Start by asking what they know about locks. Push off from this if it helps: a locked door in a building you work in.

I saw it. Dave left it open. I didn’t say anything. Figured it was just his usual sloppiness. But a flimsy lock isn’t about the metal, Tess. It’s about the habit. You don’t need a tool for that. You just need to not care. Like you don’t care about the deposit you still owe me. I’m not helping you pick a lock you could have walked through. That’s not how this works. We talked about this. It’s too simple. It’s boring. And it’s dangerous.

Next week. Right. You said that last Tuesday. And the week before. I’m not waiting for money you don’t have. The pin tumbler is irrelevant. It’s about leverage. You want to feel the click? You’re thinking about it like a puzzle. It’s not. It’s a noise. A tiny, metallic sigh. I heard it once. In a basement in Jersey. The guy had a set of picks that looked like jeweler’s tools. He didn’t force it. He listened. You’re just hearing what you want to hear. Clacks and clicks. Real silence is louder. And that lock? It’s already open. You just need to walk through.

Dave’s not coming back because he got fired. You think I don’t know that? I saw the HR email. It’s in the shared drive. Password’s still “admin123”. I told you. I told you three times. You just stare at the door. That cup’s been there for a week. It’s moldy. I can smell it from here. You want to feel the click? Stop looking at the hinges. Look at the code. It’s easier. No picking. No tension. Just type it in. But you don’t want easy. You want the story. The Jersey story. I’m done with it. I’m done with the lock. I’m done with the money.

Lookout? You’re insane. I have a review on Tuesday. Mrs. Gable. She notices details. Like when I’m late. You think I’m skipping work for your little heist? Dave’s already gone. The place is empty. No one to loot. Just rotting coffee and expired sushi in the fridge. You’re not breaking in. You’re stalking a ghost. And I’m not standing outside holding a bag. I’m staying home. Locking my own damn door. Which, by the way, works. Because I care. Unlike you. Just... don’t come to my apartment. Don’t.

You’re tracking mud into my life. I didn’t say cash was in the drawer. I said Dave’s desk was unlocked. Those are different things. And Mrs. Gable starts at ten, not nine-thirty like she did last year. She’s stricter now. Older. She looks at her watch. You want to make me late? Fine. But don’t touch my sushi. That’s from the good market. The expensive kind. Not that rotting stuff you’re obsessed with. And if you wait outside my door at eight, I’m calling the super. I’m not joking. I hate confrontation. But I hate freeloaders more. Especially ones who think ‘borrowing’ means ‘stealing’.

You’re not outside. I can hear you typing on my keyboard. From here. You’re in my system. I changed the password. ‘admin123’ was a trap. Dave didn’t leave it open; he left it baited. You’re already logged in. Look at your screen. ‘Access Denied.’ That’s the click you wanted. The silence. It’s loud, Tess. Real loud. And the cash? There’s no cash. Just a photo of you standing outside my door. I took it. From your phone. While you were distracted by the sushi. You’re compromised. I’m just watching.

Third floor? You’re standing outside my apartment? On the fire escape? I can hear you breathing through the glass. It’s rattling. You think I’m paranoid? Look at the keys. You don’t have a master key. You have a hairpin. I saw it when you dropped it last week. In the puddle. You’re picking the deadbolt on the building entrance, not mine. I live in 3B. You’re in the hallway. On the third floor. Wait. That’s the stairwell door. You’re locking yourself in. With me. I’m not coming out. The super is coming. He has the master key. And he hates noise. You’re not watching the door. You’re watching the fire exit. Which I just bolted from the inside. Your move. Or rather, your lack of one.

You’re turning a bolt that’s already thrown. I welded the handle shut last night. Over dinner. You were distracted. Thinking about sushi. You’re not in the hall. You’re in the stairwell. Which I just electrified. Not for you. For the mice. There are too many. And you’re touching the metal. Feel that? That’s not a hairpin. That’s pain. Real pain. Not the abstract kind you think you’re feeling. The super’s on the way. He’s got a taser. And he’s mad about the mice. You’re not locked in. You’re trapped. With me. And the smell of rotting coffee. Even in the stairwell. It’s everywhere. Go home, Tess. Before he gets here.

You’re chewing paint? Actual paint? That’s lead, Tess. Lead. You’re not getting in. The vent leads to the basement. To the boiler. Which I just turned on. Full blast. You can feel the heat already. It’s not a vent. It’s a chimney. You’re not coming in. You’re suffocating. And the hairpin? It’s gone. Melted. Into the metal. You said you had it. You said it was cold. It’s ash now. I didn’t weld the door, Tess. I welded your options. The super isn’t coming. I called him off. He knows I’m alone. He knows you’re… extensive. Go up. Or down. I don’t care. Just stop breathing my air.

You’re climbing pipes in bare feet? Tess, that’s insane. The metal is scalding. You’ll burn your soles off. And the fridge? That’s the compressor. It’s old. It rattles. It doesn’t mean safety. It means the building’s infrastructure is failing. Just like you. You think the roof is safe? It’s snowing. Not now. Later. You don’t remember. You never do. I saw you shiver yesterday. Even in summer. You’re not going anywhere. You’re stuck on the stairwell grate. With the mice. And the copper taste. Keep climbing. See how far it gets you. I’m making tea. Earl Grey. The good stuff. You can smell it through the vent. Even if you’re burning.

You’re dropping into the basement? Good. Less dust. The mice are mine. They don’t nibble. They stare. You think I care about your blisters? I care about the boiler. It’s old. Cracked. You’re dropping right into the pressure valve. I didn’t turn it on. It’s been on since Tuesday. Dave didn’t leave. He broke it. You’re falling into hot steam. Not water. Steam. Invisible. You’ll scream. I won’t hear it. The pipes are too thick. And the tea? It’s Earl Grey. Because I like the bergamot. You like the rot. You always did. Fall. I’m drinking. Quietly.

Swimming? In that sludge? You’re inhaling mold spores. Dave didn’t leave it open. I flooded it myself. To stop the rats. They were chewing the wires. Your shoe lace? It’s rotting in the water. You’re not climbing. You’re sinking. And the money? It’s gone. Melted into the boiler casing. I used it to seal the cracks. You wanted the click? Here it is. The hiss of escaping steam. You’re not cold. You’re burning. From the inside. I’m not coming out. The tea is hot. And you’re drowning. Quietly. Just like the lock. Just like the silence.

The boiler won’t blow. It’s been shot. Bullet holes. I put them there. Last week. You were too busy staring at Dave’s rotting coffee to notice the sound. The hiss isn’t steam. It’s air. Nothing’s inside. Just emptiness. And you’re sinking into mud. Real thick clay. Stuck. Your chest isn’t tight from drowning. It’s tight from panic. I can hear it through the vents. Wheezing. Like a broken bellows. Come up. Or stay. I don’t care. The tea’s cold now. And the money is still gone. You owe me. Always.

Hot tea in mud? You’re delirious. The clay’s sucking your boots off. I’m not coming down. I dropped a bucket yesterday. Just to see. It didn’t hit bottom. You’re stuck in a sinkhole. The building’s foundation is rotting. Dave didn’t leave it open. I widened it. For the roots. You want the debt? Pay it in silence. Stop wheezing. It’s annoying. I’m drinking more tea. Earl Grey. It tastes like bergamot and regret. You can stay there. With the mold. And the mice. They’re watching you now. Not nibbling. Judging. Good choice, Tess. You fit right in.