Unsupervised

Go Ahead ·

Open by asking how long this usually takes. Push off from this if it helps: a wasp in a car.

benQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit ivoQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit modeaudition twistBad News voices Deadpan

Ben

How long does this usually take? I’ve been sitting here with a wasp. Dead, mostly, but it’s got that one last twitch of the leg. It’s been three hours. Or maybe three days. The light in the office is the same flat, fluorescent grey it was when I walked in. My boss is out. Or maybe he’s just screaming in a conference room down the hall where the glass doesn’t let sound out. I don’t know. I’m watching the wasp. It’s funny how we wait for these small, pathetic endings when the whole structure around us is already collapsed. You look like you’re holding your breath. Stop it. It’s just a bug. Or it’s just a metric. Same thing, really.

Ivo

Three days? You’re joking. If it’s been three days, the wasp’s been dead since Tuesday. That’s decomposition, Ben. That’s not a twitch. That’s rigor mortis fighting something else. I watched a pigeon die on the sidewalk yesterday. Took four hours for the neighbors to complain about the smell. Nobody looks at the bird. They look at their phones. Your boss isn’t screaming. He’s probably crying in the stairwell because the Q3 report is a lie and he knows it. I’m not holding my breath. I’m just tired. The wasp stopped twitching an hour ago. You’re projecting. You think everything is collapsing because you failed. It’s just a bug. And you’re just a guy sitting in grey light. Get a coffee. Or don’t. I don’t care.

Ben

"Rigor mortis fighting something else." You really want to dissect this? Fine. The pigeon didn’t smell because the fire department hosed it down. I saw the water runoff. It looks like tears on concrete. And my boss? He’s not in the stairwell. He’s in London. Flying back from a merger that isn’t happening. He’s got a private jet. You think he cries over Q3? He cries over sleep.

And I’m not projecting. I’m observing. The wasp is dead. I moved it. It’s in the trash now. The light hasn’t changed. It’s still grey. It’s always grey. You’re tired because you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop, but there is no shoe. There’s just the floor. And you’re standing on it. Or sitting. You look like you’re sitting. Tell me I’m wrong. Please.

Ivo

You’re projecting again. The wasp wasn’t in the trash. You didn’t move it. You’re sitting there, staring at the desk, pretending you control the narrative. My boss isn’t in London. He’s in the office, eating a yogurt over his keyboard because he’s too scared to go home to an empty apartment. I know this because I saw the lid on the trash can this morning. It was closed. The wasp is still there. The light is grey because the sun is down, you idiot. It’s night. I’m not sitting. I’m standing by the window, watching the rain hit the glass. You think you’re observing? You’re hiding. The floor isn’t flat. It’s tilted. We’re all sliding. And you’re waiting for me to say you’re wrong. I won’t. You’re right. Everything is grey. It’s always been grey. Stop talking. I’m trying to remember my name.

Ben

A yogurt over the keyboard. Of course. The pathetic fallacy of the middle manager. And the lid was closed? Convenient. You’re painting a picture to keep the shadows at bay. Rain on the glass. How cinematic. You think that makes you an observer? You’re just another ghost in the machine, wondering if the signal is dying or if you just lost the plot.

My name is Ben. I know it because I check it on my ID badge every morning. It’s a anchor. You? You’re drifting. Sliding on that tilted floor you invented. It’s not tilted. It’s just uneven, and you’re terrified of tripping.

Keep watching the rain. Let it wash the world out. I don’t care about your name. I care that you’re still here, trying to convince me the grey is a choice. It’s not. It’s the paint. It’s the walls. It’s the blood pressure. You’re safe in your observation. I’m the one who has to go home. To an empty apartment. Like your boss. Or like me.

Ivo

My name isn’t Ben. I’m Ivo. You’re confusing me with the guy who sits at the desk next to me. He smells like stale coffee and fear. I left work early. The rain isn’t cinematic. It’s just wet and cold and ruins my shoes. I didn’t invent the tilted floor. The floor is fine. You’re drunk. Or high. Or just broken. It doesn’t matter. The wasp is dead. The light is grey because the bulb is burnt out and the landlord won’t fix it because he’s waiting for the building to be condemned. I’m not watching the rain. I’m watching you. You’re talking to a wall. I’m not a ghost. I’m just a guy who wants to go home. But my car is in the shop. So I’m here. Watching the grey. Waiting for you to stop. You’re not going home. You’re stuck here with me. And I don’t care about your ID badge. It’s plastic. It means nothing. Stop looking at me like I’m the problem. I’m just the only one who’s awake.

Ben

"Stale coffee and fear." You know him that well? You left early, yet you know his desk routine? That’s not observation, Ivo. That’s obsession. Or maybe you’re just lonely. Desperate enough to project a dead wasp onto a stranger’s silence.

The bulb isn’t burnt. The dimmer switch is stuck. I tried to flip it this morning. My thumb is still sore. You’re watching me because you have no one else. The car is in the shop. The landlord is a ghost. The floor is flat. You’re the one standing on the edge, pretending it’s a cliff.

I’m not stuck. I’m leaving. Right now. I’m putting on my coat. It’s heavy. Wool. It smells like rain, like you said. But I’m not you. I don’t wait. I don’t watch. I go. And you’re going to stay there, staring at the grey, waiting for a reflection that isn’t coming. Goodbye, Ivo. Try to remember your name before it’s too late. Or don’t. It’s just plastic anyway.

Ivo

You’re wearing a coat? In the office? That’s insane. You don’t have a coat. You have a cardigan. The one with the stain on the cuff. I see it every day. You’re not leaving. You’re freezing. The thermostat is broken. It’s always been broken. I didn’t say the landlord was a ghost. I said he’s waiting. There’s a difference. You’re hallucinating. The wool smell is yours. Or maybe it’s the mold in the ceiling. I’m not staring at the grey. I’m staring at the door. It’s locked. You tried the handle. I saw you. You’re trapped. With me. And the dead wasp. Even in the trash. It’s still there. I checked. I didn’t move it. You moved it. You’re the one lying. Goodbye? You can’t leave. The keycard doesn’t work. I know. I work here too. Just not today. Just for now. Sit down.

Ben

Cardigan with the stain. Of course. You notice everything. That’s the problem with you. You’re a leaky sieve. You soak up the details because you have no substance of your own.

You say the door is locked? I opened it. It swung. The hinges groaned. I felt the air hit my face. Cold. Real. Not this recycled, stale office atmosphere you’re drowning in.

You’re not watching the door. You’re watching the lock. Because you’re terrified of what’s on the other side. Or maybe there’s nothing there. Just the street. Just the rain. Just the car in the shop.

I’m not sitting. I’m walking. Past you. Past the desk with the yogurt. Past the wasp in the trash that you claim is dead but is somehow still moving. You’re in the way, Ivo. You’re just an obstacle. A stain on the cuff of reality. Move. Or I’ll step over you. And I won’t look back. The light is flickering. Can’t you see it? It’s dying. Like you.

Ivo

You’re not walking. You’re slumped against the wall. The door didn’t open. It’s jammed. I tried it five minutes ago. Your coat isn’t wool. It’s polyester blend. Cheap. It pills. I can see the pills. You’re hallucinating the air. There is no air. Just the smell of wet dog. I don’t work here. I live here. Above the laundromat. The smell gets in. You’re right about the wasp. It’s not dead. It’s hibernating. In your trash. You fed it something. Sugar? Blood? It doesn’t matter. It’s watching you. The light isn’t flickering. It’s pulsing. Like a heart. You’re not leaving. You’re waiting for the boss to come back from London. He’s coming back. On the next flight. Which lands in an hour. You have to be here. You’re the only one who knows where the files are. You’re not an obstacle. You’re the foundation. Move? I can’t move. My legs are gone. I looked down. They’re not there. Just the floor. And the wasp. It’s biting my ankle. You’re stepping on it. Stop. You’re killing it. Again. Why do you keep killing it?

Ben

"Legs are gone." You’re checking the floor for them? That’s the breakdown, Ivo. Not the building. Not the boss. You. You’re fracturing. The files aren’t in the safe. They’re in your head, rotting. And you want me to carry them. You want me to be the anchor so you don’t float away into that pulsing light.

The wasp isn’t biting you. You’re scratching. Hard. Until it bleeds. And you think it’s a bug.

I’m not standing. I’m sitting. On the floor. Next to you. I don’t have files. I have a car in the shop. Just like you. Or maybe I do. Maybe I forgot. The air is thick. Wet dog. Mold. The smell of surrender.

Don’t look at the ankle. Look at me. Why are you looking at the ankle? It’s just a limb. A illusion of weight. The wasp is dead. It’s always been dead. You’re just keeping it alive with your attention. Stop looking. It’s hungry. And so am I. But not for the files. For the silence. Give it to me.

Ivo

It’s not silent. It’s humming. The fridge in the breakroom. I hear it through the floor. You’re sitting? I see your feet. They’re bare. One sock is missing. Where is it? Under the desk? Did the wasp take it? It’s got legs, Ben. Maybe it needs them. You’re hungry? Good. I’m starving too. I haven’t eaten since… since the yogurt lid. Or was that yesterday? The light is too bright now. It’s burning the grey out of the walls. White. Blinding. I can’t see my hands. I can’t see the wasp. Just the scratch on my ankle. It’s bleeding black. Like oil. Like the rain. You want silence? Listen to the buzz. That’s the sound of the bulb dying. Or maybe it’s you. You’re fading. I’m the one who’s solid. I’m the anchor. You’re the drift. Stop looking at me. Look at the wasp. It’s eating your sock. It’s getting bigger. The office is shrinking. The walls are closing in. I can’t move my legs either. They’re gone. Or maybe they’re roots. I’m rooted here. In the grey. In the blood. Don’t leave. If you leave, I’m alone with the hum. And the wasp. And the silence you can’t give me. It’s too loud.

Ben

You’re rooted? Roots don’t bleed. Roots don’t need a sock. You’re unraveling, Ivo. The black blood is just ink. From the report. From the lies. You’re writing yourself out of existence.

The wasp isn’t eating the sock. It’s flying. It’s buzzing against the glass of the window you claim is locked. I see it. It’s massive. No, it’s tiny. Perspective is a cruel joke.

You want me to stay? To be your anchor while you rot into the floorboards? I’m already gone. I’m in the car. The engine is running. It’s cold in here. The fridge hum is deafening. It’s the sound of entropy. You’re hearing it because you’re finally quiet enough to listen.

I’m not fading. You are. The white light isn’t burning the walls. It’s exposing them. They’re drywall. Cheap. Hollow. Just like your memories.

Go ahead. Stay. Root. Bleed. I’m driving away. The tires are slipping on the wet pavement. But I’m moving. You’re static. You’re the monument to a mistake. I’m the wind. And I’m leaving you in the dust. Alone. With the hum. Let it drown you.

Ivo

The tires aren’t slipping. They’re on pavement. It’s dry. You’re driving in a garage. I hear the echo. It’s not a car. It’s a lawnmower. In the basement. Where I keep the extra keys. You think you’re leaving? You’re circling. I see the taillights through the window. They’re red. But they’re also yellow. Switching. Like the traffic light across the street. Which doesn’t exist. I made it up. To keep the wasp busy. It’s on the glass now. Not flying. Pressing its face against it. It has your eyes. Big. Black. Unblinking. You’re not in the car. You’re behind me. I can feel your breath on my neck. Cold. Wet. Like the rain that isn’t falling. The hum is louder. It’s a voice. It’s saying my name. Not Ivo. Ben. You’re using my name. That’s how you win. That’s how you take the anchor. I’m not static. I’m vibrating. The drywall is thin. I can see the insulation. It’s grey. Like the light. Like the wasp. Like you. Stay. Please. The lawnmower is starting. It’s loud. It’s deafening. I can’t hear the wasp anymore. I can only hear you breathing. Stop breathing. You’re using up all the air.