Episode 4

Three weeks later

I sat on the floor of my quiet one-room flat, the faint hum of the ceiling fan the only sound breaking the silence. My laptop balanced on my knees, screen filled with job listings.

The tea beside me had gone cold.

I scrolled past the job after the job — sales, reception, medical transcription — but none of them felt right. Too exposed. Too familiar. Too risky.

Then one caught my eye.

> Red Lino’s Fashion Co. — Documentation Assistant

Discretion preferred. Background flexibility is acceptable. High attention to detail.

No medical setting. No patient interaction. Just… files.

It felt distant from my old life. Safe. Or at least quiet.

I clicked “Apply.”

Typed my name. My altered experience. Avoided the word “doctor.”

Then the final question blinked at me:

> “Emergency contact?”

I froze.

My fingers hovered over the keys.

Who would I even write?

I thought of Raven.

But I didn’t have his number.

Not his address. Not even his full name — not the real one, anyway.

He had always found me. Appeared when I was hurt, vanished before I could ask questions.

Now he is gone.

Just like that.

The realization hit like a quiet wave — cold, sad, inevitable.

I deleted the emergency contact field and left it blank.

Then I hit Submit.

---

Two days later

An email arrived in my inbox:

> Red Lino’s HR: Interview Confirmed. Friday, 11:00 AM.

I stared at the message.

This wasn’t where I imagined my life going. But maybe that was the point.

My past was sealed in a hospital folder, under security warnings and unsigned letters.

And the only man who knew the truth about that night…

Was out there somewhere.

Gone before I could hold on.

Four days later

A soft ping broke the evening quiet.

I glanced at my phone.

> Red Lino’s HR: Congratulations. You’ve been selected for the position of Documentation Assistant. Your joining is scheduled for Monday. Details attached.

I stared at the screen, unmoving.

For a moment, I felt… nothing.

No excitement. No relief.

Just a quiet shift inside me — like a door clicking shut behind someone who never said goodbye.

I had the job.

I had a routine waiting. A desk. A login ID. Four days a week of blending in, of papers and checklists. Of silence.

And maybe that was what I needed now.

Something steady. Something that didn’t ask questions.

I read the message again, then slowly set the phone down.

Somewhere out there, Raven had vanished like smoke — leaving behind only the memory of midnight rescues, unsaid truths, and a name I never knew.

But I was still here.

Alive.

Starting over.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough for now.

Monday — First Day

The city was still wiping the sleep from its eyes when I stepped off the early morning bus.

Red Lino’s Fashion Co. sat quietly at the corner of a narrow street, behind tinted glass and a brushed steel sign that reflected the pale sunlight. It didn’t look like the kind of place where people raised their voices. I liked that.

I checked the address again, then walked in.

Inside, everything smelled like paper and polished tile. The receptionist looked up, smiled briefly, and motioned me to wait. Moments later, a woman in a soft beige blazer approached — tall, sharp-eyed, professional.

“Tria D?” she asked.

I nodded.

She held out a hand. “Naina. Documentation supervisor. Welcome aboard.”

I shook it, trying to steady my heartbeat.

She led me through the building — past racks of fabric swatches, muted phone calls, and the occasional burst of laughter from a distant corner. But when we reached the back section, things grew quieter.

“Your department’s in here,” she said, opening a glass door.

It was cool and dim inside — rows of filing cabinets, labeled shelves, and quiet cubicles lit by soft overhead lights. No chaos. No sirens. Just the gentle rhythm of order.

“This is your desk,” she said. “You’ll be logging archived client data, updating vendor paperwork, and occasionally organizing internal style guides. Four days a week. Flexible hours. No rush — just precision.”

I nodded again, silently grateful.

As she walked away, I sat down and placed my bag under the desk.

The computer screen flickered on, blank and waiting.

I exhaled slowly.

No white coats. No blood. No echoes of that night.

Just documents.

Just silence.

Just the faint sound of heels disappearing down a corridor — and my heart, trying to find its rhythm again.

Later That Afternoon

I had just finished organizing a batch of vendor contracts when a soft murmur passed through the department — like a ripple in still water.

Chairs shifted. Conversations stopped mid-sentence.

Someone whispered, “He’s coming down.”

I looked up.

Naina appeared at the doorway, her posture straighter than usual. “Everyone, just a heads-up — the CEO is doing a walk-through. He likes to personally welcome new hires.”

I minimized the document on my screen and smoothed down my shirt, suddenly hyper-aware of my breathing.

Moments later, steady footsteps echoed down the corridor.

He entered — tall, sharp in a dark suit with the collar slightly open, no tie. Clean lines, calm eyes. A man who didn’t need to raise his voice to command attention.

The CEO of Red Lino’s.

He moved through the department with effortless grace — offering nods, handshakes, a few brief questions. Courteous but distant. Until he reached my desk.

Naina stepped forward. “This is Tria D — documentation assistant.”

He turned to me fully.

And paused.

His eyes locked with mine. Calm, observant, but… something else flickered there. Like the moment you spot a painting in a gallery that doesn’t fit — yet you can’t look away.

“Tria,” he said, quietly. “Welcome.”

I stood and shook his hand. “Thank you.”

His grip was firm, but not rushed. His eyes lingered.

“You’re new to this field?”

“I’ve worked with records and confidential files before,” I said carefully. “I prefer quiet work.”

A brief smile touched his lips — more curiosity than warmth. “That makes two of us.”

He glanced at my screen, then back at me. His gaze wasn’t invasive. Just… focused. As though he was trying to read something deeper than what I was saying.

He gave a slight nod and turned to go — but paused.

For a second, he looked at me again.

Longer this time.

Noticing. Thinking.

Then, just before walking away, he said softly, “Interesting.”

And just like that, he was gone.

But the moment stayed. Pressed into the air around me like a fingerprint.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t obvious.

But something had begun.

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