Overtime: Part 2
An office slasher
The flash moved like lightning at his throat. His hand shot up, a reflex, and the blade wedged into it. The sharp tip arrested an inch from his pulsing throat. Better than the neck, Aidan thought.
Yeah. It was a knife.
Living fire spilt across his palm, frying his synapses. Blood ran down his wrist and soaked into the once-perfect shirt sleeve. Aidan grabbed the blade with his other hand and trapped it between both palms.
Right there. A black hood with a knife. Under the dome of the hood there was... nothing. An empty black hole.
The blade slid out as briskly as it had gone in, tearing the skin outward, revealing the ivory of bone.
The knife pecked again, like a huge bird. The blade opened a hot red line along the collarbone. The echo of Aidan’s scream fluttered up the stairwell, bouncing off the walls.
Another blow straight at his forehead. Guided by a black leather glove. This time Aidan was ready. He threw himself sideways. Next, he crawled forward, towards the many stairs. The man followed close behind him. Aidan sent a blind donkey kick back. It hit… the face. He heard the body hit the landing with a hard clatter.
Aidan pushed to the top, not looking back. He scrambled up the rows of steps like a lizard, hands and feet. Then up again, seizing the handrail to keep balance, pulling himself higher, taking three, and then four steps at once. His limp, pulped hand refused to obey and bled profusely. On his shoulder, blood was clotting into a sludge mass against his shirt.
Four floors up, panting like an ox, he stood and peeked through the spiral balustrade. Nothing at all was closing in behind him. Nothing was running – not yet. A dead silence fell.
There was a murderer in the building; he let this thought air.
The landline! The realisation shot through his mind.
None other than the HR Jenny. Jenny Barnes. She kept an old-school phone on the eighth floor. He’d seen it a million times. Crossing the open floor, he glanced to his sides for the killer, but still, nobody followed. He dashed into Jenny’s workspace. The doors were ajar, and the phone sat where it had always been.
Normally ugly, the black Philips model now seemed a beautiful blessing to Aidan.
He glanced at his ruined hand. The blood started congealing into a thick glove. His shoulder was badly cut too, but fabric did an alright job of stopping the downpour. It could’ve been much worse.
He leaned over the washed-oak-finish desk and took the handset with his good hand. He dialled 999 as fast as he could. The line rang. Christ, it rang. Still, he watched the open doorway, as the phone kept bleeping.
A click and then a voice.
“Police, how can I help?”
Calm, clear, professional.
The relief of it almost took his legs out. “I’m trapped down in an office in Soho, 55 Poland Street. There’s someone in here. It’s a–a man. He’s got a knife, he’s, he’s trying to kill me. The doors are locked. Can’t get out.”
“I understand. We’ll send a unit. Hold on. Shouldn’t be too long.”
“How long? He can be right behind me—”
Silence and nothing.
“Hello? Are you there?”
Static, and… breathing.
He started, “I — I asked how—”
“Ha.” A short break. “Got you!”
The relief became the sting of an ice bath.
“Thought I wouldn’t know about the phone?” The voice was unhurried. There was a natural polish in it, an articulacy worse than rage would’ve been. “Think again, mate.”
“Who—” His own breath wouldn’t behave. “Who are you? Why are you doing this?”
At least two seconds passed before the voice answered.
“Survivor.”
“What? What does it mean? We work in tech, for fuck’s sake—”
“Find your answer,” the voice said. “It’s close.”
Now the line went dead with a hard slam.
Was the answer close? How close? Here?
Jenny’s screen was password-locked. The filing cupboard, maybe? Aidan yanked the boxes out one-handedly and dumped the files on the floormat.
Employee files, that’s all there was here. A box of performance plans… Finance papers.
And he read those. Expenses. Some complaints, PIPs. A man sacked for shitting drunk in the lift. Fun, but nothing of importance. Nothing that could excuse the killing.
Footsteps. Outside. He looked at the entrance. Nothing in sight. Nobody lurking out there. Was it footsteps? Or pipe clatter in the walls?
His hand was hurting. He stretched it out and turned it around. The wound was getting clotty rather than flowing. Syrupy. At least that was good.
His gaze went past the finger gaps, and a detail of the table leg caught his eye. The look of it before the words. A grey paper folder taped against the leg. He crawled to it fast, his bloodied hand throbbing against the carpet.
He tore the folder away and held it in front of his eyes. A person’s file. The name was gone under black marker, laid thick enough to buckle the page.
Interesting.
He read what was there. Some altercation. Workplace abuse case. Sacked for gross misconduct. The role: Technical Lead. Funnily, it was Aidan’s own title now.
Took place six years ago.
Six years… Hmm, those were Aidan’s first weeks.
A photo clipped to the back of the file. It wasn’t redacted. A face. A face with dark curly hair and… no eyes. And no mouth. Was it a joke?
Aidan laid the photo aside and read the brief:
The employee was dismissed for repeated refusal to accept feedback, denigration of colleagues, sustained workplace toxicity, intrusion into the personal lives of colleagues, culminating in an incident of assault.
He looked up, reminding himself of danger. Still, nobody was on him. The open space was clear down to the end. Nothing.
Back to the paper. Behind the sacking paper, there was the man’s cover letter. He read it because… he couldn’t really stop:
Over twelve years leading cross-functional engineering teams at scale, I bring a proven record of turning drift into delivery and holding people to a standard they did not know they were capable of. I am known for my perfectionism and my relentless pursuit of excellence. If your culture welcomes clarity, execution, challenge and truth over comfort, we will be a strong match.
It read like live fire. The letter a company needs in times of fury. He remembered those times; they weren't pretty.
He looked up. All the lights in the office went dark.
He set the file down.
His heart almost stopped, and blood froze in his veins.
Third Eye Horror
© Mac Sitko, 2026
All rights reserved.
Aidan's dealing with a calculating killer. He's definitely in over his head but I like his approach to the whole thing. He's not losing his head...yet. It's getting very interesting, Mac. I'm liking it.
Love the pacing of part 1 and 2. And, this line sings: “The name was gone under black marker, laid thick enough to buckle the page.”