Episode 06 - Friday Bleeds

Friday evenings at the station had a strange texture.

The weekdays were weird, yes—but they obeyed some kind of logic. On Fridays, the logic frayed.

It started small.

At 5:12 PM, Olivia looked up from the front desk and noticed the lobby clock was ticking backwards.

At 5:14 PM, she walked past Studio B twice on her way to the kitchenette—even though it was supposed to be a straight hallway.

At 5:17 PM, her reflection in the hallway mirror waved after she’d already passed it.

By 5:30 PM, she had put herself back behind the desk, clutching a mug of Nullroot and whispering “it’s just stress” under her breath like a prayer.

That was when she heard it.

A soft, rhythmic whrrr-click, whrrr-click, coming from the hallway that led toward the Archive and the Vault.

She wasn’t supposed to go that way. It wasn’t for her.

But the desk phone hadn’t rung all day. No one had passed through the lobby in over an hour. Bernard was off doing… something. She hoped not feeding again.

The noise was steady. Familiar, even.

She stood, walked to the hallway’s edge, and peeked around the corner.

Nothing.

Then, from a side room—light. Flickering and cold, like a CRT waking up from a nap.

She stepped closer.

The room was filled with shelves. Not Archive shelves—these were older. Creaking wood, hand-labeled tags, film canisters stacked next to VHS clamshells and reel-to-reel tapes. The air smelled like warm dust and ozone.

On a metal cart in the center of the room sat a single television.

It was playing something.

She approached carefully, squinting at the screen. It was grainy, black and white. A figure paced behind a desk—not unlike her own—with a telephone clutched in one hand.

He looked up at the camera.

“Tell her,” he said.

Olivia froze.

“Tell Olivia she’s early. But the building remembers her.”

She stepped back, heart hammering.

“And tell Bernard he left the Gate open. Again.”

The screen went black.

Behind her, a soft ripple of static.

“You weren’t supposed to see that yet,” came Bernard’s voice—calm, amused, and a little sheepish.

Olivia turned slowly.

He was floating in the doorway, tentacles tucked in close, trying (and failing) to look casual.

“…You left the Gate open?” she asked.

“Just a crack,” he admitted. “A tiny sliver. Barely a smudge in the fabric of recorded space-time.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means,” Bernard said, “you’re ahead of schedule. Which is exciting! But also terrifying. And possibly illegal, depending on how the Founders interpret causality this week.”

She stared at him. “I watched a man on a tape speak directly to me.”

“Yes. That does tend to happen more often than you'd like once the Vault starts noticing you.” His tone softened. “But you’re doing quite well, you know.”

She rubbed her temples. “I’m the receptionist, Bernard.”

His many red eyes blinked—unsynchronized as always.

“And as I keep saying, love: that means more than you think.”