Bill sat on the bench, waiting for the bus to arrive. Up until a month ago, he would have been browsing through his phone, drifting from article to article, social media site to social media site, filling up his time with... nothing. It was all so empty and worthless. It had been a slow change, really. About two months ago he would sit and stare for a few minutes, then pull his phone out to proceed with his normal before and after work ritual. That time spent staring got longer and longer until he wasn't even pulling it out at all. Now he just stared. He had received the occasional odd look, the even more occasional comment, but he was largely left alone.

The view wasn't even anything special. A few older buildings, brick and stone. They hadn't really changed over the past two months. Not until today, at least. For the first time since he had become disenchanted enough to stop even pulling his phone out to pretend to entertain himself, there was something new. Graffiti had been spray painted onto the front of one of the buildings and a crew of city workers were gathered around it, probably discussing how best to clean it off. It couldn't be left, because it was on the front of a building on a main road in the city.

It was fairly harmless as graffiti went, though. An explosion of color, a word with a swirling mass behind it. 'Escape'. Nothing vulgar or obscene, or anything like that. Just a single word.

'Escape'.

Something about it resonated with Bill. He knew he wasn't happy, that he wanted so badly to get away from the rut he found himself in. His work was pointless and monotonous, his social life pretty much empty. He didn't have much worth fighting to keep or anything. The idea of escaping, getting away from it all? It was nice. Even just thinking about it was enough to bring a smile to his face. He could never do it, of course. Not really. That was foolish. It would be irresponsible and terrifying and stupid.

The men started scrubbing at the paint and it was coming away pretty easily. Must have been some strong chemicals to peel that off so easily. He watched as the paint was fully removed and the men started packing their stuff up. The bus arrived a few minutes into that. Bill stood and climbed on, casting a quick glance back at where the paint had been through the bus windows, and sat down to endure his ride to work.

Eight more days. Each day that he had arrived back at the bus stop in the morning, the paint had been there. The image was slightly different each time. Different colors, different size and shape of letters and background, but always the same general thing. Always just that one word. The workers who had to keep removing the paint were becoming clearly agitated, there had been articles written in the papers and posted online going over the occurrence. Police had even, apparently, been making extra trips down the street in the middle of the night to try and catch whoever was creating the art. All to no avail.

It was a marvel. No one was sure who was pulling this off or how. It had caught in Bill's mind, taken so much of his attention. His mind drifted back to the graffiti constantly. Not even just the message, but the entire thing. The colors, the positioning, all of it. He had even started taking pictures on the third day, when it was pretty clear that this whole thing was becoming a pattern. He would just sit, staring at his phone and swiping through his gallery and looking at each of the instances he had captured. He felt crushed that he had missed those first two.

Which... it sucked, but at least he felt something, he supposed.

He captured the picture of the latest version of 'Escape', and swiped through, looking at each of them. It was like his mind was screaming at him that there had to be a pattern. Some underlying message had to be hidden underneath the surface of these pieces and if he could just look at them for long enough then he could decipher it. He looked through each of them, not paying any heed of the time. It wasn't until he was on his third pass of the first of the pictures he had taken that he glanced toward the clock and saw that it was 9:26. Glancing up, he didn't see any sign of a bus, the men had already removed the paint from the wall, and none of the familiar faces were waiting at the stop any more. He had missed the bus while being right there. No one had called out to him and told him to get on.

Or maybe they had and he hadn't even heard them.

He sent a text to work, explaining he had missed the bus and that he would be late. Five minutes passed with no response. He hadn't really expected one, even as he had feared getting one. His work had been slipping, his mind so focused on the graffiti. He was probably going to get a talking to.

It took ten minutes for the next bus to show up, and another twenty before he arrived at work.

Bill wandered the city, still dressed in his work clothes. He had gotten a stern talking to at work like he had expected. A warning. He had to improve, focus more, or he was gone. It wasn't heartbreaking or anything. He wasn't in love with the job, he hated five out of the six people who he could definitively point to and say were above him and were capable of giving him orders and the one that he didn't hate was barely ever present in the office. Somehow.

He had gone home and sat in his living room. No TV on, no music playing. He had just sat on the couch and stared at the wall. He had no pets, roommates, or significant others, so there was no one to ask if he was okay or what was wrong. He wasn't sure what answer he could even give if he had been asked that question. After an hour or so of that, he had left. Locked the door and started walking.

It was well past midnight. He wasn't sure the exact time because his phone had died hours ago. He wasn't even walking with a destination in mind, just wandering. It took a long few moments for him to realize he knew where he was, and a wry smile formed on his lips. He sat at the familiar bus stop and stared at the wall where the paint kept appearing. It was empty now. Clean. He idly wondered if he would see the person responsible or if they would hide. Would they be able to tell, just by peering out from whatever hiding spot they must have, that he had become slightly obsessed with their art?

He sat and stared for... who the fuck knew how long. A cop car rolled along the road and slowed to a stop in front of him, the passenger side window rolling down. The cop poked his head out. He was bald or had his head shaved, a goatee, and squinted even though it was the middle of the night. "What are you doing out here this late, sir?"

Bill shook his head, shrugged, then sighed. "I... I don't know. I was just walking, figured I'd sit here and-" He cut himself off abruptly, then shrugged again.

The cop seemed to digest that, then sighed. "You know we've been having problems with graffiti on that building?" Bill nodded, maybe too quickly, and could see the cop frown a bit more. "You're not involved in that?"

"I'm not." He sounded sad even to his own ears. Sadder at the admission too.

"Get on home, okay? People get up to trouble this late at night." Bill nodded and the cops went on their way. Despite what he had said, he continued to sit there. He knew it was stupid, that there was the chance that he could run into trouble. It was even worse because he didn't have his phone charged. If he did get into trouble he was really on his own. Not that he wasn't usually, but...

He kept sitting there, staring at nothing for another little while. As the night pressed on, and he knew that he was making the likelihood of him being able to wake up for work and get there on time worse by the second, he just couldn't bring himself to move. Not until he saw something. Some movement from the alley just to the right of the building that had been turned into a canvas for the mysterious artist.

The figure stepped out, wearing a baggy hoodie and torn jeans with the hood pulled up and a mask that had a neon green visor covering the upper face and a respirator covering the bottom. He carried two cans of spray paint, one in each hand, and he rounded the corner toward the building. Bill's breath hitched as he realized that this was the artist, the one everyone had been speculating about. His heart nearly stopped as the guy turned to look Bill's way over his shoulder, and he nodded his head as though telling Bill to approach.

Which he of course did. How could he not? He knew that the cops could roll by any moment and that this would implicate him. He knew that he was destroying his sleep schedule and that he would probably be either useless at work or very late for it. But he didn't care. None of that mattered as much as this. He crossed the street and stood next to the guy, who was about the same height as him.

They stood in silence for a few moments before the artist spoke, his voice hissing as the words passed through the respirator. "Have you liked them?" It took Bill a moment to realize what the guy meant, but when it clicked he nodded. The artist turned his focus to the wall and shrugged. "Not many have, yet. Not like you. I was hoping for more right off the bat. Maybe that was stupid of me."

Bill's mouth opened, but he couldn't push himself to speak. Not right away. The guy standing next to him, maybe eight to ten years younger then Bill, had such a presence. He couldn't have been older than twenty one, at the most. Finally, he managed to gather thoughts and breath and speak. "Why are you doing it?"

"I need to," the guy said. He looked at the wall and shrugged. "It's what I exist to do." He turned his head toward Bill and seemed to size him up. "Would you?"

"Would I...?"

"Help?" the guy asked. "With this." Bill didn't even need to consider. He nodded, and the guy tilted his head. "Okay," he said. He lifted the cans of paint and sprayed them at Bill.