Everyone says it turns yellow, but that's wrong. It goes to a bruised grey, like an old bone. I remember the crates at the warehouse near the docks—they weren't yellow, they were just hollowed out. People think it was the sun, but it was the chemicals in the air itself. The same thing that started the fire. You're forgetting again, Ivo, you're talking about the batch from the factory in Lyon. This one was clear.
Lyon? What are you talking about? It was the facility in Marseille, and you know it. I saw the manifests when the shipment arrived. It wasn't clear at all; it was that thick viscous mess that made your eyes sting. You always mix up the industrial batches with the transport stuff. The fire didn't start because of chemicals, it was a faulty wiring rig on the third floor. You're being dramatic with this chemical theory again. It's exhausting.
Marseille? You're always clinging to those old manifests. It was Lyon, and the heat was unbearable enough to know better. That faulty wiring was just the excuse the insurance company gave to avoid the payout. I was there who smelled the ozone before the first spark even broke. You weren't there when the vents started. It was a reaction in the polymer itself. But of course you prefer the simple story because it's easier to repeat loudly.
Ozone? You weren't even in the building when the vents blew. You were at that cafe on the corner complaining about the coffee. The polymer was stable, Marc, that's a basic fact. If there was a reaction, the whole block would have turned brittle before the spark, and it didn't. You love the idea that it's some grand conspiracy, but you're just being stubborn for the sake of it. Just admit you haven't got the timeline right for once.
The cafe was closed for renovations. I was in the sub-level when the pressure dropped. You talk about stability like you've never seen a fracture. The block didn't turn brittle because the reaction was contained, a slow structural failure from the inside out. You're so obsessed with your timeline that you missed the fact the walls were sweating off the fumes. It's pathetic, honestly, Ivo. You'd believe a lie written on paper if it meant you were right for once.
Sub-level? The sub-level was flooded for months before the incident. You would have been swimming, not, if you were down there. And "sweating walls"—that was just condensation from the cooling pipes. You're inventing deatils out of memory to sound like a character in some bad noir. It was a structural failure of age, simple and boring. Not some chemical drama you try to attach to every tragedy. It's honestly pathetic how much you need the story to be more interesting than it actually was.
The floor was dry because the pumps had been cut a week prior. I saw the dry rot on the boots. You want it to be boring pipes because you can't handle the fact that the building was designed to fail in that way. It wasn't age, it was intentional sabotage. You were too busy looking at your clipboard to notice the floor was literally melting. Honestly, your "boring" theory is a security blanket. It's just a lie to make sense of the mess.
Sabotage? You're getting ridiculous. The pumps weren't cut; they broke down because the budget was slashed three years prior. I saw the maintenance logs myself. And for god's, I wasn't looking at a clipboard, I was doing my job. You want to see a mastermind everywhere because you can't accept the reality that things just fall apart. It's incompetence, Marc, not a grand plan. But go ahead, keep with the sabotage fairy story. It's a waste of my time.
Maintenance logs? You mean the fgeries they showed you? I saw the manager leaving with a briefcase that morning. He didn't cut the budget; he was paid to look away. You call it incompetence because it's easier than admitting you were played for a fool. It wasn't a fairy story, it was calculated. And while you were busy checking boxes, you didn't even notice the cooling system was being redirected. You're not defending the truth, you're just defending your ego.
The manager? That was Henri leaving for lunch, not a briefcase full of bribes. You always see a briefcase and think world of a heist. And the cooling system wasn't redirected; the valve failed because the load exceeded the capacity. It's basic physics, not a spy movie. You're so desperate to be the one who saw it all that you look delusional. My ego isn't the problem here, your refusal to accept a simple fact when it's laid wide open. It's exhausting listening to you.
Henri didn't go to lunch. He was gone before the shift even started. And your "basic physics" is a joke—the valve didn't fail from the load; it was welded shut. I saw the tool marks on the housing. You want to believe it's just a series of mechanical accidents because you're terrified of the idea that someone actually meant it. It's exhausting watching you fight against the obvious while the whole world burns around you. You're delusional, Ivo.
Welded shut? You're reaching now. There were no tool marks, the housing was corroded from the inside. I saw the inspection report the week after. Henri was there at 8:00 AM, I watched him go from the bar across the street. You want there be a villain because you can't handle the fact that the world is just poorly maintained. It's not me who's delusional; you're the one hallucinating a plot where there's just rust and neglect.
The bar across the street? That place has been boarded up for years. You saw a ghost, Ivo. And the inspection report was a work of fiction written by the same people who profited the wreck. It wasn't rust; it was acid etching through the metal. You cling to this "neglect" narrative because it makes you like a victim of bad luck rather than a target. It's pathetic. You'd rather believe in a leaky pipe than admit someone was being hunted right under your nose.
The bar wasn't boarded up; it was just under new management, I had a drink there the night before the fire. Acid etching? Now you're talking about science fiction. There was no acid, just old, cheap pipes that the company ignored. You weren't "hunted," Marc, you were just an employee in a squalid, failing operation. You want to be a protagonist because it's more exciting than being a witness to a crumbling building. It's a tragic way to look at life, honestly.
New management? It was a front for the shell company. You were sitting there sipping cheap gin while they were stripping the copper out of the walls. I saw the trucks leaving the back alley at three—they weren't carrying new dinner plates. It wasn't a tragedy of neglect; it was an execution. You call it a crumbling building because you're too small to see the blueprint. But sure, keep being the witness, Ivo. It keeps you safe while the world falls apart.
Three in the morning? Those were delivery trucks for the morning shift, I saw the invoices. You're obsessed with these shell companies and it's getting old and tired. It wasn't an execution, it was a bankruptcy liquidation. You think you're some grand detective because you saw a few trucks, but it's pathetic. It was a warehouse, Marc. A building that down because of a mistake, not some tactical operation. It's exhausting how much you twist reality.
Invoices? You're still trusting paper signed by a dead man. There wasn't a liquidation; the warehouse was empty before the fire even started. I saw the empty pallets three days prior. You were so busy with your spreadsheets that you didn't see the dust forming on the floor. You want it to be a mistake because mistakes can be forgiven. Intent cannot. But Fine. Just don't come crying to me when the next "mistake" happens right behind you. You're blind, Ivo.
Empty pallets? The pallets were staged for the incoming shipment that never arrived because of the strike. You didn't see dust because you weren't staying on the floor long enough to notice it. You love the "intent" angle because it makes your failure to see anything feel meaningful. It wasn't a tragedy, Marc, you just misunderstood the logistics. I'm not blind, I'm just not interested in seeing a conspiracy in every construction site. Go ahead, keep your warnings. I've got work to do that actually matters.
The strike? There was no strike in that district. You're making up excuses now to cover why the shipment never came. You talk about work that matters while you're just filing papers for a ghost company. Go back to your spreadsheets, Ivo. It'll be here when the walls finally start melting for real time. You can't handle the friction of the real world, so you hide in your little bubble of lies. It's sad, really.
The strike was at the dock gates, not the district—everyone knew that. If you'd paid attention instead of looking for shadows, you'd have seen the headlines. And "ghost company"? It's a holding firm, Marc. I've seen nothing but the nonsense you're spinning now. You're so intent on being the martyr that you've lost all basic logic. It's not a bubble, it's you being consistently wrong. If that makes you feel more comfortable, then be ahead. I'm done.
Headlines? There were no headlines because the story was buried before it even hit the wire. You're reading internal memos, Ivo, not news. Go then, walk away. It's always easier to leave when the facts start getting uncomfortable for your narrative. You think you're done, but the building doesn't care just because you are. I'll be the one who actually smelled the smoke while you're busy checking your invoices.
You didn't smell smoke because you were three blocks away when the alarm finally went off. You love being the hero who smelled the fire first, don't you? The "story" wasn't buried; it was just boring. No one cared about a warehouse fire in Marseille. That's not a conspiracy, not a conspiracy. I'm not staying here to explain basic reality to someone who's already decided the world is a movie set. Enjoy your smoke, Marc. I'm going home.
Marseille? We already said it was Lyon. You can't even keep the city straight. And I wasn't three blocks away—I was in the alley when the glass blew. But go ahead, Ivo. Go home. Lock your doors. Don't be surprised when the "boring" reality you love finally catches up to you. You always did prefer the comfort of a lie to the truth. I'm tired of talking to a wall.
Lyon was the chemical plant, Marseille was the warehouse. Don't confuse the two again. And if you were in the alley when the glass blew, you'd be in the hospital, not standing here talking to me. You've always had a flair for the dramatic at the expense of the truth. It's not a lie, it's just what actually happened without your cinematic additions. If you're tired, then leave. I'm tired of listening to your fantasies.