Page 12 of Break Room
Seven
Later on Thursday, at 5pm, I returned to the break room. Monologue was meticulously cleaning at the sink. He was stacking the plastic dishes we’d used at lunch, each one now spotless and wiped dry. I quietly stepped in to help him dry the remaining dishes.
‘Those are already done,’ Monologue said in a neutral tone.
I felt awkward and took a step back. ‘Have you got many hints?’ I asked, trying to change the subject.
But he said, ‘You know that unsettling feeling when you grab the fridge door handle, and it’s sticky? People never seem to clean that part.’ His words were directed at me, but his eyes remained fixed on the fridge.
‘I didn’t realise how little we’ve run into each other in the break room. How are you doing?’ I asked, trying to keep the conversation alive.
‘I’ve made up my mind,’ Monologue replied with quiet confidence.
He wasn’t exactly answering my question, yet there was something oddly soothing about his presence. His hand, holding the kitchen cloth, worked steadily, without pause, even as he spoke. He moved with precision as he wiped the plates, reaching into every tricky edge and corner. There was a skilful ease to his manner that I couldn’t help but marvel at as I watched his meticulousness.
Just then, Coffee Mix walked into the break room. She glanced at us briefly, a flicker of acknowledgement in her eyes, before heading straight to the coffee station. She grabbed five packets of instant coffee and, with practised ease, sliced the tops off all of them at once with a pair of scissors, then dumped their contents into a big paper cup. She poured in hot water and stirred the mixture with a tablespoon, as though she’d perfected this routine countless times before.
She gulped it all down in one go, lumps of undissolved coffeestill floating at the bottom of the cup. Without a second thought, she crumpled the cup, coffee dripping from its edges, and tossed it into the trash. The splash left a mess on the lid of the bin, but she didn’t seem to care. Instead, she turned to the fridge, scanning its contents for something to snack on.
‘Oh my, that dripping mess will make everything sticky . . . not to mention the fridge handle,’ Monologue murmured, already heading towards the trash bin to wipe away the coffee stain. He then cleaned the fridge handle twice, muttering about needing a new washcloth before walking out of the break room.
‘Did anybody ask for him to do all this? What a show-off,’ Coffee Mix complained the moment Monologue was gone. She grabbed the leftoverbibimmandu, spooning some on to a plate with some tongs, which she tossed carelessly on to the stack of perfectly cleaned plastic plates that Monologue had painstakingly arranged. Redbibimsauce dripped from the tongs on to the floor.
Just as the precariously perched tongs clattered loudly to the floor, I turned my back on her and walked out of the break room, flipping off the light switch with a sharp click on my way out.
‘Hey! I’m still here!’ Coffee Mix snapped.
‘Oh, sorry,’ I said, feigning innocence. ‘It’s a habit of mine at home to turn off the lights whenever I leave a room.’
I flicked the light back on, but I couldn’t help feeling satisfied as I returned to my flat. That brief stunned expression on her face was worth it. And then I found a pleasant surprise waiting at my door: a hint card.
I wasn’t expecting it, but then I realised – it was the light switch. Turning off the light while someone was still inside the room must have counted as breaking a rule.
After pondering for about ten minutes, I decided to use the hint card on Monologue. Shortly afterwards, a miniature train – something a child would play with – arrived in the box. Beneathit was a disclaimer and a QR code.
Careless use can lead to malfunction.
I carefully peeled off the film as usual, revealing the altered warning:
Careless words and actions can lead to arguments.
I initially thought this could apply to almost anyone here – especially Coffee Mix. But when I played the audio file linked to the QR code, a voice began to testify about Monologue’s behaviour:
‘Everyone knew there was something odd about him, but we all thought there was no malice behind his actions. We just figured he was overly focused on his tasks and maybe a little socially awkward. You know the type? There are people like that everywhere. So, I tried to let it slide a few times. But you know what? People like him – they constantly rub you the wrong way, to the point where you start feeling likeyou’re the bad person. It’s something you can only truly understand if you’ve been in that position.’
I threw myself on to the bed without bothering to shower. Did these hints truly lead to a specific person being the mole? Who could even be sure? Therehadto be an answer already; I just needed to focus on reading everyone as objectively as possible. But . . . was that really the right approach?
And what about Monologue? Would he be okay? I found myself reflecting on his decision to stay in the game on the first day, wondering what he might have hoped to achieve through all this. For the first time, I genuinely began to worry about him.
As my thoughts lingered on Monologue with an odd sense of sympathy and my eyes started to close, a sudden announcement blared through the speaker:
‘It is now the end of Day Four. So far, the player with the most hints is Monologue.’
I shot up from the bed, wide awake.
CHAPTER
Eight
