Sweet Little Journalist

The office felt different on Tuesday morning.

No one could put their finger on it at first. Just a vague sense that something was off. Wrong.

Marshall arrived at 9:15, same as always. Sandy came in at 9:45, coffee in hand. Chen was already at his desk, headphones on.

But Rowan's desk sat empty.

No cheerful "good morning." No coffee run offers. No humming while organizing files.

Just his succulent, still sitting there. Leaves slightly drooping.

By 11:00, his desk was still empty.

By noon, people started checking their phones. No messages. No calls. No explanation.

But something felt wrong.

Sandy was the one who noticed the smell first.

Wednesday afternoon, taking the stairs down to the garage because the elevator was taking too long. Level B2. The air felt thicker here, wrong somehow.

A smell. Faint. Chemical. Sharp like bleach. And underneath—something organic. Something sweet-rot that made her stomach turn.

She quickened her pace toward her car, keys already in hand.

Passed Rowan's car. Still there. Windows dark. Driver's side door slightly ajar—just a crack, like someone had closed it but it hadn't latched properly.

She didn't stop to look closer.

Didn't want to see what might be inside.

Thursday morning, Delaney came back to the office.

She looked wrong—dark circles carved deep under her eyes, hair pulled back so severely it looked painful, wearing latex gloves. Heavy-duty ones. The kind surgeons use. Or crime scene cleaners.

She carried a large black plastic bag, the kind contractors use for debris. Heavy. Something inside shifted when she moved. And a bottle of industrial hand sanitizer tucked under her arm—the hospital-grade kind that strips skin.

She went straight to her office and closed the door.

Marshall watched her pass. Watched the way she moved—careful, controlled, like every step was being measured.

Through the glass wall of Delaney's office, they could see her sitting at her desk, head in her hands. The black bag sat beside her chair. Bulging. She kept the gloves on even though she was just sitting there.

Her phone was pressed to her ear. She was talking to someone, voice low, urgent. Desperate.

Sandy strained to hear but caught only fragments through the door:

Then silence. Delaney hung up. Stared at her desk.

Pulled out the hand sanitizer and used it. Three times. Four times. Five. Rubbing her gloved hands together like she was trying to scrub something off that wouldn't come clean. Like she could still feel something on them.

Something red.

By Thursday afternoon, the questions started.

Silence.

They all looked at her office.

She was still there. Still wearing the gloves. The black bag still beside her chair.

No one moved.

Friday afternoon, HR sent out an email:

Dear Team,

We regret to inform you that Rowan Voss will no longer be with the company. We cannot share details at this time due to privacy concerns. Please direct any questions to Human Resources.

Thank you for your understanding.

The office went silent.

He didn't finish the sentence.

Sandy's hands shook as she set down her coffee. "He was just here. He was fine. He was asking if we were okay and now—"

They waited. Chen spoke in low tones, professional at first, then increasingly frustrated.

He hung up.

They all looked through the glass wall.

Delaney was staring at her computer screen, but her hands were still. No typing. No movement. Just staring. The gloves still on. The sanitizer bottle sitting within arm's reach.

That night, Marshall stayed late. Everyone else had gone home, but he couldn't shake the feeling. The wrongness of it all.

He walked down to the parking garage. Level B2.

Rowan's car was gone.

The spot where it had been sitting for three days was empty. Scrubbed clean. Too clean. The concrete looked newer there, wet still, like someone had pressure-washed it recently. The drainage grate nearby was spotless—unusual for a parking garage where oil and grime collected in every corner.

Marshall stood in the empty space, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.

The chemical smell was still there. Bleach. Industrial cleaner. And underneath—faint but unmistakable—something copper-sweet. The kind of smell that makes your hindbrain scream danger.

His phone buzzed. Text from Sandy:

He typed back:

Three dots. Then:

Marshall stared at the message. Looked at the too-clean concrete. The spotless drainage grate. The faint stains at the edge where the pressure washer hadn't quite reached—dark, rust-colored.

Another text from Sandy:

Marshall's fingers hovered over the keyboard. He looked up at the security camera mounted in the corner. Its red light was off. Had been off, he realized, since Tuesday.

He typed:

Sandy:

Marshall:

Sandy:

Marshall looked at the empty parking space one more time. At the too-clean concrete. At the dark stains at the edges.

He typed:

Sandy:

Marshall:

Long pause. Then:

Marshall:

No response.

Somewhere above him, he heard footsteps. Echoing. Slow. Deliberate. Coming down the stairwell.

Marshall left quickly, not looking back.

Not wanting to see who was following.

Delaney sat in her office long after everyone had gone.

The black bag was in her trunk now. Double-bagged. Weighted. Ready for disposal. The gloves disposed of in three different locations. The sanitizer used until her hands were raw and cracking.

Her phone sat on her desk, screen dark.

The last message she'd sent was still there, waiting to be deleted:

She stared at it for a long time.

Then she deleted it.

Opened her laptop.

Started typing an email to Marshall about the Fighter surveillance updates.

And in the parking garage below, the fluorescent lights buzzed over an empty, too-clean parking space.

But no one did.

Because they were all too scared.

Too complicit.

Too aware that asking questions could make them disappear too.

So Rowan stayed gone.

And Delaney stayed silent.

And the team went back to work.

Documenting other people's lives.

While pretending they didn't notice the empty desk.

The drooping succulent.

The colleague who'd cared enough to ask if they were okay.