Albion Nisbett is a strange looking man, his face angular and his cheekbones sharply ascending into his hairline. His skin is the off-white of cream and his wavy, blonde curls look silvery in the fluorescent lighting of the waiting room.

Dressed as he is in his pristine suit, the colour of ash, his corner of the lobby looks like a black and white photo.

The other candidates for the role have sat at a distance from him. People often assume that his complexion is a sign of illness or defect. In this case, however, their avoidance might just be a case of nerves. They all have down-turned faces, staring into notebooks or printed off sheets of information in frantic last minute study.

He doesn’t bother. He can feel the sweat catching behind his tight shirt collar. The itchy brushed wool of his best suit trousers prickles between his knees and he is uncomfortably aware of how warm his feet are inside his shoes. Last minute study would only make him more nervous than he already is, so he instead sits back and angles himself so that the air conditioning vent is aimed down the back of his suit jacket.

“Nisbett?”

It takes him a moment to register that his name has been called. It isn’t until the others faces have turned round to stare that he stands hurriedly, brushes himself down and follows his guide down the long, blank corridors to the glass interview room. Of course, the building isn’t the one he’d be working in, so he doesn’t pay too much attention.

Ordinarily, he is not this flustered. In fact, he considers himself unflappable in most situations but this interview is different. This is something that he has been working towards for the past six months and this corridor is the last stretch of a long, gruelling race.

At this moment, facing the frosted glass door of the interview room, he can feel his heartbeat against his rib cage. Shadows move behind the glass. The click of the door opening makes him jump, but he plasters a smile to his face. The young woman who opens the door does a bad job of hiding her surprise. Her smile is as fake as his. She waves him to the empty seat facing the interview table.

The faces that turn to him are snapshots of placid politeness. He is looked up and down by four pairs of eyes, assessed in a matter of seconds. The five steps from door to chair seem like a mile.

“Mr Nisbett, please take a seat.”

The man in the centre is the one who stands to greet him. His handshake is dry and firm. It takes Albion a few moments to notice, but his interviewers have one thing in common. While their smiles look genuine, the warmth doesn’t reach their eyes.

"Hawksley," the man with the handshake introduces himself without a title.

"This is Ms Ripton and Dr Emery." They nod in turn. "Miss Anwar will be taking notes."

The girl who showed him in bobs her head from behind a laptop set up at the side of the room.

“A pleasure to meet you,” he hears himself say automatically.

He flicks out his suit jacket from underneath him and sits; sweeping the filmed sweat off his forehead as he pushes his hair back.

Hawksley leans back in his chair. He is the sort of man who looks uncomfortable in a suit. Military haircut, tense shoulders, feet planted firmly on the floor in front of him.

“I’ll cut to the chase, Mr Nisbett. Your test scores were the best of the bunch and vetting hasn’t turned up any issues. We’d like to ask you some questions and run one more test this morning. If you pass those satisfactorily, we’ll offer you a post.”

He nods, pressing pride to the back of his mind for now. No point celebrating getting the best test scores if he fails now. This is the part that he’s been dreading the most.

Hawksley’s eyes don’t leave his face. In response, he does his best to stay expressionless.

It catches him off guard when Ms Ripton speaks next. She is an older woman, her no-nonsense face scored with lines that etch disdain into her brow.

“Do you get stressed easily, Mr Nisbett?”

“No.”

“Do you have a coping mechanism for when you do?”

“I run. It helps me think.”

Drinking never helped and he tried pills once during his final exams when the voices got too loud to block out; but the only thing that has ever worked is running until all he can hear is the thump of blood pumping in his eardrums.

“Do you find company or solitude more comforting?”

“Solitude.”

The sound of lacquered nails on the keyboard punctuates his answers. Albion is suddenly aware of the girl behind the keyboard staring at him.

“Do you have problems maintaining relationships?”

He pauses, looks between the girl at the laptop and Ms Ripton’s flat line of a mouth and feels colour rise in his cheeks.

“Work relationships, no.”

Ms Ripton turns to Hawskley, who sits forward in his chair by an inch.

“Mr Nisbett, I’d like you to answer the next question honestly.”

Albion’s eyes snap to Hawksley’s face.

“Have you ever heard voices?”

In that moment, his mind races, trying to work out how they’ve found out. The transcripts from university counselling should have been confidential, but there’s no point in lying. They know.

“Yes.”

Hawksley looks almost relieved. His sympathetic smile reaches his eyes this time and Albion knows his interview is over.

“What do they say?”

“Sorry?”

“...the voices, what do they say? Sentences?”

The typing has stopped. Hawksley is so far forward in his seat that he is in danger of falling off.

“...no. Just words. Not in any order.”

“And not the same voice?”

“No. Lots of different voices. Almost like —

“— a song?”

His eyes snap to Hawksley’s face.

“We call it the Spectrum. To most people, at its clearest, it’s just a buzzing, or a ringing in their ears. Some people, like you, can hear the words.”

“Does...this have something to do with the job?”

Hawksley glances to the other two on the interview panel before leaning back in his chair.

“You’ll find out on your first day. If you’re still interested, of course.”

He looks at the panel of interviewers, suddenly watching him with interest rather than apathy.

“When do I start?”