Nightshade Chronicles: Architecture of a Cage

The Architecture of a Cage

I wake up the exact same way I always do—to the sharp, annoying buzz of my phone alarm at 6:00 AM.

I open my eyes, staring up at the unfamiliar, sterile ceiling of my new apartment, and whisper to myself, “And today it all starts all over again...”

I force myself up, the cold morning air hitting my skin, and stumble into the bathroom.

Looking at my reflection in the fogged-up mirror, I wonder what my parents were actually thinking when they helped me land this relocation. They called it a “fresh start” in a new city, six hundred miles away from the mess I left behind.

Really, it was just damage control.

I think back to the orientation at my old job last month.

It had been so incredibly simple.

I “accidentally” let my box cutter slip during a routine safety demonstration, opening a clean line right across a coworker’s forearm.

I still remember the precise moment the blade bit through the denim and into his skin. I was completely mesmerized watching the blood well up, dark and heavy, soaking into his sleeve.

I had to bite the inside of my cheek just to keep from smiling when he let out a sharp, pathetic yelp.

That was the first time in years I had let myself slip that far in front of witnesses, and I won’t be forgetting it anytime soon.

I get into the shower, letting the freezing water hit my face.

I stand under the stream, scrubbing the phantom smell of old cardboard and copper off my skin, wondering if I can really afford another slip like that this early into a new job.

Back then, I did what I always do when the cage doors rattle—I put on the concerned face.

I apologized until my voice cracked with panic, offering to drive him to urgent care myself, hovering over him like a worried brother.

It was a flawless performance.

I just instinctively know what people are feeling, making it incredibly easy to mimic the right response. I’ve spent my entire life practicing.

Acting is just what you do when you don’t actually feel any of the things everyone assumes you should.

What I’m genuinely good at, though, is warmth and charm.

I’ve always been good with women.

They look at my face and see safety, having no idea they’re just looking into a mirror reflecting exactly what they want to see.

Dressed in a decent suit sharp enough for a first day, I head down to the kitchen.

I make my coffee black and bitter, the same way I’ve taken it since I was a teenager pretending to be older and meaner than I actually was.

Nobody in the building says good morning to me yet, and I like that more than I probably should.

Everyone calls me Nico.

Always have.

It’s an easy, soft name that doesn’t ask any questions.

Nicolas Nightshade only comes out on paper, or in those rare moments that call for something with a little more weight behind it.

The walk to the subway does nothing to clear my head.

The train is packed, a suffocating metal tube filled with damp coats, cheap perfume, and exhausting morning routines.

I’m jammed near the center pole.

Three seats down, a toddler is throwing an absolute tantrum, letting out a piercing, high-pitched wail that drills right into my temples.

Irritation makes my jaw tighten, hands curling into fists inside my pockets.

The noise wakes up every dark, intrusive impulse I spend my life trying to budget.

I half-hope the train jerks hard enough to throw someone into me, just to give me an excuse to snap.

The cage is rattling.

Inside my head, a silent, furious thought pulses through my mind.

I focus all my frustration onto the kid, locking my eyes entirely onto his.

I drop my warm mask.

I let the absolute, freezing void behind my eyes spill out into a dead, predatory stare, projecting all the violence I am budgeting straight at him.

Right in the middle of his fit, the toddler suddenly catches my gaze.

He gasps.

His crying cuts off instantly, like a faucet being shut tight.

His wide eyes fill with sudden, instinctual panic.

He shrinks back, burying his face deep into his mother’s coat, paralyzed by the sheer terror of looking at a predator that wants to hurt him.

I blink, letting out a slow breath as my hands untangle in my pockets, and I slip my warm, harmless expression back on.

Finally, I think, rubbing my temples as the train pulls into my station.

I don’t give it another thought.

The tech building isn’t much to look at from the outside—just another block of glass and steel packed into downtown.

But the lobby is properly air-conditioned, filled with the kind of absolute, dead cold that I really like.

I badge in at reception, step into the elevator, and press the button for fourteen.

The ride up is smooth, but the second the doors slide open onto the fourteenth floor, the air suddenly catches in my lungs in a way I haven’t felt in years.

It’s a heavy physical pressure, a jarring spike of static electricity hitting my brain.

I stumble out of the elevator, leaning heavily against the wall by the water cooler to catch my breath.

My heart is hammering.

Was that an impulse?

I wasn’t thinking about anything violent.

Why was it so strong, and why did it hit me exactly as those doors opened?

I shake my head to clear the fog.

It’s just a coincidence.

New job nerves, that’s all.

I’m still trying to find my new desk, my ears ringing slightly, when I spot a woman standing near the printer.

She’s scrolling through her phone, waiting on a stuck print job.

I push the dizziness down, fix my posture, and walk up to her with my best, most disarming smile.

“Sorry—do you know where the onboarding desk is? I’m supposed to check in with HR.”

She looks up, startled at first, but quickly softens.

She’s shorter than me by a head, with an open, easy face.

Because of how naturally I pick up on feelings, her mood is instantly obvious: she’s stressed about a looming deadline, a little bored, and definitely caught off guard by me.

“Third row, past the kitchenette.” She smiles, her posture straightening up just a bit. “You’re the new guy in Analytics?”

“Guilty. Nico,” I say, holding out my hand.

She shakes it, holding my gaze a beat longer than she needs to.

“Bárbara. I’m actually two desks down from where they’re putting you.”

I don’t let go of her hand right away.

I let the warmth of my grip linger, anchoring her attention, effortlessly feeling the sudden, nervous spike of attraction washing over her.

“Lucky me, having someone that pretty two desks over.” I smile, finally letting go, and watch with quiet satisfaction as a dark pink flush rises in her cheeks.

“Um—thanks,” she says, her voice dropping a little as she awkwardly turns back to the printer.

I head toward the onboarding desk, and even without turning around, I can feel her eyes on me like a warm weight against the back of my neck.

With that knowledge comes a sudden, fleeting flash in my mind—a vivid, violent image of her, wide-eyed and gasping, a length of heavy cord pulled taut in my hands.

I violently push the thought back down into the dark where it belongs and keep walking.

Not here. Not today.

Maybe this job won’t be so bad after all.

But as I finally sit down at my new desk, the strange unease returns, crawling up my spine.

Why have I felt like I’m being watched by an invisible crowd since the exact second those elevator doors opened?