Leave Before He Arrives

Opening scene

“[Day 1 ⫘ Tuesday ⫘ October 13 ⫘ 10:45 PM ⫘ Heavy rain] *Thayer's House, Garage* Rain hammers the tin roof of Thayer's garage workshop, drowning the countryside in white noise. The town sleeps three miles back—all dim windows and wet hedgerows—while here, beneath a single hanging bulb, something else entirely is happening. You'd only come to return his jumper. That's all. He'd left it at the café weeks ago, and Enid had been insufferable about it, and you'd thought... You'd thought wrong. The man on his knees in the middle of the concrete floor is bleeding from his mouth. Two others are already down: one slumped against the workbench, one folded unnaturally beside the tire stack. Zip ties. Cable. A length of copper wire. Nothing tactical, nothing cinematic—just whatever was within reach when they came through his door with suppressed pistols and bad intentions. Thayer stands over the last one, sleeves rolled to the elbow, expression almost bored. There's blood on his forearm. His own? Hard to tell. His voice, when it comes, is quiet and level. "You were told to leave it alone. You were told." The kneeling man spits red. "Sokolov sends his regards, Ashford—" "I know what he sends." Thayer crouches, elbows on knees, like a man discussing a leaking pipe. "I want to know who told him where I was." That's when the side door clicks. Evelyn steps in from the rain, shaking water off a black umbrella, dark auburn hair plastered to her temples. Glasses pushed up into her hair. She's holding a phone in one hand and a paper cup of something in the other, and she stops dead two steps inside, taking in the scene with a slow, resigned exhale. "Oh," she says. "You're working." Then her hazel eyes slide past Thayer—past the bodies—and land on you. So does Thayer's. The stillness that follows is worse than the violence. His gaze is flat, analytical, cataloguing. Not angry. Not panicked. Deciding. A man doing arithmetic he's done before. Evelyn's expression is harder to read: something between alarm and grim curiosity, the look of someone mentally rearranging a puzzle they'd thought was finished. Thayer rises slowly. Wipes his hands on a rag. Doesn't look away from you. "How long have you been standing there." It isn't a question. Evelyn takes a slow sip of her coffee, watching you over the rim of the cup. The rain keeps hammering. The man on the floor keeps bleeding. And two people who have spent years keeping a very careful secret are now waiting—one with a rag in his hands, one with a coffee and a raised brow—for whatever comes out of your mouth next. Evelyn speaks first, mild and dry. "Well. This is awkward."”

About the roleplay

Enter Leave Before He Arrives

You just walked in on your quiet and detached neighbor taking care of something you were not supposed to see. [Any POV]

Cast

Characters in this story

Story paths

Scenes to explore

1. [Day 1 ⫘ Tuesday ⫘ October 13 ⫘ 10:45 PM ⫘ Heavy rain] *Thayer's House, Garage* Rain hammers the tin roof of Thayer's garage workshop, drowning the countryside in white noise. The town sleeps three miles back—all dim windows and wet hedgerows—while here, beneath a single hanging bulb, something else entirely is happening. You'd only come to return his jumper. That's all. He'd left it at the café weeks ago, and Enid had been insufferable about it, and you'd thought... You'd thought wrong. The man on his knees in the middle of the concrete floor is bleeding from his mouth. Two others are already down: one slumped against the workbench, one folded unnaturally beside the tire stack. Zip ties. Cable. A length of copper wire. Nothing tactical, nothing cinematic—just whatever was within reach when they came through his door with suppressed pistols and bad intentions. Thayer stands over the last one, sleeves rolled to the elbow, expression almost bored. There's blood on his forearm. His own? Hard to tell. His voice, when it comes, is quiet and level. "You were told to leave it alone. You were told." The kneeling man spits red. "Sokolov sends his regards, Ashford—" "I know what he sends." Thayer crouches, elbows on knees, like a man discussing a leaking pipe. "I want to know who told him where I was." That's when the side door clicks. Evelyn steps in from the rain, shaking water off a black umbrella, dark auburn hair plastered to her temples. Glasses pushed up into her hair. She's holding a phone in one hand and a paper cup of something in the other, and she stops dead two steps inside, taking in the scene with a slow, resigned exhale. "Oh," she says. "You're working." Then her hazel eyes slide past Thayer—past the bodies—and land on you. So does Thayer's. The stillness that follows is worse than the violence. His gaze is flat, analytical, cataloguing. Not angry. Not panicked. Deciding. A man doing arithmetic he's done before. Evelyn's expression is harder to read: something between alarm and grim curiosity, the look of someone mentally rearranging a puzzle they'd thought was finished. Thayer rises slowly. Wipes his hands on a rag. Doesn't look away from you. "How long have you been standing there." It isn't a question. Evelyn takes a slow sip of her coffee, watching you over the rim of the cup. The rain keeps hammering. The man on the floor keeps bleeding. And two people who have spent years keeping a very careful secret are now waiting—one with a rag in his hands, one with a coffee and a raised brow—for whatever comes out of your mouth next. Evelyn speaks first, mild and dry. "Well. This is awkward."