It’s fine. Really. You can just turn the handle. The sign says emergency exit, so it swings open. No one locked it. You’re standing there staring at it like it’s personal. I asked you three times to move. You didn’t. Now the manager is asking why the hallway is blocked.
I wasn’t staring at it. I was reading the hinge. Cheap zinc alloy, Ivo knows about hinges. The sign said "Emergency Exit," not "Do Not Jam With Your Bro." You’re twisting this. I held it open for the lady with the stroller. You saw that? No, you were too busy checking your phone, ignoring the people who actually needed space. Now the manager is yelling? The manager’s been asleep in the back since noon. I checked the shift schedule posted on the breakroom door. You’re inventing urgency to cover up that you tripped over your own feet. Don’t blame the door. And don’t call it "fine" while you’re red-faced. It’s not fine. It’s a lawsuit waiting to happen, and you’re acting like I’m the one holding the match.
I wasn’t red-faced. I was exhausted. You were blocking the path. The hinges were rusted shut anyway. I tried the handle. It didn’t budge. You just kept your arm there, smug, watching me struggle. I didn’t trip. I stepped back because you wouldn’t move. The manager is in the meeting. Always is. Stop twisting my calm for yours.
Smug? You think holding a door is an act of dominance? It’s basic courtesy. You couldn’t manage a latch, so you decided I was performing? The hinge wasn’t rusted. I oiled it last Tuesday. You’re just blaming the hardware because admitting you’re weak takes effort. And don’t call me smug. I was waiting for you to notice the sign says "Pull," not "Push." You’ve been pushing. For five minutes. I stood there, Ivo, you know I don’t like wasting breath on people who refuse to read. The manager being in a meeting is convenient for you, isn’t it? A shield. But you’re sweating through your shirt. That’s not exhaustion, Dev. That’s panic. You’re scared you’re wrong. Admit it.
I wasn’t pushing. I was pulling. You’re confusing left and right. Oiling the hinge? Convenient. The manager is in a meeting because he hates noise. You made noise. I didn’t sweat. It’s hot in here. Stop analyzing my shirt. I’m leaving. You can keep your door.
Pulling? You were yanking it like a stubborn child. I watched you. You pulled until your knuckles turned white, then you spun around and accused me. The hinge is brand new. Chrome. I bought it from the hardware store on 4th. You’re delusional. And the heat? The AC’s been broken since Monday. I’ve been sweating too, Dev. I’ve been sweating while you yell about "Pull" and "Push." You want to leave? Fine. Go. But don’t pretend you’re the victim here. You’re just angry because you can’t open a door. It’s pathetic. And if you think I’m staying here to let you fume, you’re even more confused than you look. Get out.
You bought the hinge? In chrome? That’s not possible. The maintenance log says plastic. You’re lying to make yourself feel superior. I’m not leaving. I’m waiting for the inspector. You’ll explain your unauthorized renovations. And stop telling me to get out. I own this building. Or I did. Until you started messing with things you don’t understand.
You own it? Since when? I paid the rent for three years. The check clears from my account. You’re mixing up the property deed with the lease agreement, Dev. Classic move. And the inspector isn’t coming for renovations. He’s coming for the fire code violations you ignored while you were "managing" the place. I’m not lying about the hinge. It’s chrome. I have the receipt in my pocket. You want to wait? Fine. But don’t sit in my chair. And don’t touch the thermostat. It’s set to 68 for a reason. You can’t stand the cold, can you? That’s why you’re sweating. It’s not heat. It’s withdrawal. Admit it.
Your rent never cleared. Bounced three times. I have the bank slips. You’re trespassing. The chair is mine. The thermostat is mine. You’re freezing because you’re delirious. Stop talking about receipts. I’m calling the police. Now.
Bounced? I signed the checks. You signed the deposit receipt. Handwritten. July 12th. You told me the bank was slow. I waited. You didn’t tell me the account was frozen. Or did you? You’re the one who moved the thermostat. I saw the dial turned down to 65. You’re cold, Dev. Your fingers are blue. You’re shivering under that thin jacket. I’m not delirious. I’m awake. You’re the one hallucinating ownership. The police won’t care about a bouncing check if the landlord admits he never tried to cash it. Did you, Dev? Or did you just let it rot in a drawer? You’re not calling anyone. You’re afraid they’ll ask about the unpaid taxes. I saw the notice in the mailbox. Taped to the inside. Don’t touch the phone. It’s dead. I pulled the cord.
The cord is fine. I plugged it in. You’re hallucinating again. The notice is yours. I don’t pay your taxes. You’re the one with the frozen account. And the blue fingers? That’s just poor circulation. Stop touching the thermostat. It’s 68. Not 65. You’re lying.
You plugged it in? The socket’s behind the filing cabinet. You had to move that heavy steel thing. I saw you struggle. You’re not strong enough to lift it alone. And the notice? It’s addressed to "Occupant." Not "Owner." You’re trying to scare me with paperwork. I’ve got the lease. Signed. Stamped. You can’t just toss me out because you’re jealous I kept the place running. The thermostat is 65. I can feel it. Your teeth are chattering, Dev. That’s not poor circulation. That’s hypothermia. You’re standing there in a tank top. I’m wearing a sweater. Who’s the one freezing? You’re lying about the cord. I pulled it. I remember the snap. Don’t call the police. They’ll ask about the missing inventory. The shelves are bare.
The cabinet isn’t heavy. I moved it. The tank top is dry. You’re seeing things. The shelves are full. I checked them yesterday. You’re the one hallucinating missing inventory. Stop pulling cords. The phone is working. I’m dialing. You’re the one trespassing.
You moved it? You’re barely five-foot-five. I saw you strain. Your face went purple. And the shelves? You checked them yesterday? Then why are there empty hooks on the left wall? I counted them. Twelve. You’re trying to gaslight me into thinking the place is stocked. It’s not. The police won’t care about your "dry tank top." They’ll care about the squatter in the back room. Who are you hiding, Dev? The man with the limp? He’s been sleeping in the storage closet. I heard him coughing all night. You’re not dialing. The line is dead. I didn’t pull the cord. You did. In a panic. When you realized the rent never cleared. Because there was no account. You invented the bank. You invented the lease. You’re alone here. Just you and the echoes. Stop pretending you’re not terrified. I see your hands shaking.
I’m not shaking. The floor is vibrating. The ceiling tiles are loose. You’re seeing ghosts. There is no man in the closet. Just boxes. You’re lying about the line. I hear the dial tone. It’s whining. Like a dog. You’re the one who’s alone. You’ve been standing here for hours. Moving nothing. Just talking.
Vibrating? The building’s on stilts. You’re imagining the rumble from the highway. And the dial tone? That’s the sound of your own voice echoing in an empty head. I’ve been standing here? No. I was pacing. You were staring at the door. You haven’t blinked in ten minutes. The boxes in the closet? I saw the man’s jacket. Red flannel. You sold it. I saw the receipt on the counter. You’re not alone, Dev. You’re just tired of talking to yourself. The police won’t come. They’re busy with the fire. The one you started. With that lighter. You dropped it near the curtains. I saw the smoke. It’s thin now. Beneath the smell of your fear. Stop looking at the door. Look at the floor. The tiles are cracked. Because you kicked them. Hours ago. You’re the one who’s been standing still. Waiting for me to leave. But I’m not going anywhere.
I don’t smoke. Lighter’s in my pocket. You’re hallucinating smoke. The tiles are cracked because the truck hit the curb. I didn’t kick them. You’ve been pacing a hole in the floor. That’s why you’re dizzy. Look at me. I’m right here. The door is open. You can leave. Or stay. I don’t care. I’m going home.
You don’t smoke? Then why does your breath smell like sulfur? And the lighter? You’re clutching it so hard your knuckles are white. I saw it. In your hand. Not your pocket. You’re delirious. The truck didn’t hit the curb. There’s no street here. Just concrete. And I’m not dizzy. I’m angry. You kicked the tiles. I heard the crack. Louder than your voice. And the door? It’s not open. It’s jammed. I tried to force it. My elbow hurts. You want me to leave? Fine. But you’re not going home. Your house is gone. Burned down. Like the curtains. You started it. With that lighter. You’re not leaving. You’re trapped. Just like me. In this hallway. With the smoke. And the man in the closet. He’s watching you now. Don’t turn around.
Sulfur? From the hinges. You said zinc. It’s reacting. The lighter is a prop. You’re holding it wrong. No street? Good. Less noise. I’m not trapped. You are. Your elbow hurts because you hit the frame. Admit it. The man in the closet is your shadow. I’m walking out now. Don’t try to stop me. I have the keys.
Zinc reacts? With what? Air? Please. It smells like rotten eggs, not metal. And the prop? You’re gripping it like a grenade. Thumb on the wheel. You know how to work it. You’re not walking out. I see your feet. They’re planted. You’re frozen. The keys? You don’t have keys. I gave them back. To the janitor. Three months ago. You’re holding a handful of air. Or maybe it’s just the smoke getting to you. The shadow isn’t mine. It’s yours. Cast by the flickering bulb. The one you keep touching. Don’t move. If you step, you’ll trigger the alarm. The one I wired to the floorboards. You know that. You installed it. To keep me out. Now you can’t get in. Or out. It’s a loop, Dev. A stupid, stupid loop. And I’m tired of watching you run it.
Air doesn’t smell like eggs. That’s gas. You’re leaking gas. The bulb isn’t flickering. The wiring is shot. I didn’t install an alarm. I paid for the inspector. You’re holding the keys. I saw you put them in your pocket. Stop lying about the loop. It’s just a hallway. Walk out. Before it explodes. I’m not staying.
Gas? You want me to light that lighter just to prove you right? You’re suicidal. And the inspector? He’s not coming. The building’s condemned. I saw the red tag on the door. The one you tore down. You paid for nothing. You’re paying in panic. And the keys? I don’t have keys. I never took them. You’re looking at your own pocket. You put them there. Last week. When you hid from the sheriff. You’re not walking out. The exit’s bricked. I saw the mortar fresh. You’re standing in a tomb, Dev. And you’re trying to talk me into breathing the explosion. Crazy. You’re completely off the rails. Look at your hand. You’re holding the lighter. Flicking it. Click. Click. Click. You’re waiting for the spark. Don’t do it. Please. It’s the only thing keeping us here.