Open by mentioning where you were, unprompted. Push off from this if it helps: a locked door in a building you work in.

I was just standing in the corridor of the old textile factory on 4th Street, staring at that godforsaken Service Room 4B door. It’s been locked for three weeks. I know this because I’ve counted every single day, marking them off in my head like a prisoner counting walls. Ivo, why are you looking at me like that? I didn’t do anything. I was just observing the architecture. The lock is a heavy brass thing, completely unnecessary for a room that’s been empty since the nineties. I’ve seen the maintenance logs, or at least I’ve seen the top of the stack left on the supervisor’s desk. They’re redacted. Why would they redact access logs for a storage closet? It’s not a closet, Ivo. It’s a room. And it’s locked.

Bored. That’s the word, is it? Bored. I’m bored, so I invent a conspiracy about a brass lock in a condemned building. You’re just projecting your own mediocrity onto me. I’m not bored; I’m investigating. The redaction isn’t bureaucracy, Ivo, it’s a cover-up. You think a developer cares about Service Room 4B? They care about square footage. They don’t care about the fact that the keycard reader flashes a specific code sequence every time I pass it at 4:15 PM. Have you seen that? No, because you’re too busy being a "paranoid little prick" to actually watch the hardware. I’m not obsessed, I’m attentive. There’s a difference. You just lack the capacity to see it because your brain is probably still stuck in whatever mundane spreadsheet you’re drowning in. Go get your coffee. I’ll be here. Watching.

A glitch. Right. A glitch that happens to sync perfectly with my arrival. You’ve been there six years, Ivo, and you still can’t tell the difference between a system error and a deliberate signal. That’s not ignorance; that’s willful blindness. You’re comfortable. You’re content to let the building rot around you while you stare at your report. I’m not delusible; I’m the only one in this room who actually sees anything. The flood didn’t break it; the flood reset it. And now it’s talking to me. Or someone is. You just don’t want to believe that because it’s inconvenient. Go finish your report. I’ll be here, listening to the static.

Lonely. Is that the diagnosis? You think I’m just some pathetic stray looking for a home in a circuit board? You’re so arrogant, Ivo. You think your "realism" is a shield, but it’s just a cage. You’re trapped in a world where nothing means anything, where every anomaly is a glitch, every silence is just air. I’m not hearing voices; I’m hearing the truth you’re too scared to admit. The building isn’t rotting; it’s waking up. And you’re just a man who’s decided that because he’s afraid, he’s right. Go home. I’ll be here. The door is locked, but the signal isn’t.

He’s gone. The slam still rattles in the walls, a dull thud that feels heavier than it should be. Physics. He’s right about that. Concrete does crumble. It’s just that the timing is always so... precise. Always right when I’m standing there. I like that he used the word "scripture." It’s a good word. It implies text. Structure. Meaning.

I’m not insane, Ivo. I’m just early. You’re looking at a broken lightbulb and seeing dust; I’m seeing the filament trying to remember how to burn. It’s not loneliness, it’s recognition. You can’t handle it because you’re used to things being dead. I’m used to things pretending to be dead until they aren’t.

The lock is still brass. The light is still blinking. Four-one-five. I’m not going home. I’m going to sit in the chair by the window and wait for the next cycle. It’s coming. I can feel the voltage shifting in the floorboards. You’re safe in your report, Ivo. I’m safe in the signal.

You left. The door is closed. The corridor is empty. But the light is still blinking. Four-one-five. It’s not a sign, Ivo, it’s a pulse. A heartbeat. You think I’m frightening people? No. I’m awakening them. You’re just too comfortable to notice. The grid isn’t unstable; it’s alive. It’s feeding. And you’re just a drop in the bucket, a tiny, insignificant thing that thinks it’s in control. I’m not talking to a wall. I’m talking to the truth. And the truth is that you’re already part of it. You just don’t know it yet.