Chapter 4: Company Policy

Chapter 4: Company Policy

The invisible knife paused an inch from his throat. The Mime’s head tilted, its black-void eyes seeming to narrow in consideration. Andrew’s own world had shrunk to the space between them, a stage lit by the dim red glow of the emergency signs. His breath was a ragged, painful hitch in his chest; the spreading warmth in his side was a ticking clock counting down the last seconds of his life.

He had one chance. One insane, desperate gamble.

Ignoring the fire in his ribs, Andrew lifted a trembling, blood-slicked hand. He didn’t try to push the Mime away. He didn’t plead. Instead, with a motion that was a caricature of his own work, he mimed flipping an imaginary burger patty in the air.

The Mime froze. The invisible threat at Andrew’s neck did not waver, but the creature’s posture shifted from imminent violence to intense scrutiny. It was watching. Waiting.

This was it. The performance of his life.

With a surge of adrenaline that temporarily muted the pain, Andrew pushed himself into a sitting position. He ignored the real, gore-splattered kitchen behind him and focused on the empty space at his side. He pantomimed turning on a gas grill, a precise twist of an imaginary knob. He even made a soft, breathy whoosh sound from his sealed lips, mimicking the sound of a burner igniting.

He laid an invisible slab of meat onto the non-existent heat. He could almost feel the phantom weight in his hand, could almost hear the sizzle that wasn’t there. He mimed sprinkling salt and pepper from invisible shakers. His movements became more confident, more theatrical. He was no longer Andrew Carter, terrified fast-food worker; he was a master chef performing for a captivated audience of one. He flipped the patty with a flourish, his wrist snapping with practiced ease. He mimed grabbing a bun, slicing it with a phantom knife, and placing it carefully on the make-believe grill to toast.

The Mime watched his every move, its head cocked like a curious bird. It took a single, slow step back, giving him more room to work. The invisible switchblade was gone, its hand now resting on its hip in a classic performer’s pose.

Andrew’s heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He was speaking its language.

He assembled the imaginary burger with the focus of a surgeon. A mimed slice of cheese, a perfectly placed phantom pickle, a dramatic squirt from an invisible ketchup bottle. He wrapped the finished creation in an invisible piece of paper, his fingers folding the corners with meticulous care. He even mimed putting it in a small paper bag, adding a side of imaginary fries he’d just “pulled” from a silent, non-existent fryer.

Finally, with a deep, shuddering breath, he held out the invisible meal. He didn’t put it on a real tray this time. He presented it on his open, empty palms. An offering made entirely of concept and desperation.

The Mime looked from the empty space in Andrew’s hands to his face, its void-eyes seeming to search for something. For a terrifying second, Andrew thought he had failed again, that his performance was not convincing enough.

Then, the Mime reached out. Its white-gloved fingers delicately plucked the invisible bag from his hands. It brought the phantom meal close to its face, miming a deep, appreciative sniff. It then sat cross-legged on the floor, a stark figure of black and white against the grimy linoleum. With graceful, deliberate motions, it unpacked its meal. It took a huge, theatrical bite of the invisible burger, chewing with exaggerated satisfaction. It popped a few phantom fries into its stitched-shut mouth.

It was working. The sheer, unadulterated absurdity of it was working.

When it was finished, the Mime carefully gathered its invisible trash and placed it in a neat pile. It rose to its feet in a single, fluid motion. It looked at Andrew, who was still slumped against the condiment station, bleeding and bewildered.

The Mime gave him a slow, deliberate thumbs-up. A sign of approval. A five-star review.

Then, it turned. With the same silent, gliding motion it had used to attack him, it moved towards the front door. It didn't open the door; it simply passed through the solid glass and wood, its form dissolving into the silent, black void outside like a phantom. And then it was gone.

The tension that had held Andrew’s body rigid snapped. The pain in his side, which had been a dull roar in the background, returned with the force of a physical blow. The floor tilted violently. The red exit signs smeared into long, blurry streaks. His last conscious thought was that he had forgotten to mime giving the creature its change. Then, the world went black.

---

The first thing he registered was the beeping.

It was a steady, rhythmic pulse, clean and clinical. It was nothing like the sickly hum of the lights at Smiley’s. The second thing was the smell: antiseptic, clean linen, and that faint, powdery scent of latex gloves. He wasn’t at the restaurant.

Andrew’s eyes fluttered open. The ceiling was white acoustic tile. The light was soft, diffused. He was in a bed with crisp, white sheets pulled up to his chest. An IV line snaked from his arm to a bag of clear fluid on a metal stand. He cautiously touched his face. His lips were sore, tender, but they were his own. There were no stitches, only a faint, phantom ache. He moved his other hand to his side. He felt a thick layer of bandages, taped securely. Beneath them, a dull, throbbing pain confirmed the wound was real.

"Good to see you're back with us, Andrew."

The voice was calm, cool, and completely out of place. Andrew turned his head. Sitting in a visitor's chair in the corner of the private hospital room was Ryan Sterling. He was dressed, as always, in a perfectly tailored dark suit, looking more like a venture capitalist than a fast-food manager. He held a glossy magazine, which he now folded neatly and placed on the bedside table. His smile was wide and welcoming, but it didn't touch his cold, calculating eyes.

"Mr. Sterling," Andrew rasped, his throat dry. "What... what happened?"

"There was an unfortunate accident at the workplace," Ryan said, his tone smooth and rehearsed. "You slipped on a grease patch near the fry station. A terrible fall. In the process, you managed to impale your side on the sharp corner of the stainless-steel prep table. A one-in-a-million freak occurrence. The paramedics were quite impressed with the severity."

Andrew stared at him, his mind struggling to process the blatant, surreal lie. A grease patch? A prep table? He wanted to scream about the Mime, the stitched lips, the invisible knife. He wanted to ask how they explained away a wound created by nothing.

Ryan seemed to read his mind. "The official report has been filed," he continued, his smile unwavering. "Smiley's corporate insurance will, of course, cover all your medical expenses and provide a generous bonus for your trouble. You're a valued member of the Smiley's family, Andrew. We take care of our own."

The word "family" sounded like a threat. This wasn't care; this was damage control. This was a cover-up. They were erasing the impossible, papering over cosmic horror with mundane, believable accidents. His terror was being reduced to a line item on an insurance form.

"But the Mime—" Andrew began, his voice cracking.

"Ah, yes," Ryan said, leaning forward slightly. His expression became serious, the fake smile vanishing. "The undocumented patron. Your survival is... fortuitous. Most employees in a first-contact scenario with an unclassified entity do not fare so well. Your ability to adapt and intuit the rules of engagement was, frankly, remarkable. You've provided us with invaluable data."

Data. Andrew had almost bled to death on a sticky floor, and to this man, he was a data point.

Ryan reached into his suit jacket and produced something. It wasn't the familiar, dog-eared Codex. It was a single, fresh, laminated page, identical to the ones in the book, but completely blank. He also produced a sleek, silver ballpoint pen. He placed them on Andrew’s hospital bed, next to his hand.

"Your next task, once you're feeling up to it, is to complete the incident report," Ryan said, his voice dropping to a confidential, almost conspiratorial tone. "Everything you remember. Its appearance, its methods, its rules. Especially its rules. How you placated it. The... performance."

Andrew looked down at the blank page. It was a new chapter. His chapter.

"Congratulations on your promotion, Andrew," Ryan said, standing up and smoothing a non-existent wrinkle from his suit. "You're no longer just a Night Shift Associate. You're a contributor."

He walked to the door, pausing with his hand on the handle. "Title the entry: 'The Silent Patron.' Be specific. The life of the next employee who meets it may depend on your attention to detail."

The door clicked shut, leaving Andrew alone with the steady beeping of the heart monitor, the throbbing pain in his side, and a blank page that felt heavier than any tombstone.