Simon's fingers trembled as he refreshed the application portal, his eyes locking onto two names that flared from the screen — Sarah Miller and Andrew Morris.
He summoned IT to review the security footage. The images were grainy but unmistakable. Older now, but the same rigid jaws, the same nervous laughter. They glanced too often at the elevator's mirrored walls, as if wary of their own reflections.
The floor seemed to tilt beneath him.
High school had been a gauntlet of fire. He remembered the echo of footsteps, jeers too loud to be accidental. They'd called him bus stop boy — as if being abandoned were a crime. Locker doors slammed. His books lay torn across the floor.
And then it escalated.
In the empty science wing, six figures cornered him. Sarah's whisper cut the air:
"Let's see if he's as smart as they say."
Andrew grinned.
They blindfolded him and locked him inside a janitor's closet. The air grew stale, heavy. Hands banged against the door while laughter fed his panic. He clawed at the darkness for hours before the door finally opened.
It wasn't a teacher. It was Tom Harrington.
Golden, untouchable, the banker's son. Tom couldn't fight them — but he recognised brilliance. He offered Simon a hand up, then went home and spoke at his family's dinner table. Anger carried weight in that house. Word reached Simon's caseworker. Quiet support followed: tutoring, safety, advocacy Simon had never imagined he deserved.
The real change came with John Mathews — a quiet boy a year above him who sat beside Simon in the cafeteria without asking why. Lunches turned to conversations. Conversations to loyalty. Together, they built something close to sanctuary.
Those alliances had saved him.
Now, unease coiled in Simon's chest.
The applications contained anomalies: cryptic references, dormant companies, long ruptures of unexplained time. He asked IT to run forensic checks.
An hour later, an intern returned, pale.
"Sir — Sarah Miller's last employer dissolved six months ago after a fire. Andrew Morris's digital footprint stops three weeks back. No new addresses. Nothing."
Simon scrolled again.
An attachment appeared — a letter addressed to him, unsigned.
Some debts can never be paid, Simon. Are you ready to settle yours?
A restricted call vibrated his phone. He ignored it. Moments later, his office speaker crackled alive.
"People change, Simon. But memories have teeth."
Silence.
A sharp knock broke the spell.
"Mr Clark," his assistant said, "the final interviews are scheduled."
Simon looked once more at the names. The spark of revenge flared — tempting, dangerous. But power over others was not justice.
"We'll proceed," he said. "Run full background checks. Inform me the moment they enter the building."
Alone again, Simon pressed a hand to the glass, the city spread beneath him. So many lives intersecting. So many unfinished stories.
He did not notice the figure lingering by the lobby elevators.
Nor the black car idling at the curb.
An email blinked into his inbox: Remember the closet.
On the seventeenth floor, a janitor paused mid‑whistle. A yearbook lay open on the supply‑room floor, a page marked with a blood‑red ribbon.
Minutes later, a note slid beneath Simon's door.
Room R23 holds what you left behind.
Dusk sank over London. Shadows lengthened. Cameras caught a hooded figure tracing a finger along the wall outside Room 23, tapping a rhythm Simon hadn't heard in decades.
In the parking garage, headlights flared, reflected briefly in glass — 04HARR.
A message arrived on Simon's phone, timed for midnight:
The answer lies where the light ends.
Across the street, a woman in a yellow jacket closed her notebook. As she walked away, the wind carried her whisper:
"He will remember me this time."