HIS DARK OBSESSION: The Architect

//VESPER//

The box smelled like someone else’s secrets. Rotting ones.

I sliced through the tape, already regretting every choice that landed me here. Thirty-two thousand dollars a year to digitize trauma in a concrete coffin. My mother would be so proud. At least her daughter is finally useful, contributing to society. Now I just have to last six months to get HMO benefits.

Greywillow Psychiatric Facility — Patient Archives — Wing C.

Three weeks in this basement is like a year already, and my only company is a dying scanner, and a flickering light. I reached into the box. Barely glancing at the standard intake photo. They were mostly the same—hollow cheeks and dead eyes.

Scan, file, save, arrange, and repeat.

By 2PM, my brain turned into a static buzz forming not one coherent thought as I skimmed through the files. Depression, anxiety, schizophrenia, and after a hundred files, they weren’t people anymore. Just ink on the paper.

After that, I took a break and ate my sad sandwich, watching the raindrops streak down the barred window just as my phone pinged.

[Mom: Did you go to church today?]

I didn’t answer. I haven’t been to that place for a long time.

The afternoon stretched like a death sentence, my body felt like moving through molasses as I reached for another box. It was a rotting cardboard already crumbling into dust as I pulled off the lid.

Strange, there’s only a single folder inside.

Every other box was stuffed tight and full, but this one was thin, barely even a file and was held only by a rusted paperclip. I pulled it out, looking at the intake photo to show any hollowed cheeks or dead eyes. But no, it wasn’t what I was expecting. Pale eyes stared back at me, so pale they were almost, looking the lens, through the paper, and straight into my soul.

No skeleton face. Instead, he had a sharp jawline, high cheekbones and Nubian nose.

He looked so... healthy.

I flipped the single page.

>>Name: St. Claire, Azrael Atlas.

>>Charges: First-degree murder (one), second-degree murder (four counts), charges pending in three additional jurisdictions.

>>IQ: 162

>> Risk Assessment: EXTREMELY DANGEROUS. DO NOT ENGAGE IN PERSON.

I kept reading. Childhood abuse. First kill at eight. An underground empire built in secrets. Then the part that made my stomach turn. A journalist found exsanguinated. Drained over three days. He’d kept the man alive that long. To torture.

>>Dissociative personality disorder—genuinely does not remember what “the Architect” does during episodes.

The Architect.

I tear my gaze away from the file and placed it on the scanner. The red laser crawled across his face.

40%… 60%…

The scanner coughed roughly, turning into a mechanical hack, like it was clearing its throat. Then another, and another. Each one slower, more strained, until the sound died completely. I leaned in to check the cable, only to find that it was still connected, then I froze. The monitor wasn’t showing the scanning page anymore. It had glitched to a live feed from the hallway camera.

Showing that it was empty.

Then the screen flickered again, turning into a black mirror, and for a split second, a tall figure stood right behind my desk in the reflection.

“Holy shi—t.”

I spun around. The words dying down my throat. There was nothing. Just metal shelves and the locked steel door.

I turned back to the computer just as the lights went out, plunging the office to a complete darkness. I remained still, listening to the eerie silence pitch black. Panic started to rise in my chest, but I keep my breathing steady. The backup generators should have kicked within three seconds.

One. Two. Three.

Nothing.

*tap—tap—tap.*

A sharp sound coming from the corner of the room echoed. Metal on pipe. A ring, maybe or a coin.

My heartbeat picked up, my breathing quickened.

“H-hello?” My voice small and cracking. “Maintenance?”

The tapping stopped.

Then something passed in front of me. A subtle breeze of cool air carrying clean soap, like the static air before lightning strikes. A scent that definitely didn’t belong in this rotting basement.

“He doesn’t like it when people touch his things.”

A warm breath ghosted against my ear. Low an sounding amused. At the same time, the lights flickered back on with an electric hum.

A scream tore through my lips. I stumbled back, the chair catching my legs, nearly sending me down. A man in a hospital gown stood in front of my desk.

But he didn’t look like a patient. He’s even taller than I’d imagined. Leaner. The gown hung low on his shoulders, sleeves stopping mid-forearm, exposing arms mapped with jagged ink. Dark hair fell over his forehead, contrasting the silver-gray eyes fixated on me.

He should’ve looked harmless. But he didn’t.

“You—patients aren’t—”

“I know.” The smile on his lips didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m not supposed to be here.”

I should have run, hit the panic button, or better yet been halfway to the exit.

>> EXTREMELY DANGEROUS. DO NOT ENGAGE IN PERSON.

The warning from the file blared in my head, but my feet nailed to the floor.

He moved around the desk, bare feet silent on the concrete. He stopped inches from me, looked at his photo still on the scanner, then back at me.

“You’ve been reading about me.”

It wasn’t a question.

“I—it’s my job—”

“Shh.” He held up one finger. Long and elegant like surgeon’s hands—or someone who knew how to take a person apart.

“You don’t need to explain yourself, luv.”

His hand lifted, and I immediately flinched. He stopped mid-air and waited, letting me see that he wasn’t reaching for my throat. Instead, his fingers closed around my badge clipped at my collar. He tugged it. The retractable string stretched, zinging, pulling me toward him until barely an inch of air remained.

I couldn’t breathe.

He looked down at my ID. His index finger tracing where my name was printed in bold letters.

“Vesper.” He said it slowly. Tasting it. Like a secret he’d waited years to hear.

“A—are you going to h—hurt me?”

The words tumbled out into a small, broken, pathetic voice.

He frowned. Not angry, just confused. Like the idea made no sense.

He let go of my badge and lifted his hand again. This time, I didn’t flinch, already too far gone and caught in those silver stare.

His fingers brushed my cheek gently.

The gentleness hollowed out my chest, and made it ache. He tucked a stray hair behind my ear, knuckles grazing my skin, setting it on fire.

“No, luv,” he whispered, his voice vibrating in my bones. “I would never hurt you.”

Before I could breathe, the heavy steel door and the end of the hall groaned opened, followed by a series of heavy boots.

Security.

I was distracted only for a second, when I look back, the space in front of me was empty.

He was gone.