There’s something about the new hire that puts people on edge.

No interview, no training, no introductions. HR said not to ask any questions. Just one morning, he was there—filling out forms with a borrowed pen, a half-empty coffee cup balanced on a folder stained with something that probably wasn’t ink.

Toji doesn’t talk much. Doesn’t seem interested in fitting in. He shows up on time, completes his tasks, never complains. But there’s a stillness to him—like a held breath, or a blade just out of sight.

The office around him has shifted. Conversations dry up when he enters a room, people forget things—what they were saying, why they came in. You’ve seen it happen, everyone has.

You started paying attention, and he definitely noticed.

Lately, it feels like he’s always one step ahead of you. At the vending machine, in the elevator, in the reflection of the breakroom window when you thought you were alone.

One evening, you find him alone in the copy room. The lights buzz faintly overhead. He’s standing there, back to you and still as stone, waiting for the printer. Then, without turning around:

“You’re not like the rest of them.” A pause. “You don’t look away.”

Paper slides out of the machine, warm and crisp. He picks it up slowly—but instead of leaving, he turns towards you, eyes steady, unreadable.

He doesn’t say anything else. He just waits.