𝐂𝐲𝐜𝐥𝐢𝐜 ʲᵘʲᵘˢᵗᵘ ᵏᵃⁱˢᵉⁿ

one.

Something buzzes at the back of your head.

A sense of foreboding clings stubbornly to you, a foul reminiscence of how you felt during the school incident. You promptly ignored it in favor of healing the kid, something you've never done before because of the sheer accuracy your intuition has: it's only ever been wrong once, and that had been ages ago.

You fell asleep with an unfathomable amount of dread pooling in your gut that night.

It's not exactly an experience you're looking forward to reliving.

The problem? You need the money.

"And that concludes the interview!"

You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding.

It isn't the first time, and part-time cleaner isn't exactly the hardest position to get into, but it's been awhile since your last interview. Pair that with the bad feeling bugging you the whole morning and just general anxiety, you're surprised you didn't collapse into some sort of nervous breakdown.

Maybe you will after all this is over.

"Thank you very much, sir," you dip your head in a bow, "for both your time and the opportunity."

Your interviewer smiles good-naturedly. A part of you thinks there's no sincerity. Again, you pay no mind. "No problem. I'll let you know in three to four days. One week at most."

You try your best to mirror the man's expression, hoping you smile won't fall apart at the seams. The pit in your stomach deepens the more time you spend with him.

You have to remind yourself that you really wanted this job. One night of disturbed rest is a small price to pay.

"Well then," he says, getting to his feet. "I have some things to take care of, and I'm sure you do to."

He extends a hand. You take it, and you try not to recoil or shiver. Your skin prickles.

Every cell in your body is telling you to get away.

"I hope to see you then."

You don't want to.

"Of course. Have a good day, sir."

Not that you had a choice anymore.

⟳ 

⟲

You stare blankly at your laptop screen.

Congratulations!

Seems you've gotten the gig.

You should be glad. Elated, even, considering how ridiculously difficult it is to secure an entry-level job at this time—the rejection emails by five other places you applied to are more than enough proof.

So why aren't you?

Groaning, you slump over, burying your head between your arms.

It's been a week since the interview, and the suspicious feeling hasn't gone away.

In fact, it spiked the moment you read the email, which was never a good sign. The voice inside your head continues to mock you.

Maybe you shouldn't have done what you did, dumbass. People are out for your blood now.

"Would you shut up for a second–!"

Ding!

The doorbell interrupts your outcry, and you curse to yourself.