@purple-trap
Michael was ecstatic to finally be at work as a real security guard, and with every echoing footstep on the tile floor of the restaurant his heart raced a little faster. Oh, the joys of being alive, of wearing his nametag and hearing the clink of new keys on his belt and simple....being. It was a joy he’d thought for the longest time he’d never get to experience on his own.
The restaurant was dark at night, and he supposed had he not memorized the layout through his hundreds, possibly thousands of deaths, he’d be a little more concerned what might be lurking in the shadows. But he knew what was in the shadows-he knew, and he had no reason to fear them; not when he understood them so well.
“Oh!” He allowed himself a little gasp when he saw the purple man hunched over the table in the office, mumbling to himself. If it wasn’t the Purple Guy himself-the internet had given him many names, and at one point had even suspected his identity of being Michael himself. (He took no small amount of pleasure in that one.) But this one....this was a real one, and he had to guess. He couldn’t see the nametag from here, but probably- “Are you Vincent?” That was the popular one, at any rate. “Um, sorry, buddy-I just started and I got a little turned around. You doing okay there?”
