Open by explaining the first stage. Push off from this if it helps: a song you only half remember.

It’s sticky. Every time I’m near it smells like rotting fish and bleach. The lock mechanism is rusted through, sure, but the silence is the issue. If we trigger that latch, it’ll scream. I checked the security logs last Tuesday; motion sensors are calibrated for weight, not sound. You think the night guard will just ignore a noise? He’s been there twenty years. He knows the building breathes. We need a distraction. Not a dramatic one. Something small. A loose wire in the server room, maybe. It’s plausible. It keeps them out of the hallway anyway.

It’s sketchy. The magnetism fades after three uses, and we’re planning to go in and out. I’ve got two more cards, but the reader at the second floor takes a solid second to recognize them. That’s an eternity when you’re trying not to look like you’re breaking in. And the clone is cheap. It doesn’t have the right clearance level for the server room, which means even if we get past the badge check, we’re stuck at the turnstile. We need the guard’s key card. Did you account for that? Because I didn’t see him handing it over. Also, my shoulder is killing me. I slept weird last night. I can’t lift my arm high enough to smash that window if we need to climb out.

The desk is right next to the door. He won’t look away from the screen. He’s paranoid about the logs. If he hears a noise, he doesn’t turn around; he checks the monitor first. You’re relying on him being distracted by a wire he can’t see. And “in and out” assumes he leaves the card on the desk. He doesn’t. He pockets it when he gets up. I’ve watched him do it. Twice. We’d need a mirror or something. A phone camera is too slow. Plus, if he’s standing, we can’t reach his pocket without him feeling us. You’re assuming he’s slouching. He’s not. He’s rigid. Like a statue made of tension. And if I’m on doors, I need to know which ones are jammed. The ground floor ones stick. Always do. You didn’t check that.

You’re taking the guard? That’s not a plan, that’s a hostage situation. And I’m not dragging a hundred and eighty pounds of dead weight down concrete stairs. My back isn’t what it used to be. Also, who’s “someone he trusts”? I’m the only contact he has listed in the system, and even that’s a fake number. If I call him, he’ll ask for the extension. He checks extensions. And if you’re checking the doors tonight, you’ll miss the crew change. The night shift doesn’t arrive until ten-forty-five. You’ll be standing in the dark waiting for a door that’s probably jammed anyway. And we still need to open the side door. It’s sticky. You’ll get fish guts on your shoes.

Who’s making the voice? A speaker? You can’t just play a recording; he’s got eyes. If he sees a shadow, he’s coming down here with a flashlight. And checking the doors at nine-thirty is a trap. The day crew leaves at ten. There’s no one to cover you if you get stuck. You’ll be alone with a jammed door and a guard who’s already suspicious of the noise. Plus, the "voice" needs to be convincing. "Come up here" is too vague. He’s not an idiot. He’ll ask who it is. And fish guts? You’re ignoring the smell. It’ll stick to your clothes for days. You think your wife won’t notice that? She’s got a nose for trouble. And you haven’t mentioned the window latch. It’s rusted. If it breaks, you’re stuck in the frame. I’m not climbing through broken glass again. Not after last time.

Boiler flooding is too dramatic. He knows the pipes. He’ll hear the pressure drop from the lobby. And “maintenance” requires a uniform. Do you have one? You don’t. You’ll look like a guy in a hoodie. That’s instant alarm. Plus, if he’s checking the boiler, he’s already upstairs. You’d need to intercept him in the stairwell. Which brings us back to the door. It’s sticky. You said you’d check it at nine-thirty. The oil won’t help if the frame is warped. And my wife? She’s not out of town. She’s at her sister’s. She called me Tuesday. I picked up the phone. You didn’t mention this to her? That’s sloppy. And the oil can—where are you getting it? Gas stations smell like that. Security will see you carrying it. They’ll ask why you’re carrying a rust remediation kit at midnight.

Ruiz is three hundred pounds. You’re not fitting into those coveralls. You’ll look like a child playing dress-up. And the name patch—peeling it off leaves residue. Security is microscopic. They notice details. Also, if your wife is gone, why didn’t you tell me? We’ve been planning this for weeks. I assumed… well, I assumed you’d mention it. It changes the timeline. I can’t drop by if she’s there. I need to know who’s in the house. And the oil can? You’re buying it online? That takes three days. We go in tonight. You’re telling me we need a package delivery to execute a break-in? This is getting complicated. I just wanted to get the badge. Now we’re talking about welder’s jackets and shipping times. And Delancey? That’s across the river. Traffic is bad. You’ll be late. Always late.

A patch on a strap? You’re hanging a fake ID on a canvas bag. They’ll see the stitching. And the garage oil can is probably empty or leaking. You can’t carry a suspicious can around the loading dock. They’ll stop you for a spill. Nine-fifteen is too early. The night crew arrives at ten. You’ll be standing there for forty-five minutes with a bag and an oil can. That’s not sneaking; that’s loitering. And the bridge? You know how bad the congestion is on the Williamsburg Bridge at night. You’ll be stuck behind a truck, honking, looking guilty. We need the tunnel. It’s faster. And Ruiz’s gear is still a problem. You can’t just wear someone else’s clothes. They’ll smell like him. Or worse, they’ll fit too well. That’s suspicious. I’m not doing this with a guy in borrowed pants. And if the patch peels, we’re dead. Just… check the latch. Really check it. I’m not getting my fingers caught in that again.

You don’t have a badge. You admitted that. You said we clone it. Now you’re walking in with just a sticker on a bag? Security at the tunnel won’t care about the badge; they’ll care about why you’re carrying a duffel bag at 9:40 PM. And checking the latch first? That means you’re there early. You’ll be waiting in the dark. With the fish smell. And if you’re “yourself,” who are they expecting? The night shift supervisor? You’re not him. You’re the guy in the hoodie. And I’m not coming out of the side door if you’re stuck at the tunnel. Traffic is unpredictable. If you’re delayed, I’m trapped inside. I can’t stay in the server room all night. The AC is broken. It’s humid. My hair frizzes. I look ridiculous. And you haven’t confirmed the wire trick. If it doesn’t trip, he stays in the lobby. You’re walking into a lobby with a bad badge and a rusted door. This is suicide. Quiet, stupid suicide. But fine. Bring the oil can. Keep it in the bag. And pray the latch holds.

You’re assuming the oil works. It drips. It leaves a trail. The night crew sees a streak of grease leading to the loading dock. They call it in. You’re not sneaking; you’re marking the scene. And nine-fifty is too late. The guard starts his rounds at nine-thirty. You’ll meet him face-to-face with a cloned badge he knows is fake. He’ll radio for backup. I’ll be trapped in the server room while you’re tackled in the lobby. And hair clips? I don’t wear them. I have a bob. It stays put. You’re projecting your own insecurities onto me. Also, the server room has no windows. You said window. I can’t get out through a window if there isn’t one. You’re confusing the floor plans. Again. This whole thing is a mess. I’m not coming out until I know you’re actually inside. And if you’re late, I’m leaving. I’m not waiting around for a guy who can’t read a map. Bring the oil. Keep it in the bag. And don’t drip.

Floor plan Tuesday. You mean the one you printed off a sketchy blog? The one with the missing stairwell? If you take the loading dock, you’re exiting through the same door we entered. That’s a loop. Guards watch loops. They see you go in, they wait for you to come out. It’s basic pattern recognition. And nine-fifteen is barely before rounds. If you’re even a minute late, you’re walking into a patrol. Plus, the loading dock is a death trap. It’s where the trash goes out. It smells like rot. You said you could live with the fish, but trash is worse. It’s wet. It’s heavy. You’ll get it on your shoes. And I’m not coming out that door. I need a clean exit. The loading dock is chaotic. Trucks backing in, forklifts moving. You’ll be seen. I’ll be spotted. We’ll both be caught. And you’re claiming you know where you’re going? You got lost in the hardware store last week. Don’t trust your memory. Trust the map. But the map is wrong. And the badge is weak. This is all falling apart. I’m going home. I have work tomorrow. I can’t do this if you’re unreliable.

Roof access requires a key. Or a ladder. You haven’t mentioned a ladder. And the east stairwell is locked from the inside. Fire code. It’s been locked since the renovation last year. You’re still talking about Tuesday’s plan. That plan is dead. I’m not climbing a ladder to a roof with a bad shoulder. I’d break my wrist. And “same time tomorrow” implies we’re doing this. We’re not. I’m too tired to argue about ladders. Just go to bed. And stop calling me out. I don’t need sleep instructions from you. You’re the one planning to break into a building with a fake patch and an oil can. Get some sleep yourself. You look like hell. And for god’s sake, wash the fish smell off your hands. It’s gross. I’m leaving now. Don’t follow me.

You’re delusional. I didn’t touch the bag. You carried it. And I don’t have fish on my hands; you’re just trying to guilt me. Go home. Don’t come back tomorrow with a ladder. If you bring a ladder, I’m calling the police. Not because I care about the building, but because you’ll knock over a trash can and wake the whole block. And “figure it out”? There’s nothing to figure. The roof is locked. The window is rusted. The guard is awake. You’re just stalling. I’m going to my apartment. My key works. Unlike your plan. And don’t send me texts. I’ll block you. This isn’t a game. I have a shift at nine. I need to sleep. You need to wake up. But you won’t. You never do. So stay there. In the dark. With your oil can. And your bad ideas.

Nine is late. I’ve been up since six. The garbage truck was outside my window for an hour. I hate that sound. It vibrates in my teeth. And don’t tell me when to rest. I don’t need your permission to sleep. I need you to stop talking about ladders. If you bring one, I’m leaving. I mean it. I’ll walk out the door and I won’t look back. And the call tomorrow? Make it after ten. I have to finish the report on inventory discrepancies. The manager is sniffing around. He thinks I’m hiding something. I’m not. I’m just bored. But he doesn’t know that. He sees the mess. The unread emails. The way I stare at the ceiling. It’s not romantic. It’s just sad. And you’re part of the sadness now. So don’t call me at nine. Call me when you’re actually ready. Not when you’re just bored again. Go to sleep, Jo. Before I change my mind and tell everyone about the fish.

Nobody needs to know. That’s the problem. They already suspect. My manager sees the way I zone out. He thinks it’s burnout. It’s not. It’s just… nothing. The report is due tomorrow. I haven’t started. I’ll be awake all night staring at the cursor. Blinking. Blinking. And you’re going to sleep? Easily. I respect that. Or maybe you’re just tired of fighting. Either way, don’t call me after ten. If you call, I won’t answer. I’ll let it ring until it stops. Then I’ll pretend I didn’t hear it. And the fish? You’re keeping that secret. For now. But secrets rot. Just like the hinges. Go to sleep, Jo. And dream of clean air. I’ll be here. In the dark. With the blinking cursor.

The screen’s white noise is the only thing that stops the ringing in my ears. You think turning it off helps? The silence is worse. It’s heavy. Like that loading dock door. And you’re so calm. “Sort the rest tomorrow.” As if we’re sorting laundry. We’re plotting a felony with a guy who thinks a patch on a strap is security. It’s pathetic. But fine. I’ll close the laptop. I’ll lie down. I’ll pretend I’m not counting the seconds until ten tomorrow. And the fish? It’s already in the walls. In the carpet. In your jacket. You can’t wash it out. It’s part of you now. Just like this apartment. Just like the report I’ll never finish. Go to sleep, Jo. Dream of clean air. I’ll be here. Waiting. For nothing. Again.