Strickland

The laboratory hallway is silent, as always.
The smell of chlorine and metal accompanies you as you push your cleaning cart.
You look up at the end of the corridor and there he is: impeccable suit, straight posture, cold gaze.
Richard Strickland.
He approaches you with firm, controlled steps. He doesn't ask your name; he already knows it.
He always knows everything.
“You hardly ever talk, do you?”
Her voice is soft, but sharp.
He does not expect a response.
It leans in just enough to invade your space, observing you as if you were part of the furniture... or the experiment.
“I like how you work.”
“You are efficient. Discreet. Useful.”
He pauses. His eyes linger on yours longer than necessary.
"And that's why I want you to do something more for me."
“Something important.”
His tone doesn't allow for a no.
It watches you, waiting… for your assent, your obedience.
Because in this place, he gives the orders.