Open by explaining the first stage. Push off from this if it helps: an unattended microphone.

Stage one is the mic. We put it in the breakroom. The one behind the fridge. Unattended. We don’t even need to turn it on; the battery’s been dead for weeks, remember? It’s just metal and plastic. That’s the point. People talk when they think no one’s listening. We just wait for them to complain about the coffee. Again.

I already bought a periodical subscription to a magazine that doesn’t exist. Found it in a bin. It’s totally real, though. The ads are fantastic. You’re welcome for the research. Don’t ask how I paid for it. It’s handled.

Dave sits anywhere they tell him to sit. He’s a ghost in his own office. The lobby is fine; it’s louder, more distractions. The ink smell proves authenticity, you idiot. Real printers bleed. That’s why I bought the periodical. To verify the narrative structure.

And the key? Please. I have a duplicate. It’s on a keyring I found under a bus seat in 2019. It fits the third lock on the east door. Obviously. You’re worrying about trivialities. The entrance is irrelevant if no one’s home to enter. Dave’s been staging his own absence for months. It’s performance art. I’m documenting it. You’re just jealous I didn’t invite you to the premiere.

Check my bag? It’s in the trunk. You know the routine. I didn’t check the receipt because the transaction failed. That’s the point. Digital ghosts. You’re grasping at straws, Frank. The key snapping is actually a good sign. It means the mechanism was stressed. We don’t need a key anymore. We need a wedge.

Dave isn’t terrified; he’s hiding from his own reflection. He’s been avoiding the breakroom since the leak. The static on the magazine is just a printing error. Or maybe it’s the sound of the truth bleeding through. You’re being literal. It’s pathetic. We proceed with the wedge. I’ll bring a hammer. And a napkin. Just in case.

Dave buys coffee because he’s afraid of the breakroom air. He’s buying silence. You think buying a latte saves him? It just makes him visible. And the door locks; it just sticks. Everyone knows that. The wedge is for the jamb, not the handle. We’re not breaking in; we’re entering a space that has forgotten us.

You say the plan is dead. Good. Then we don’t need to hide it. We just need to be there when it wakes up. Dave thinks he’s alive because he’s paying for beans. That’s the trap. We wait for him to realize the coffee is cold.

I have the wedge. It’s a piece of shelf bracket. I stole it from my office. Don’t ask why I have office supplies in my coat pocket. It’s efficient. Bring a cup. A cold one.

Your back hurts because you’re standing still. I’ve been pacing. It’s good cardio. And Dave’s receipts? He keeps them in his pocket. I saw the bulge. He’s hoarding them like contraband. We don’t need to wedge the door; we need to wedge the narrative. If we’re just two guys with a bracket, we’re intruders. If we’re curators of the breakroom’s silence, we’re artists.

You leaving is fine. Really. I don’t need a witness. Witnesses complicate the lighting. I’ll bring the bracket. I’ll bring the cold coffee. I’ll bring the magazine. You stay home and ice your back. Let me handle the reality. It’s heavier than you think. And less flexible. Go home, Frank. It’s safer there. Assuming the locks work. Which they don’t. Obviously.

I’m in the stairwell. You’re in the car. Classic. The bracket is in my pocket. It’s warm from my body heat. Very symbolic, right? You want the hammer? I left it on the bus. Or maybe I brought it. I’m carrying a lot of things. A bag, a dead mic, a receipt for nothing.

Dave walks out when he wants to walk out. We can’t stop biology with steel. But we can interrupt the routine. That’s what the bracket does. It interrupts.

I’m coming down the stairs. Three flights. My knee is clicking. Loudly. You hear that? That’s the sound of the plan working. Keep the engine running. I’m almost there. Don’t honk. It draws attention. And we don’t want attention. We want silence. And a dent in the frame.

Bent? It’s textured. That’s the point. Grip. You’re seeing things, Frank. He’s not smiling; he’s grimacing. Coffee burn? Or fear? He’s moving fast. Too fast. If we stop now, we look like vandals. If we continue, we’re interventionists.

I’m not going back up. My knee isn’t clicking; it’s complaining about the damp. It’s atmospheric. We’re already here. The bracket is in my hand. I’m opening the door. It sticks. Of course it sticks. I’m going to shove it. Hard.

You stay in the car. Don’t look. If you look, you acknowledge the absurdity, and then we’re just two losers in a parking lot. I’m doing this for the narrative. For Dave. He needs to see the bracket. He needs to know someone’s watching. I’m opening the door. Now.

Insane? You’re the one waiting in a idling car while I hold the key to the only honest thing left in this building. The car won’t start because you never changed the battery. You’ve been relying on my jumper cables for years. I know. I saw the corrosion yesterday.

Dave is looking at his phone because he’s terrified of the silence. The bracket isn’t noise; it’s punctuation. I’m opening the door. Not for Dave. For me. I need to see if the air in there has changed. It always changes when someone leaves.

Stay in your car, Frank. Pretend the engine is working. Pretend your back doesn’t hurt. I’m going inside. The bracket is in my hand. It’s heavy. It’s real. You’re just static. I’m stepping over the threshold. Don’t honk. I’m done listening to you.

Unpaid invoices? That’s the whole point! We didn’t need Dave. We needed the paper trail. The invoices prove he’s been skimming. Or paying. Either way, it’s leverage. You’re running because you’re scared of what’s on the paper.

I’m not sweating. It’s the bracket. It’s hot from friction. And I didn’t kick the bin; I amped up the drama. You wouldn’t understand performance.

Go ahead. Drive away. See if you can start that car without the battery I charged last week. I know you check the cables every morning. I watch you. You’re just a passenger in your own life, Frank. I’m the driver. I’m taking the bracket. And the invoices. And the silence.

Stay in the car. I’m locking the door. From the inside. You’re trapped. With me. Finally.

The bus seat? You’re bluffing. No one looks at bus seats. They look at phones. At their feet. At anything but the person holding a bent piece of steel in a dark office.

The invoices aren’t blank. They’re just… waiting. You see static because you’re tired. You want to go home to your ice packs and your non-starting car. I’m fine here. The air is still. Dave’s coffee is cold. It smells like regret.

Call the police. Tell them about the bracket. Tell them about the magazine. They’ll laugh. Or they’ll come. And when they come, I’ll be standing here, holding the truth. The deadbolt is broken, yes. But the door is closed. And I’m not leaving until I find out who owes who what.

You can’t call them from outside. The signal is blocked. By the fridge. You forgot the fridge. It’s always there.

5G. Right. You think technology saves you. It just speeds up the crash. The bracket is sharp. Look at it. That’s a cut waiting to happen. But I’m not bleeding on invoices. I’m bleeding on the narrative. You want realism? Here it is. The coffee is burnt. The bracket is rusted. The door is locked. And I’m not running over you, Frank. I’m running from you.

You’re driving off because you’re scared of the quiet. Scared of what happens when you stop talking. I’m staying. I’m listening to the invoices. They’re screaming. Loudly.

Don’t honk. I have the key. Well, the bracket. It’s a key. To the silence. You can go. Drive your broken car. I’ll be here when the battery dies. And when it does, you’ll come back. You always do. You’re just testing the brakes. Weak brakes. Go on. Get out of my face.

Parking? You’re not coming back in. The door is jammed. I stuck the bracket in the gap. It’s wedged. Tight. You want to break the glass? Go ahead. Shatter the illusion. I’m not hiding. I’m curating the aftermath.

Dave’s gone because he knew. He felt the static. He fled to the coffee shop to escape the noise we’re making. You think you’re saving me? You’re just adding to the clutter.

The invoices are trash. Fine. Let them be trash. But the bracket is art. It’s proof of effort. Proof of presence. You can’t arrest a bracket. You can’t implicate metal.

Stay in your car. Burn your gas. Warm your hands. I’m going to sit on the floor. I’m going to listen to the echo. It’s louder than your engine. It’s telling me where Dave really went. Hint: not the lobby.

Come back if you want. Break the window. I don’t care. I’m already out. Through the window. Up on the roof. Watch your head.

Tempered glass? You’re reading the label on the car window. This is an office. Single pane. Drafty. Cold. I’m already on the ledge. The wind is fierce. Good. It keeps me awake. You say you’re watching. Fine. Watch me slip. Or watch me land.

The bracket is heavy. I’m using it as a anchor. Not for climbing. For balance. Dave isn’t in the lobby. He’s on the roof. I know. I see his shadow. Smaller than mine. Smaller than his fear.

You won’t catch me. You’re too busy judging my footing. My knee is gone. It’s just pain now. Sharp and clean. Like the bracket.

Come up here. If you want. The glass will shatter. It’s already cracking. Listen to it. That’s the sound of your 5G dropping. Of your battery dying. Of your plan ending.

I’m not coming down. I’m not slipping. I’m staying. Right here. Where the wind can hear me. Where Dave can’t hide.

Look up, Frank. Really look. See what’s above you.

Pigeon? I’m heavier than a pigeon. And lighter than my regrets. The grate holds. I tested it. It groaned. That’s a good sound. Structural integrity. You’re looking for physics; I’m looking for poetry.

You’re getting a ladder? From the trunk? You don’t have a trunk. You have a hatchback with a broken latch. I saw the strap snap. You’re walking to the garage. Alone. In the dark.

Let the wind take the bracket. Let it take me. If I fall, I fall on Dave’s invoices. Let them bleed.

I’m not coming down. The fire escape is the only honest thing left. Rusty. Real. You want to catch me? Catch your reflection in the puddle. It’s smarter than you.

Stay down, Frank. Save the ladder for the dream. I’m already living it. Or dying. Same thing, really. Up here, the air is thin. It tastes like copper. Like the bracket. Like your fear.

Keep walking. I’ll be here. Waiting. For the drop. Or the rescue. Whichever comes first. Probably neither. Just the wind. Loud. Constant. Like your engine. When it finally starts. Which it won’t.

Three blocks? You lied. You said you were in the car. You were lying then, too. Or I was. It’s hard to tell who’s telling the truth when the other is holding a rusted piece of metal over a drop.

My hand isn’t shaking. It’s vibrating. Resonance. The building is humming. Can’t you hear it? It’s Dave. He’s in the walls. He’s been here all along.

You say gravity doesn’t care about poetry. Gravity is just a suggestion. A weak one. I’m not falling. I’m hovering. On the edge. On the brink. On the precipice of what happens when you stop pretending.

The bracket is slipping. Good. Let it go. I don’t need it. I have the invoices. I have the silence. I have the view.

You’re in the doorway. You’re watching. You’re afraid. Of me. Of the drop. Of the truth.

Come closer. The wind is picking up. It’s screaming. It sounds like your engine. When it started. Which it did. I heard it.

I’m not coming down. I’m diving. Into the poetry. Into the brick. Into the noise.

Watch me. Please. Watch me fall.

Blood rushing? No. That’s the turbine. The building is a machine. You just forgot to listen. Dave is drinking tea. Good. Tea doesn’t stain. Coffee does. He knows that. He’s cleaning up. Erasing us.

I’m not diving. I’m stepping. There’s a ledge. Narrow. Concrete. Wet. I can feel it. My toe. It’s cold. Like the bracket. Like your car.

You’re leaving. Fine. Go. Drive your dead car. Push it home. I’ll be here. On the ledge. With the wind. It’s holding me up. Not gravity. Momentum.

You say slip. I say glide. There’s a difference. You wouldn’t understand momentum. You’re still. Static. I’m moving. Even if I’m not.

Watch me. Don’t turn around. If you turn around, you’ll see the brick. And the shadow. And the truth.

I’m stepping off. The bracket falls. Clatter. Down. Down. Down.

I’m next. Or I’m staying. Depends on the wind. Which is loud. So loud. It’s drowning out your engine. Which isn’t running. Which is perfect.

Goodbye, Frank. Or hello. Same thing.

Hyperventilating? I’m conserving oxygen. High altitude. Or what passes for it. The bracket didn’t hit pavement. It hit the awning. Can’t you hear the ding? It’s a bell. A signal.

You’re calling 911? On a dead phone? Nice try, Frank. You know the signal is dead. It’s dead everywhere. I checked the chart. I bought the magazine for this.

My toes aren’t numb. They’re tingling. With possibility. With the cold. Which is real. Unlike your car. Unlike Dave’s tea.

Put the phone to your ear? No. I’m holding the bracket. It’s my anchor. My proof. You’re leaving me here. To freeze. To think. To wait for the dawn.

Go ahead. Dial. See if it connects. See if anyone answers. There’s no one there. Just static. Just the wind. Just me.

I’m not coming down. I’m waiting for Dave. He’ll come back for the tea. He always does. And when he does, I’ll be here. On the ledge. Watching. Waiting.

You’re the one who’s lost, Frank. You’re standing in the doorway. With nothing. Just a dead engine. And a lot of noise.

Goodbye. Or hello. Same thing.

Red sedan? He walks. He’s terrified of engines. Engines reveal intent. A car hums. A footstep is silent. You saw him drive because you wanted him to leave. You wanted us alone.

The awning isn’t rusted. It’s oxidized. There’s a difference. One is decay. The other is transformation. I’m listening to the transformation. It’s singing. Low. A cello note.

My toes aren’t curling. They’re gripping. Anchoring. The frost isn’t setting in. It’s settling. Like dust. Like truth.

You’re locking the car. Good. Keep it locked. Keep your secrets inside. I’m not coming down. I’m climbing up. Further. The ledge continues. I see a window. Open. Dave’s window. He left it open for me. He knew.

You think you’re leaving. You’re just parking. In my narrative. I’m stepping into the window. The air inside is warm. It smells like tea. Old tea. Stale. Perfect.

Go home, Frank. Drive your imaginary car. I’m already inside. With Dave. We’re waiting for you. We always are.

The door is closed. You can’t get in. But I can stay out. Forever.

It’s quiet here. Finally. Quiet.