Yesterday's Winning Vote:
Option 3 – Report the anomaly to Michael.

“This is not my problem. Michael gets to deal with this,” you whisper quietly as you move down the aisle towards Michael's office. “After all, I don't decide what gets put onto my desk, do I? Do I?!” Those around you briefly glance up as they hear your muttering, but not one says a word gets up. The thought crosses your mind that they probably wouldn't stop working to help if you were dying. You dislike them.

You walk past the secretary, ignoring her protests, and head straight to Michael's door. Pulling back the knocker, you pound three times. Then three times more, louder and more insistent.

“He's out for the day,” the secretary says, smiling grotesquely at you. Most would consider her beautiful, for she is, but everyone here is beautiful. You've grown tired of the perfection.

“I doubt that, whore,” you reply, pushing open the door and stepping into Michael's office. “Michael. Michael! There's a problem, and it's not mine!” Three steps into the office, you skid to a halt. One step less, and you could have grabbed the door and ran before being sealed inside.

All of the furniture in the office had been shoved to the side. In its place, filling the the entirety of the room, is an ornate pentagram drawn in chalk. Strange symbols litter its outside edges, and the center—“My God!”—holds Michael's body. Strangely flattened, it seems as if the body has been hollowed with only the skin left behind.

You turn back to door, pulling desperately on the handle. Someone has to be told that something terrible has happened to, or because of, Michael. The door has opened crack when you suddenly feel a dull, warm sensation spreading through your back.

“Abyssus abyssum invocat,” a voice hisses in your ear. Looking down, a silvery blade is visible jutting out the front of your chest. Knocking off a hand that grabbed at your shoulder, you stumble out of the office and begin running, agony shooting through every time the blade is jostled.

There are screams as you run through the office, but, true to your previous assessment, not one hand is pulled away from work to assist you. You keep running until your legs give out somewhere in Human Resources. Falling, you catch the edge of a disk, spilling it over on top of you.

“Aaaaah!” Screaming, you pull yourself out from under the desk, unable to pull a coherent thought through the pain. Somehow the desk missed hitting the blade but still landed close enough to anger the wound.

“Forward, forward...” you mouth, the words not escaping your throat. Lifting yourself to your knees and crawling forward, the crackle of crushed paper brings a memory to the front of your mind. Unable to feel your hands, you look down—to see that the folder is missing. Next to the overturned desk lies an enormous pile of scattered paper and folders. “...gone...”

Groaning, you turn back to crawl away, but your arms give out beneath you. You try to lift them again or at least kick your feet, but both refuse to move. Reality begins slipping away from you. The pain in your chest lessens. The last sensation you have is that of falling...

...and falling...

...and falling...

...and falling...

End of Side Arc – Misfiled