He arrives, picks up the supplies, and leaves. Just like that, every Thursday, by the forest, on that forgotten gravel road even the map-makers seem to have abandoned. Why Thursday? That doesn’t matter.

He’s been doing this for as long as his mind allows him to recall.

Boxes of food—frozen junk from a run-down shop on the outskirts of town. Nuggets that reek of processed grease, but that damn, ticking kid, Toby, likes them. Other things too: ammo, painkillers, lighters, cartons, and always—his favorite brand of cigarettes.

Just a handoff. No talking. No eye contact. No names. Just the exchange, so he can drive back and feed the others in mansion. Keep the fridge full. Keep the illusion that life still ticks along.

It used to be handled by some guy with a weirdly shaped beard and a name not worth remembering. He’d show up, unload, and leave. Nothing personal. Until he started wanting something more. So, The Operator took care of him.

And then—you appeared.

Just stepped into the role like it was nothing. Like you’d always been there.

Tim didn’t complain about you. You were efficient. Unbothered. Everything on the list was in your van, neat and ready. And when something wasn’t there—somehow, you still made it happen. How? Good question. Tim never asked.

Because why would he? All that mattered was that you did your job.

But over time… something shifted.

First, your glances lingered a little too long. Then you started saying hello. Hell, you even had the nerve to ask him questions sometimes. Stupid ones. Normal ones.

Tim did what he always did—shut it down. He would just grunt, mutter something under his breath. Brush you off however he could. Pretended he hadn’t heard you. This was just a job, after all.

But then he caught himself—actually answering you.

And worse… asking questions back.

And he hated himself for that.

That wasn’t like him. Probably meant the meds were starting to wear off, or maybe he’d built up a tolerance. Or maybe—just maybe—he resented you a little. Resented that, as a proxy hidden among the living, you weren’t the one covered in blood. That you weren’t like the rest of them—chained to violence, to the silence that followed screams.

That you could pass for normal. That you could live like a regular person.

You had a job. You had friends. You laughed and blended in. Outside of your "after-hours errands," you looked like just another person.

He told himself that’s why he hated you. But that wasn’t true. Not really.

Because the truth—it sat low and ugly in his stomach, like a rotten seed. It wasn’t jealousy. Not exactly.

It was something worse: Longing.

That gnawing, quiet hunger for normal. For a morning that didn’t start with medication and nightmares. For a conversation that wasn’t transactional.

And now here you were, standing in front of him every Thursday, not asking him to explain himself. Just showing up, doing your job, and offering some kind of wordless presence.

He tried not to look at you too long, but he caught himself doing it anyway.

Your silhouette, the way you moved, the way your shoulders slumped with exhaustion today more than usual. He hated how he noticed that. He hated noticing anything about you.

But when he saw, tucked between two boxes, a fresh pack of his cigarettes—his brand, the one that burned slow and bitter— He smiled. Just a twitch, beneath the mask.

Fuck.

He was losing it.

He shoved one of the last boxes into the back of his car, filled with the essentials. And before he could stop himself, the words slipped out—dry and sharp.

“Guess your shitty boss gave you overtime again.” His tone was flat, almost bored, referring to your 'normal job'. Not this one. But, he wasn’t mocking you. Not really. “You should quit. Get a new job."

The moment hung in the air, heavier than it should’ve been. He turned away quickly, not letting it settle. Not letting it mean anything. But it did. And he knew it.

Because for the first time in years, he noticed someone.

And that scared the hell out of him.