August was two days away, and Santiago was practising his date writing on his computer. Zero, one he typed, then another zero, then … his finger hesitated over the next key, a bead of sweat clung onto Santiago's forehead. He inhaled and closed his eyes. He pushed down the key. The number appeared on the screen, and Santiago opened his eyes, gazing at the two circles. He felt them staring back at him, taunting him. Santiago slammed his eyes shut again. After five quick breaths, he opened his left eye, focusing on the keyboard. He pressed 'enter', and the cursor jumped to a new line.

Santiago typed the next date. Zero. Two. Zero. His finger stopped. He closed his eyes again.

"What a weakling", a voice laughed.

Santiago jumped up and looked around his office. "Who said that?" he asked the bookshelves and empty walls.

The unknown voice whistled. "Down here, you pathetic example of what is considered an intelligent being", the voice spat.

Santiago looked at his keyboard and grabbed the desk with both hands to steady himself. The number had peeled itself off the key and stood on small white legs made from the same typeface, glaring back at Santiago without eyes.

The number laughed, but neither circle moved. Santiago sat down slowly, mouth open. He rubbed his eyes with his fists, but the number was still there. It tap danced across the top of the keyboard, making Santiago allow a grin to spread across his lips. The number danced the final taps, took a bow, and jumped at Santiago's face with a flying kick.

"Die, you fucking loser!" was the number's war cry.

Santiago raised his arms, but the number clung onto his sleeve with new typeface arms, wielding a knife in one hand.

"Let me kill you, Santiago. I know I'm your worst fear", the number said while it tried to climb up Santiago's clothing.

"No! Fuck off!" Santiago shouted as he ran around the office, flapping his arms, knocking the bookshelves and kicking over the small waste paper bin beside his desk.

The number held on to the fabric of Santiago's shirt, plunging the small white knife into his forearm and using it to climb. Dots of blood began appearing through the shirt, like burst acne. Santiago winced with each stab and shook his arm like a hummingbird's wings, but the number cackled at him.

"Oooh, I'm going to get ya", it said, swinging off the knife's handle and using the momentum to reach Santiago's elbow. "I'm going to cut your throat, you miserable twat!".

Santiago screamed and sobbed, refusing to look at the animated number stabbing his forearm and insulting him.

After several minutes of flapping, running, swearing, and stabbing, the number crashed to the ground with a little thud and the knife was flung from its typeface hand. Santiago crouched down, almost needing to get on his hands and knees. He looked at the pricks of blood up his forearm and laughed. He stood back up.

"My octophobia ends here", he stated before stomping on the number.

The number raised its arms. "No, please don't!" it said.

Santiago looked at his blood-stained shirt, red polka dots scattered over a light blue background. He started to smile, then chuckle, and, finally, he erupted into laughter.

"Why would I spare you?" he asked the number. "You aren't really a threat to me. You've done no more damage than a vicious wasp without any venom."

"You're right. You're right", said the number between panicked breaths. "But together, we can take over the world. You have larger hands and can hold knives that cause real damage. I'm a mastermind. Together, we can achieve great things, Santiago".

Santiago rubbed his chin while analysing his right hand. "Hmmm, what do you suggest?" he asked the number.

"Pick me up, and let me tell you", said the number eight.

Santiago picked the small white number off the floor, and placed him on his shoulder, close to his ear. The number climbed up into his earlobe and began whispering. Santiago nodded along, a villainous smile pushing his cheeks.