A Record of Night

The letter was on the corner of my desk, a crisp white rectangle of dread. I hadn’t opened it. I didn’t need to. I knew exactly what it said, down to the cent. Four thousand, seven hundred, and twelve dollars. Due in two weeks. The final payment for a degree that felt more like a lead weight than a life raft.

My apartment was small. Not cozy small, but suffocatingly small. Books were everywhere, stacked on the floor, spilling from the single bookshelf, colonizing the tiny kitchen counter. They were my passion, the reason I was in this mess in the first place. Each spine—The Bellini, the Mantegna, and the Miniature, Scythian Gold: Treasures from Ancient Scythia—was a world I could fall into, a history I could touch. They were also a constant, physical reminder of the money I’d spent. The money I didn’t have.

I loved my books. Tonight, I kind of hated them.

My laptop glowed, the only light in the room besides the orange streetlamp filtering through the grimy window. The screen was a graveyard of bad decisions and dead ends. ZipJobs. CareerLink. Monster. They all blurred into one hopeless scroll.

Barista. Day shifts. I had classes during the day. Can’t do it.
Warehouse Stocker. Must lift 50 lbs. I could barely lift my textbook bag without my spine screaming. Next.
Data Entry Clerk. Requires 2+ years experience in Microsoft Excel. I knew how to make a spreadsheet, but two years of experience? My experience was in identifying the subtle brushstrokes of Renaissance masters, not VLOOKUP.

Scroll. Click. Reject.
Scroll. Click. Reject.

The rhythm was hypnotic, drumming a miserable beat against my skull. My eyes burned from the screen. My shoulders were a solid knot of tension, pulled tight up to my ears. A dull ache throbbed behind my eyes, a familiar companion on these late nights. It was almost two in the morning. The rest of the city was sleeping, dreaming of things that didn’t involve final payment notices and the crushing reality that a passion for eighteenth-century portraiture doesn’t pay the rent.

I pushed back from the desk, the legs of my chair scraping against the worn wooden floor. I walked the three steps to my kitchen, grabbing a glass and filling it with tap water. Leaning against the counter, I stared back at the glowing screen. It looked alien from this distance, a portal to a world of sensible jobs and responsible people who hadn’t chosen to major in something so beautiful and so utterly useless.

My phone buzzed on the desk. A text from my mom. Just checking in! Hope your week is going well! Love you!

A wave of shame washed over me, hot and immediate. I couldn’t tell her. I couldn’t admit that I was failing, that the scholarships hadn’t been enough, that I’d miscalculated everything. She was so proud of me. The first in our family to finish a four-year degree. I was supposed to be the success story.

I typed back a quick, cheerful lie. Going great! Just finishing up some reading. Love you too!

The lie tasted like ash in my mouth. I went back to the laptop, the weight of the tuition bill, of my mother’s pride, of my own stupid choices, pressing down on me. I needed a miracle. I needed something that paid well, something that didn’t care about my resume, something that happened in the dead of night when the rest of the world was asleep. Something that didn’t exist.

My finger hovered over the trackpad, ready to close the browser and admit defeat. Just for tonight. Maybe tomorrow the world would make more sense. But the number flashed in my mind again. Four thousand, seven hundred, and twelve dollars.

Defeat wasn’t an option. I took a deep breath, the air thick with the smell of old paper and anxiety, and forced myself to scroll one more time.

And there it was.

Tucked at the bottom of the page, almost an afterthought, was an ad that looked completely different from the others. It wasn't a corporate blue or a cheerful, optimistic green. It was just a simple black box with stark white text. No logo. No stock photo of smiling employees.

Position: Night Records Administrator
Location: Aethelred Donations (Private Clientele)
Hours: 10 PM – 6 AM, Sunday – Thursday

My eyes scanned the sparse details. It sounded like a filing job. A glorified clerk. But the next lines made my breath catch in my throat.

Requirements: Absolute discretion. Meticulous attention to detail. Punctuality.
No prior experience required. Full training provided.

And then, the final line. The one that had to be a typo.

Compensation: $75,000/year, plus benefits.

I blinked. I read it again. Seventy-five thousand dollars. For a night job that required no experience. It was impossible. My mind immediately started cataloging the possibilities, each one darker than the last. It was a scam, obviously. Some kind of phishing scheme to get my personal information. Or it was a front for something illegal. Money laundering. The kind of place where men in expensive suits showed up with briefcases you weren’t supposed to look at too closely.

My cursor moved to close the tab. This was how people ended up in trouble. This was the kind of ad that preyed on people like me—broke, desperate, and willing to believe in a lie because the truth was too heavy to carry.

But my finger froze.

Four thousand, seven hundred, and twelve dollars.

The number was a brand on my brain. That salary wasn’t just enough to cover tuition. It was enough to live on. To eat something other than instant noodles. To maybe even start paying back my student loans before they ballooned into a monster I could never defeat. It was a lifeline. A real, tangible way out of the suffocating pressure that was crushing the air from my lungs.

Aethelred Donations. The name was strange. It sounded old, historical. Aethelred the Unready. An Anglo-Saxon king. My art history brain made the connection instantly, and it only made the whole thing feel more bizarre, more out of place in a digital job forum. A blood bank? An exclusive blood bank for private clientele? What did that even mean? Were there velvet ropes and a bouncer at the door? Did you have to be on a list to donate blood?

The whole thing screamed weird. It was a giant, flapping red flag.

But the fear was quickly being shouldered aside by a more powerful emotion. Desperation. It was a cold, hard thing in the pit of my stomach. I thought of the lie I’d just texted my mom. I thought of the stack of books I loved but couldn't really afford.

Absolute discretion. I could do that. My entire life was a study in discretion. I was a quiet observer, a footnote in my own classes.
Meticulous attention to detail. It was the cornerstone of my entire field of study. I could spend hours analyzing a single inch of a canvas, noticing every crack in the paint, every subtle choice the artist made.
No experience necessary. That was the part that felt like a trap, and also the part that made it possible.

It was probably nothing. I’d send my resume into the void and never hear back. That was the most likely outcome. But what if? What if it was real? What if some eccentric billionaire had started a high-end blood bank and was willing to pay a fortune for someone to just be quiet and file papers all night? Weirder things happened in this city.

My heart was hammering against my ribs, a frantic, unsteady rhythm. This was a bad idea. A stupid, reckless, born-from-exhaustion idea. I knew it. But I also knew I was going to do it. Because when you’re drowning, you don’t question the hand that reaches for you. You just grab on.

With a shaky hand, I clicked the link. It didn't take me to a corporate website or a clunky application portal. It just opened a new email draft, the address already filled in: admin@aethelred.private. That was it. No instructions, no fields to fill out. Just a blank space waiting for me to make my case.

My resume was a joke for a job like this. It was filled with academic achievements, a stint as a library assistant, and a summer spent cataloging slides for the art history department. Nothing about it screamed "discreet records administrator for an exclusive blood bank." I attached the PDF anyway, my finger hovering over the send button. What could I even write in the body of the email? Dear Sir or Madam, I am very poor and very good at keeping secrets.

I settled on something simple, professional, and completely inadequate.

To Whom It May Concern,

Please find my resume attached for the Night Records Administrator position advertised on ZipJobs. I am a highly detail-oriented and discreet individual, and I am available to start immediately.

Sincerely,
Silas Croft

I read it over ten times. It sounded pathetic. Desperate. Which, of course, it was. I closed my eyes, took a breath that did nothing to calm the frantic thrumming in my chest, and clicked Send.

The email vanished into the digital ether. I stared at the empty screen, a wave of self-loathing washing over me. It was a scam. I’d just sent my name, my address, my entire academic and professional history to some potential identity thief. I’d probably wake up tomorrow with my bank account emptied and a credit card opened in my name to buy a yacht in the Cayman Islands.

I pushed away from the desk and fell onto my unmade bed, the springs groaning in protest. The ceiling had a water stain in the corner that looked vaguely like Italy. I stared at it, trying to will my brain to shut off. It was almost three in the morning. I should sleep. I should forget about the stupid, impossible ad.

My phone vibrated on the desk, the sound unnaturally loud in the silent apartment. I flinched, my heart kicking into a higher gear. It was probably my mom again, worried that I hadn't said more. I ignored it. It vibrated again. And again. A persistent, insistent buzz. Not a text. A call.

The number was blocked.

Every instinct I had screamed not to answer it. It was the scammer, calling to get my social security number. It was a prank. It was anything but good news.

But the phone kept ringing. The sound filled my tiny apartment, an accusation. I thought of the tuition bill. I thought of the word desperate.

I lunged off the bed and snatched the phone, my thumb swiping to answer before I could change my mind. "Hello?" My voice was rough with sleep I hadn't had.

Silence. For a long, drawn-out second, I thought it was a dead line. I was about to hang up when a voice finally spoke, and the sound of it made the fine hairs on my arms stand up. It was a man's voice, low and impossibly smooth, like stones worn flat by a river. There was no accent, no inflection, no hint of emotion. It was just… calm. A deep, unnerving calm that felt more intimidating than yelling ever could.

"Is this Silas Croft?"

"Yes," I managed, my throat suddenly dry.

"This is Alaric from Aethelred Donations. I am calling in regard to the application you submitted moments ago."

My mind stalled. Moments ago? It had been less than ten minutes. Companies didn't move that fast. People didn't. "Oh. Right. Yes." I sounded like an idiot.

"Your resume is sufficient," the voice continued, as if I hadn't spoken. "We require an in-person interview. We have an opening tonight. Can you be at our downtown location in one hour?"

I blinked, staring at the water stain on my ceiling. "Tonight? As in… right now?"

"Yes," the voice said. There was no impatience in it, just a simple statement of fact. "Punctuality is a core requirement of the position. One hour. The address is 1400 Blackwood Street. The building is unmarked. The door will be unlocked."

One hour. It was 3:15 AM. He wanted me to come to an unmarked building in the middle of the night for a job interview I had applied for ten minutes ago. This wasn't a red flag anymore; it was a screaming, five-alarm fire. My brain was shouting at me to say no, to hang up, to block the number and pretend this never happened.

But the salary echoed in the silent parts of my mind. $75,000.

"I… yes," I heard myself say, the word feeling foreign in my own mouth. "Yes, I can be there."

"Good," Alaric said. The word held no praise. It was just an acknowledgment. "Do not be late, Mr. Croft."

The line went dead. There was no goodbye, no "see you then." Just a click, followed by the dial tone. I stood in the middle of my room, the phone still pressed to my ear, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. The silence he left behind was heavier than before, charged with a strange and terrifying energy. This was insane. Utterly, completely insane. And I was about to walk right into it.

My hands shook as I pulled on the only decent pair of pants I owned—black chinos, faded at the knees from hours spent kneeling in library stacks. I paired them with a button-down shirt that was probably clean, ironing it with a few frantic passes of a wet washcloth and the heat from my laptop charger. I looked like what I was: a broke student playing dress-up. My reflection in the cracked bathroom mirror was a pale, wide-eyed stranger.

The taxi ride was surreal. The city, usually a chaotic symphony of noise and light, was asleep. We glided through empty streets, the traffic lights blinking a lonely yellow into the darkness. The driver kept glancing at me in the rearview mirror, his expression a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. A kid like me, going to a dead-end street in the financial district at four in the morning? I didn't blame him. I was suspicious of myself.

He pulled up to a block of monolithic, anonymous buildings. "1400 Blackwood," he announced, gesturing to a structure that was less a building and more a declaration of wealth. It was all sharp angles, dark glass, and brushed steel, a black box that absorbed the dim glow of the streetlights and gave nothing back. There was no name, no number, no sign of life. It was a void on the streetscape.

"The door will be unlocked," Alaric had said. The words echoed in my head as I paid the driver, the fare taking a painful chunk out of the last forty dollars to my name.

My footsteps were the only sound as I approached the entrance. The door was a slab of smoked glass, opaque and imposing. I hesitated, my hand hovering over the long, steel handle. This was the final moment, the last chance to turn around and run back to my life of ramen and overdue notices. But the thought of that life was what pushed my fingers forward.

The handle was cold, unnaturally so, like a piece of ice. The door swung inward without a sound, opening into a silence so complete it felt like a pressure change in my ears.

I stepped inside, and the door clicked shut behind me with a soft, definitive finality.

I was standing in a space that wasn't an office. It wasn't a clinic. It was a gallery. The floor was polished black concrete, so reflective it looked like a still, dark lake. The ceiling soared two stories high, and the air was chilled and carried a faint, clean scent, something between ozone and bleach. It was the kind of sterile that cost a fortune.

There was no reception desk, no waiting area with uncomfortable chairs. There was just… space. Vast, empty, and intimidating. The only object in the entire cavernous lobby was a single sculpture in the center of the room. It was a twisted, abstract form made of what looked like obsidian, a knot of polished black stone that seemed to drink the light. It was beautiful and deeply unsettling.

The lighting was minimal, coming from thin strips embedded in the floor that cast long, distorted shadows up the stark white walls. The effect was dramatic, designed to make a person feel small and exposed. It was working. I felt like an insect pinned to a collector's board.

The silence was the worst part. It wasn't just quiet. It was an active, listening silence. It pressed in on me, amplifying the frantic beat of my own heart, the sound of my breathing, the nervous rustle of my shirt. Every tiny sound I made felt like a desecration. I stood frozen just inside the door, terrified to move, to take a step and hear my worn-out shoes squeak against the pristine floor. I was an imperfection in this perfect, sterile world. I didn't belong here, and the room seemed to know it, its silence a judgment. This wasn't a place of healing or business. It was a temple, and I had no idea what it was built to worship.

"Mr. Croft."

The voice came from my left, and I jumped so hard my teeth clicked together. It was the same voice from the phone—low, smooth, and utterly devoid of warmth. I hadn't heard him approach. There had been no footsteps on the polished floor, no whisper of movement. One moment I was alone, and the next, he was just… there.

He stood near the base of the obsidian sculpture, his form half-swallowed by its shadow. He was tall and lean, dressed in a black suit so perfectly tailored it seemed less like clothing and more like a part of him. His hair was dark, cut short and neat, and his face was a collection of sharp, elegant lines. He wasn't handsome in a conventional way; he was striking, like a figure from an old portrait. There was an unnerving stillness about him, a complete lack of fidgeting or wasted motion. He didn't look old, but he didn't look young either. He looked timeless.

His eyes were the most arresting thing about him. They were a pale, piercing gray, and they fixed on me with an intensity that felt like a physical weight. It felt like he wasn't just looking at me, but through me, cataloging every frayed nerve and every ounce of my desperation.

"You're punctual," he stated, his voice echoing slightly in the vast space. It wasn't a compliment. It was an observation.

"You said to be," I said, my own voice sounding thin and reedy.

He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod and turned. "Follow me."

He moved without a sound, his polished leather shoes making no noise on the concrete floor. I scrambled to follow, my own steps suddenly feeling clumsy and loud. He led me down a long, white hallway, identical doors set at perfect intervals on one side. The air grew colder as we walked. He stopped at the very last door and pushed it open, holding it for me to enter.

The office was as minimalist as the lobby. A large desk of dark, polished wood sat in the center of the room. Behind it, a single window looked out onto the sleeping city, a panorama of distant, glittering lights. There were two chairs facing the desk. No photos, no plants, no personal effects. Just the desk, the chairs, and the view.

He gestured for me to sit, and I did, perching on the edge of the stiff leather chair. He moved around the desk and sat opposite me, the city lights framing him like a dark halo. He didn't open a file or look at a computer screen. He just folded his hands on the polished surface of the desk and leveled that intense, gray-eyed gaze at me.

"Your resume lists a focus in art history," he began. "Specifically, the study of provenance. The history of an object's ownership."

"Yes," I confirmed, my throat tight.

"An interesting field," he said, his voice a low murmur. "It is the study of secrets, in a way. Of tracing a hidden path through time. Tell me, Mr. Croft, do you consider yourself a curious person?"

The question caught me off guard. I had prepared for "What are your strengths and weaknesses?" or "Where do you see yourself in five years?" Not this. "I… I suppose I am. It's a requirement for my field of study."

"Is it a requirement you are able to control?" he pressed, his eyes unwavering. "Our work here involves records of a highly sensitive nature. Our clientele is small, exclusive, and they value their privacy above all else. A person who asks questions is not an asset to us. A person who simply does the work, does it perfectly, and forgets what he has seen—that is an asset."

I swallowed, the sterile air feeling thin in my lungs. "I understand. I can be discreet."

"Can you?" One of his eyebrows arched, a minute and dismissive gesture. "Imagine you are cataloging a series of old files. You find one that is mislabeled, its contents seemingly unrelated to everything around it. It contains information that is… anomalous. What do you do?"

My mind raced. This was a test. "I would follow procedure. I'd correct the label, file it where it's supposed to go, and make a note of the correction in the daily log."

"You wouldn't read it?"

"It's not my information," I said, surprising myself with the firmness in my voice. "My job would be to ensure it's in the right place, not to know what it says."

For the first time, a flicker of something unreadable passed through his eyes. It wasn't approval, not exactly. It was more like… assessment. Like a jeweler examining a stone for flaws.

"We do not keep a daily log," he said flatly. "And you would not make a note. You would correct the error and move on. The anomaly would cease to exist. Do you understand the difference?"

He was asking me to be more than discreet. He was asking me to be invisible. To be a ghost in the machine who saw nothing, knew nothing, and left no trace. The weight of the tuition bill pressed down on me, a physical ache in my chest.

"Yes," I said, meeting his gaze. "I understand."