"Ok. So, an 'Amazonian' can be tall and built, but doesn't necessarily have to be from the Amazon. Yet, if they are, that doesn't make them any different from the former—"

A conclusion—after much deliberation—rests upon the ears of both fools inside. As Mr. Bordeaux continues, "Do we have that correct," a nod of acceptance from John soothes the paramount importance such a inquiry had provided them. Nevertheless, this conclusion lead into another question spurring from Mr. Bordeaux's mustached mouth. "Then, how does that 'spiral-scarred hand' kid you mentioned come into this?"

"If I knew that," John flubs, "I wouldn't still be thinrking that now." It had been well over 12-hours since it had happened. Still, the name to that specific type of spiral escapes him. It would be so much easier if it could be explained to others— to get someone other than his lapsing mind to think on it. But, how could he describe it as anything more than a scar? This conundrum being as aggravating as it is unimportant to what John should be focusing on. A thing his boss's boss had been prepping him for in these past draining months.

"Nephew, I think you need yourself some coffee." Sincerity decorates the tone of those words as they calmly pass from Mr. Bordeaux's voice-box and into John's ears. A light smile emerges on an already delighted Bordeaux's face, yet it is now attached to a string. That string being his pen-less hand shooing John away for both their days to continue into a lax mundanity. "Yeah—", John chuckles, "I'm pretty sure Ms. Washington said something similar."

"I bet she did. She is a smart cookie, y'know? Not a picayune bone in her body." The words of praise fill the air as Mr. Bordeaux's attention returns to his unfortunate stack of contractual, and legal, papers that clutter his desk. While John didn't wholly agree, it seemed well enough of a note to leave on— especially, without getting any consequences to his latenesses.

John gives a reciprocal wave back and heads for the door. As he opens the door to leave, Mr. Bordeaux couldn't help himself to let out one last verbal tidbit. A thing much worse than any simple slap on the wrist. "And, by the way, Mr. Fujiwara wants you to wear the company's red tie for the next shareholder's meeting in October. The head honcho didn't like how the blue one turned out." An additional stressor.

Like water to a grease fire, a new box to the checklist only exasperates the underlining cracks in John's outer, social shell. "Y—yeah. Gotcha," these hesitant words slipping past the thin veil of pleasantries struggling to keep his face appropriate for work. A clear strain in his social presentation once more, this is the face that all would see as he exits the boss's 'private' office. All eyes trained on him as he reenters the audience of cubicles. It was time to move on.

Coffee. The first thing on his checklist to avoiding his checklist.

He walks past those in cubicles and others too busy to notice his existence. There, at the table in the back of the vomit colored office space, sits a plastic table that held the coffee brewer. John grabs a close-by complimentary paper cup from the stack and pours himself a cup.

Bitter and cold. The usual taste, but it works.

My Office. The last bastion to hide away before the 'Fujiwara' checklist came calling before too long.

Coffee in hand, John silently makes his way to his office. Ignoring the fresher eyes still locked onto him with work questions in mind. Dodging out of the way of the more veteran ones too gung-ho for consideration of others walking opposite of themselves. He gets to the door to his office, his door. And, it is already wide open.

Did I forget to close it before or—

His question answered before it had time to finish. It wasn't from his apparent exhaustion—nor his stressed out mind—but something a bit more paradoxically typical.

"Ah. Ms. Washington. Are you to give me paperwork or tease me some mor—" John's monotonous retort to expectations found itself cut short. An atypical expression held by the Ms. Washington hung over his desk. The shabby wooden desk she stood by—as iffy as the receptionist's piqued curiosity—was at the thing that had his name on it. A note.

He walks around to his side of the desk after shutting his door. There, laying on top his keyboard, sat a paper dyed in the deepest of reds. The paper similar in size to printer paper and having the fold creases as if it came from a mailed envelope. "Did this come from the receptionist desk?" The tone more serious than anything else this morning; the quick glance to Ms. Washington told him all that he needed to know. No, it hadn't. Her head nodding left to right more shakily than coffee jitters, the seriousness of John's tone could only pique her curiosity more.

As John moves closer to the dyed paper, something else becomes more noticeable with every step. A note written in black ink decorated the insides of the deep red paper. Letters familiar enough to english yet distinctly preceding it. Words formed were from a long dead language yet still recognized today. Every step grew a new question onto John's ever-growing laundry list of loose-ends. Until the final step was taken.

'In Repetitione, asylum nostrā reperiemas.'

This phrase painted the insides; in a most beautiful cursive, it was clear the author took great care in their every action with the note. Such an author evidently wanted its intended recipient to take notice— and, time. Latin was never John's strongest suit. Whenever it popped up in school, he would always rely on Roy to help him through the trudges of translating those lessons. Thus, staring at it now—under this context—the irony isn't lost on the unsettled John. For Roy may have been one to tease on his weakness like this, but this handwriting is far too clean— and, it looks like nothing Roy had ever sent before. The words too big. The maroon paper too souring. This truly had to be some sort of sick coincidence.

"Ms. Washington—"

"Y-Yes!" A haunt tickling her delayed response.

"Tell me again— are you certain this is meant for me?"

Pulling up the envelope that once held the note, "Yeah, I'm pretty certain", her hand turning it around to show John the name boldly written on the envelope's front. His name, 'John Smith', printed boldly in the recipient's section is as clear as day. "It's a pretty common name, y'know. It could be some other 'John Smith'." Anxiety sweats begin to trickle down John's neck as he said this. The question was warranted. For such a name, the misconception would be pretty easy.

"You would think so," she cuts to the chase, "It's addressed to the 'Fujx' building, John. It's even mentioning the specific floor! I might be wrong, but—last time I checked—your the only 'John Smith' on this floor." The intensity of accepting reality had seeped into Ms. Washington's usually jovial workplace demeanor. No more ways out. No other avenues left to deride what is staring John in the face. John must face reality. Worst so, he cannot even read what terrifying message this note is suppose to incite out of him.

Picking up the note, he moves it off the keyboard and begins to tap on some of the keys.

*Clack*
*Clack*
*Clack*

Nothing. The computer screen was still as dark as it was when he started. While John moves around to try possibly turning on his ancient computer, Ms. Washington snatches the note. Her eyes focus in on the writing. Switching between widened eyelids to squinting difficulties. The computer screen blinks on. "Ahh! It always blinds me when it does that." The high-contrast blue startup screen blinks brightly and sporadically enough to end an epileptic if they were unfortunate enough to still own such an artifact— much less for professional use. Regardless, "Whatever. At least, it's finally on."

"I think I got it," Ms. Washington declares without taking her eyes off the note in her hand. The timing perfect enough for it to be a joke, yet her blank expression said anything but such.

John, as he looks away from the rudimentary computer screen, couldn't help but baffling blurt, "Wait, you know Latin?" His eyes still drowning in eye floaters and his arms attempting to block out the computer screen's loading spurts. Her words had his full attention.

"Yeah," she waves off, "took it for a few years in high school." Nonchalant and direct; her focus held within the mutters of the latin phrase in front of her.

"... And, you remembered it?"

John's remark hit a nerve. A thing that once was capsule to her ridicule in youth. It happen to be enough to draw her eyes away from the maroon paper— if only for the ire from it. "Do you want to know what it says?" Voice striking and uncharacteristically cold from Ms. Washington, yet more to the point than the ancient memorabilia had been up to this point. "My bad. Yes." John needed to know.

She set the maroon paper back down on the shabby desk and faced the written note towards John. Pointing to the words as she translated the phrase, "'In Repetition, we shall find our asylum'".

"Again," Ms. Washington reminds him, "I'm not one-hundred percent on this, but I'm sure it's something along these lines." Confusion remains inside John's mind. Growing with every new thought that passed by it. Yet, this time, something else grew within his gut. Butterflies would have been something—something familiar—but this feeling felt more piercing. A pinch akin to rusted nails on burned flesh. A feeling akin to that of a vivid nightmare.

"Ms. Washington," John shudderingly requests, "don't tell anyone else about this. Ok?"

While resistant to agree—for many reasons—she simply nods her head in agreement. She heads for the door. The 'fun' had long since past. An exit being the most desired thing in her mind at this moment in time. As she touches the door handle to the office door, one last thing stops her on her way out. "Thanks." A heartfelt calmness eluding from John as if a much deserved apology long overdue. "For this, and your consideration."

As Ms. Washington takes her leave, John takes a seat at his desk. Staring at the page. Lost in thought. A mind whirling. "'Asylum'... What is even going on anymore?"