Rowan Voss woke up at 6:15 AM to the sound of his neighbor's dog barking through the thin apartment walls. He lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, before rolling out of bed and padding barefoot to the kitchen.
His apartment was small but carefully maintained—plants on the windowsill that he actually watered, a bookshelf organized by color, a coffee table with matching coasters. The kind of space that suggested someone who cared about small comforts. Who tried.
He was twenty-six, though people often guessed younger. Short, fluffy brown hair that never quite laid flat no matter how much product he used. Round face that made his smiles seem even warmer, even more genuine. He'd learned early that people trusted a friendly face, that being approachable was a skill you could cultivate.
The coffee maker gurgled as he pulled on running shoes. Tuesday morning routine: coffee, run, shower, office by 8:30. Consistency mattered. Patterns mattered. People noticed when you broke them.
He tied his laces and checked his phone. Nothing urgent. Just the usual notifications. Weather forecast. A reminder to water the plants (already done). A news alert about some political scandal he'd read later.
Outside, the morning air was crisp. Rowan ran the same route every Tuesday—through the park, past the bakery that opened at 7, around the pond, back home. He waved at the regular dog walkers, nodded to the woman who always sat on the same bench with her thermos of tea.
Building rapport. Being seen. Being normal.
His mind wandered as his feet hit the pavement. Yesterday had been productive. Delaney had opened up more than usual—mentioned her family, agreed to go home. That was progress. Real progress. The kind that made his chest tighten with something that felt uncomfortably like guilt.
He pushed the thought away and ran faster.
Back at his apartment, he showered and dressed—button-up shirt, cardigan with elbow patches, jeans that were professional enough for the office but casual enough to seem approachable. The "friendly coworker" uniform.
He made toast while scrolling through his phone. Checked the news. Checked his email. Then, after a moment's hesitation, he opened a folder on his laptop labeled "Recipes" that contained no recipes at all.
Inside were documents. Dozens of them. Dated, organized, meticulously detailed.
Delaney Schulz - Investigation Log Week 7 - Overview
He skimmed through yesterday's notes. Updated a few timestamps. Added observations.
Then he closed it and finished his toast. Washed the plate. Watered the plants.
Packed his bag for work—laptop, notebooks, pens, the little succulent he kept on his desk. And tucked into the bottom, wrapped in a spare sweater, the black notebook he never left out in the open.
The office was quiet when Rowan arrived. He liked getting in early—before the fluorescent lights felt oppressive, before the air got stale with recycled breath and deadline stress.
He set up his desk the same way every morning. Computer on. Succulent positioned just so. Coffee mug within reach. Everything visible, nothing hidden. The performance started the moment he walked through the door.
Jess from Ms. Vargas's office waved as she passed with her iced coffee.
She laughed and kept walking.
Rowan's smile stayed in place until she rounded the corner. Then it settled into something more focused as he checked the time.
9:00 AM. His meeting with Denis from HR was in thirty minutes.
He'd been working on the initial file for two weeks. Carefully. Methodically. Just the observable facts, nothing that could be dismissed as paranoia or overreach. Team turnover. Documented stress indicators. Timeline of escalation. No assumptions. No editorializing.
He pulled the folder from his bag and flipped through it one more time, making sure everything was in order.
At 9:15, Marshall arrived. He looked worse than yesterday—if that was possible. Bloodshot eyes, wrinkled shirt, the kind of exhaustion that came from not sleeping rather than sleeping badly.
Rowan glanced up, smiled.
Marshall sat at his desk and put his headphones on immediately. Walls up. Possible conversation over.
Another data point. Another confirmation that what Rowan was seeing wasn't imagination.
At 9:45, Sandy arrived. She went straight to the bathroom without greeting anyone. Rowan heard the water running for a long time.
Rowan watched all of this, folder tucked under his arm, and headed toward HR.
Denis's office was small, tucked at the end of the third-floor hallway. He was in his early forties, graying at the temples, with the careful demeanor of someone who'd seen enough workplace drama to know how quickly things could spiral.
Rowan closed the door behind him and sat, placing the folder on Denis's desk. His friendly demeanor shifted—not gone, but focused. Professional.
Denis picked up the folder, flipped it open, and started reading. His expression remained neutral as he scanned the pages—dates, observations, documented incidents. After a few minutes, he closed it and looked at Rowan.
Rowan leaned forward slightly.
Rowan's jaw tightened.
Denis set the folder down, his expression considerate but firm.
Denis raised an eyebrow.
Rowan exhaled slowly, frustration bleeding through despite his best efforts.
Denis hesitated, his caution visible.
Rowan took a deep breath, frustration evident in the tension of his shoulders.
Rowan nodded slowly, processing.
Rowan stood, taking the folder back.
Back at his desk, Rowan sat in silence, the folder resting on his lap beneath his desk where no one could see it.
HR wasn't going to help. Leadership wouldn't approve an investigation. And he couldn't get more evidence without crossing lines that made him uncomfortable.
But he also couldn't stop.
Delaney was breaking. And he was the only one who seemed to care.
Rowan looked up. Denis had followed him out, leaning against the cubicle wall with a slight smile.
Denis grinned.
Rowan chuckled despite himself.
Denis clapped him on the shoulder.
But as Denis walked away, Rowan opened his black notebook—the real one, with everything he hadn't shown HR—and added a new entry.
A cold knot tightened in Rowan’s stomach as he watched Mika jump at a notification on her phone ; not out of empathy, but with the detached click of a mental camera, filing the reaction as Data Point: M-7, Startle Response, Heightened. He was becoming a ghost in his own life, turning people into patterns, and the fear of that was almost worse than the fear of what he was tracking.
He closed the book with a soft, final sound.
He smoothed his cardigan, fixed his smile. Just Rowan. Steady, reliable Rowan.
But beneath the performance, the compass had found its true north. He wasn't just watching a person. He was guarding a gate. And he would not let the barbarian through, even if she wore their own colors.