Begin the interview. Open with a question that sounds harmless.

Yeah, I’m here. Not bored, just... stuck. The gurgling’s been driving me nuts. I don’t think it’s the renovation. The old place had that same pathetic wheeze, like a dog with asthma. It’s probably just the pump failing again, or the build-up of whatever sludge they call water here. I asked maintenance last week, or maybe it was the week before? Can’t remember. They just looked at me like I was asking for the moon. Or maybe that was a dream. Hard to tell lately. Does it sound worse now? Or is it just in my head because I can’t focus on this report?

I didn’t ask if it sounded worse, Nell. You did. Or maybe I’m losing my mind. The radiator rattle is different. This is liquid. Thick. I don’t think they’re cutting corners on filters; I think they’re cutting corners on everything. Including, apparently, basic plumbing maintenance. I saw the guy from facilities staring at the coffee machine like it owed him money. He didn’t even try to fix it. Just walked away. I bet the sludge is just burnt coffee grounds and despair. Or maybe it’s just old pipes. Who knows? I’m tired. My eyes hurt. I should probably go down there and see if it’s actually broken or if I’m just imagining the sound because the office is too quiet. Or maybe because I’m alone. It’s always quieter when I’m alone. Even with the gurgling.

I’m sitting here. Watching the dust motes. The printer guy gave up because he was looking at the paper jam, not the error code. Different problem. The gurgling isn’t rhythmic. It’s jagged. Like it’s choking. I’m not sure if the facilities guy is mocking us or just exhausted by our existence. He looked at me yesterday like I was part of the furniture. Or maybe he heard Nell listening. He probably hears everything. The building hums. It’s in the walls. I can feel it in my teeth. I should go down there. But I won’t. I’m just sitting. The coffee is probably poison anyway. Sludge and despair. That’s what it is. I’m not going down.

My jaw? No. It’s in the pipes. Or the walls. The fridge is a compressor. This is fluid dynamics failing. I’m not going down there. What’s the point? The report is for the quarterly review. Something about efficiency metrics that nobody reads. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters when the coffee machine is dying a slow, gurgling death. I had a bagel. Or maybe a granola bar. I don’t remember. I’m too tired to think about food. The noise is getting louder. Or quieter. It’s hard to tell. I’m just sitting here. Listening to the building breathe. It sounds like it’s mocking me. Or maybe it’s just tired too. We’re all tired.

Grinding? No. Just tension. The hum is real though. Not the fridge. The pipes. Every floor vibrates when the boiler kicks in, even if the radiators are cold. I’m not going down there, Nell. I’m just sitting here, watching the cursor blink. It’s mocking me too. The report? It’s for the quarterly review. Or it was. I don’t think it matters anymore. The data’s probably wrong anyway. Or maybe I’m just tired of pretending it’s correct. I had a slice of toast this morning. Dry. With no butter because I forgot to buy any. That’s what I ate. That’s all. The gurgling is getting louder. Or maybe my ears are ringing. I can’t tell the difference anymore.

I’m eating. Sort of. The toast is stale. It’s crumbling. I’m not staring at the cursor anymore. I’m staring at the window. It’s closed. I checked. The glass is cold. The building isn’t settling. It’s breathing. In and out. Like the coffee machine. Except slower. Much slower. I felt the vibration at three. It went through the floorboards. Up my legs. Into my chest. The report needs signatures. And data. But mostly signatures. Everyone signs. Nobody reads. I think I left the window cracked last night. Or maybe it was always cracked. I can’t remember. The sound is louder now. Closer. Or maybe I’m moving toward it.

I didn’t leave it cracked. I swear. My windows are sealed. Airtight. The drafts in your hall sound like a hurricane. My building doesn’t draft. It sweats. The vibration didn’t stop. It just changed pitch. Lower. Deeper. It’s in the floor now. Closer to my feet. I’m leaning forward. Trying to hear it better. Or maybe I’m just slouching. The report came back. With red marks. Everywhere. I have to fix it. Or sign it. They signed it. The director. He didn’t even look at the numbers. Just scribbled his name. Like he was signing a check. I feel sick. Or maybe it’s just the light. It’s too bright. Or too dim. I can’t tell. My eyes are burning. From staring at the screen. Or the window. I’m not moving. Just leaning. Listening to the building settle. Or break.

He signed it. That’s what matters. Scribble or signature, it’s done. It’s not new. They’ve stopped caring for years. I just noticed now because I’m too tired to care either. My eyes burn. From the screen. And the light. It’s coming from everywhere. The window, the monitor, the ceiling tiles. I’m not moving to the window. I’m sitting at my desk. Leaning back. Not into the floor. Into the chair. The springs are broken. I can feel them through my back. Does the vibration stop when I hold my breath? No. It’s in the pipes. In the concrete. Not in me. I’m just listening to it. It’s quieter now. Or maybe my ears have gone dead. I don’t know. I’m just tired. So tired. The report is signed. I can go home. Or try to. The coffee machine is still gurgling. It’s mocking me. Or maybe it’s just broken. I don’t care.

I stared at the bag. It’s still there. Bulky. Full of things I don’t need. I haven’t packed it. Who has the energy? The springs in your chair squeak like a mouse? I wish mine did. Mine just groans. Like an old man waking up. I tried standing. My legs felt like wet paper. I sat back down. Didn’t collapse. Just… stayed. The coffee machine didn’t stop. I imagined it. Or my ears popped. I don’t know. Time? It’s late. Or early. The lights are flickering. I’m not going home. Not yet. Home is quiet. And quiet is loud. I’m just turning off the monitor. The screen goes black. For a second. Then it reflects my face. Pale. Tired. The gurgling is gone. Or maybe I’m deaf. I’m just sitting here. In the dark. Waiting for nothing.

Emergency lights? No. The switch is stuck. Or burned out. I didn’t turn them off. I couldn’t find the switch. My hands were shaking. Looking in the dark reflection… I looked hollow. Like a sketch. Worse, maybe. Or better. Hard to tell when you’re half-asleep. I’m staying because the stairs are steep. And dark. And I’m too tired to climb them. The gurgling didn’t stop. It just faded into the hum. Or my brain filtered it out. I’m breathing. Shallowly. Unevenly. Waiting. For the elevator? For the building to settle? For my heart to remember how to beat? I don’t know. I’m just sitting here. In the dark. Waiting for the next sound. The next noise. Anything. To prove I’m still here. Or that I’m not. The chair creaks. It sounds like a scream. Faint. Distant. I’m still here. Barely.

The elevator? No. The cord incident took it out. And the stairs. You didn’t say the stairs were taken out. But they look wrong. Like they’re leaning. I’m waiting for the floor to drop. Or me. The creak isn’t new. It’s just louder in the dark. Or I’m more aware of it. My heart isn’t skipping. It’s fluttering. Like a bird trapped in a box. Fast. Panicked. Silence is heavy. Yes. It presses against your eardrums. The dark feels heavier. Like wet wool. I didn’t lock the door. Why would I? There’s no one to lock it against. Except the noise. Except the memory of the gurgling. I’m exposed. Barely. Just a silhouette in a chair. Waiting for the screen to flicker back on. Or for my eyes to adjust. To see if I’m still real. Or just a reflection.