.

Freedom, huh?

He turned the card over, taking a long drag of his cigarette.

ASK FOR MIKE

White's eyes skimmed over Jevil's sloppy handwriting. Something about it made White's stomach churn. He couldn't quite place it, but something just wasn't right about the card.

Besides, White's only home phone was broken. He stood and put the card back in the drawer he'd hidden it in. Out of sight, out of mind, right?

He slumped back into his bed. Something cold twisted under his ribs, sinking its hooks into his bones. The only way to remove it would be to cave in his chest and rip it out with his hands.

Because he didn't have the means to do that, he snuffed out his cigarette and pretended to sleep.