If that machine hadn't jammed the bag of pretzels, I wouldn't have kicked the glass. If I hadn't shattered it, the security guard wouldn't have seen me on the feed. Now I'm blacklisted from the whole complex, and that meeting with the consultant is dead. She's probably working for the rival firm now, and I can't even show up to her office. It's a disaster, Lena. Salt and snacks ruined my career.
You're being dramatic, Marc. You kicked the glass because you lost your temper, not because of a machine. If you were professional, you would have just bought a water and walked away. That consultant probably didn't like you anyway. I told Sarah back in the lobby that you looked unstable. Honestly, watching have a meltdown over a dollar bag of pretzels is pathetic.
You told Sarah? Of course you did. You always loved having an audience to play the sensible one. It wasn't just the pretzels, it was the point. Now Sarah is probably messaging the partners and I can't even walk the lobby next week. If you're so professional, maybe you should find a way to fix the mess while ignoring the fact that the whole system is rigged. Who cares about pathetic?
I didn't tell Sarah to ruin your life, I told her because you were making a scene. The system isn't rigged, you're just incompetent. If you can't handle a vending machine, how are you supposed to handle a partner meeting? I have reports to finish for the audit and I don't have time to sit here be your emotional punching bag. Go find a different exit. The lobby is closed to you anyway.
The audit. Right. Go back to your spreadsheets while the world burns. You think those reports make you important? You're just another cog waiting to be replaced by someone cheaper. If the lobby is closed, I'll take the service entrance. I know the layout better than you do anyway. Just don't expect me to bail you out when the partners realize the deal was sacrificed for a bag of stale stale pretzels. Good luck with Sarah. I hope the gossip was worth it.
The service entrance is locked, Marc. They changed the codes after that fire last month. You're standing there acting like you're some tragic martyr, but you're just a guy with a grudge. Sarah doesn't care about your drama, she cares about the bottom line. If you want to sneak out through the back, good luck with the motion sensors in the basement. I have actual work to do. You're blocking the light.
Motion sensors? You're lying. The basement hasn't been touched since the pipes burst in July. You're just trying to scare me so you can feel superior for once. I'd rather crawl through the dark than spend another minute listening to you lecture me on bottom lines. If Sarah is all you care about, then you're just as hollow as that machine. I'm going. Enjoy your quiet audit. I hope they find the discrepancy you're hiding.
The pipes were fixed weeks ago, and you weren't even paying attention. If you want to crawl in the dirt, go ahead, but don't come crying when the silent alarm team catches you in the dark. There is no discrepancy to hide, just a lot of wasted breath. You're so obsessed with finding a conspiracy that it's embarrassing. Just get out. I have a headache and your voice is making it worse.
Your headache. My problem? It's always about your comfort. Fine. If you hadn't spent all day obsessing over codes, you'd realize the building is falling apart around you. Stay tight, you're tied to that desk anyway. I'll find a way out, and when the alarm goes off, I'll make sure it was you who left the sensors active. Keep your headache, Lena. It fits the personality.
Go ahead. If you trigger the alarm, the security team will have your face on every monitor before you reach the stairs. You think you're being some rebel, but you're just a nuisance in a cheap suit. I'll be right here finishing my work while you're explaining yourself to security in the basement. It's a pathetic narrative. The door is right there, Marc. Close it on your way out.
Cheap suit? This suit cost more than your monthly bonus. And go ahead, watch the monitors. By the time security reaches the basement, I'll be three blocks away, calling the firm firm to replace you. You're so focused on your little world that you haven't noticed the walls are thinning. I'm closing the door, Lena, but don't be surprised when it locks from the outside. Enjoy the silence while it lasts.
The door doesn't lock from the outside, it's a fire exit, not a prison cell. And please, call the firm. Tell them you lost your mind because of a vending machine. They'll laugh you out of the building. No one needs to replace me when you keep tripping over your ego in the hallway. The silence is already the best part of this day. Just leave, Marc. You're wasting my air.
Fire exit? You don't know a fire exit if one hit you. Those doors have been faulty since the inspection, I've seen the char marks on the frame. You're too busy being smug to notice the smell. I'm leaving, and your precious air. But when the system crashes because you were too lazy to check the hardware, don't come looking for me. Go ahead, talk to your spreadsheets. They're the only thing that actually likes you.
Char marks are from the fire, I literally talked about that. You're seeing ghosts now just to justify your exit. If the system crashes, it'll be because someone like you broke the hardware, not because I missed a spreadsheet. You're so desperate to be the hero of some little tragedy that nobody is even watching. Just walk out. The door is closing, and I'm done listening to your delusions.
Delusions? You're the one standing in a room that smells like burning plastic, pretending everything's fine. Fine, stay in your box with your ghosts. I'm walking out, and when the power starts flickering because the server room is overheating, I hope your audit reports provide enough light for the whole department. Don't bother calling me when the lights go out. I'll be busy actually not being in this building.
The server room isn't overheating, the AC just kicks in every twenty minutes. You're hallucinating disasters to make your departure feel important. If the lights flicker, it'll be because the grid is old, not because of your dramatic exit. I won't be calling you anyway; I don't have your number saved. Go on then, the sidewalk is waiting, and I'm finally as bored as you are.
You don't have my number? Of course not. You've scrubbed everyone who doesn't fit your perfect little hierarchy. The grid is old, yeah, and it's because you people are too cheap to maintain anything. When the AC finally fails and the condensation shorts the floor wiring, you'll realize why I was talking about the basement. Enjoy the boredom. It's the only thing you've actually earned. I'm gone.
The wiring is shielded, Marc. I saw the blueprints last year. You're building a house of cards because you can't handle being told you're wrong. If the floor shorts, it'll be because of the leak upstairs, not your basement theories. Go then. The air is already getting better without you talking. I'd rather have a spreadsheet than your constant paranoia. Don't let the door hit you on the way out.
Blueprints? You probably saw a brochure and called it reality. If there's a leak upstairs, that's why the ceiling is sagging over your desk. You're too arrogant to see the water stains. Go ahead, trust the leak. When it moves into the server rack, don't you dare say I didn't warn you. I'm out. I hope the silence is as cold as your heart.
There are no water stains, it's just shadow from the overhead lights. You're so desperate to be right that you're inventing leaks in thin air. If the ceiling falls, it'll be because the building is ancient, not because your "warnings." I'm not arrogant, I'm just tired of explaining physics to you. Go away now. The silence is already here, and it's much better.
Physics? You don't know physics from a falling wall. If that's a shadow, then the building is literally dying next to you. Stay there in your shadows, Lena. When the structure finally fails and the floor gives way, I'll be the one standing on the sidewalk while you're buried under your reports. Enjoy the silence. It's the only thing you'll have left.
The floor isn't giving way, Marc. It's reinforced concrete. You're repeating the same tired lines because you've run out of actual things to actually say. If the building collapses, I'll be dead, and you'll still be the guy complaining about how much his suit cost. It's a tragic loop. Just leave. I'm going back to my work, and I'm done with this conversation.
Reinforced concrete doesn't matter if the rebar is rusted through from the leak. You're so obsessed with the material you can't see the rot. Go back to your work. When the first crack appears in your perfect world, don't look for me. I'm leaving you to your tragic loop. I hope the spreadsheets keep you warm when the heat starts rising.
The rebar is coated in epoxy, it doesn't rust, Marc. You're obsessed with rot because you're looking at your own career right now. If the heat rises, it's because it's summer, not because of your metaphors. Go stand on the sidewalk and wait for the world to end somewhere. I've reached the limit of my patience with your cinematic drama. The conversation is over.