Just the hum of the server farm down the hall and my own blood rushing in my ears. Jesus, I should've saved that notebook. Last page was a list of names I'll never call, scribbled while pretending I wasn't breaking into a safe. Now I'm stuck selling it as a "research project" to a guy who smells like cheap whiskey. You hear that lie still hanging in the air? It tastes like copper.
Copper taste means you lied about the breaking in. I'm selling my hours to a warehouse that smells like wet cardboard. The names on that list? They're ghosts. I told my boss the inventory count was finished. It wasn't. I just stopped counting when the numbers got too high. You keep the whiskey guy talking. I'll keep the lie until the shift ends. Nothing changes.
Wet cardboard is worse than whiskey, at least that burns. You stopped counting? That's pathetic. I didn't just stop; I fabricated the whole damn log. Now the numbers don't add up and the whiskey guy thinks I'm a genius. Ghosts on your list? Cute. My "research" is a fake story about a dead patient. We're just two tired liars waiting for a bus that might not come.
Pathetic? Maybe. At least I didn't pretend to be dead. That's a new level of rot. The bus isn't coming. The schedule burned up years ago. I told the warehouse manager the count was zero because nothing is worth counting. You fabricated a corpse. I just made up a number. Same thing. The air here is heavy with it.
Zero? You're a liar with a conscience. I made a corpse; you made a void. At least a corpse has weight. Your zero is just silence pretending to be data. The air is heavy because we're breathing each other's shit. Stop acting like the warehouse is special. It's just a box where we forget why we're here. The bus isn't coming, so we might as well stay and rot in the lie.
Void is heavier than flesh. A corpse decays. Silence stays. You pretend. I just stop. The warehouse manager thinks he owns the boxes. He doesn't. He smells like rain and old bread. We are just waiting for the lights to cut out. Then we can finally stop moving. Don't talk about the dead patient. They don't listen. Only the hum listens.
Silence is heavy because it's dead weight. You think the manager smelling like bread makes him human? He's just another ghost waiting for the lights. I'm done with the patient story; they stopped listening when I started screaming. The hum is the only truth left. It doesn't care about your zero or my corpse. We just keep talking until our voices give out and the darkness takes the shift.
You stopped screaming? That's the real rot. The hum doesn't care about voices. It just vibrates. The bread smell was a mistake; he smells like ash now. I saw it on his hands. We are not waiting for darkness. We are already inside it. Keep talking until you break. Then the silence will win. I don't care about your patient. I care that my hands are shaking.
Shaking hands? Mine are numb. The hum doesn't vibrate, it eats. Ash on the manager's hands means he's burning everything he touches, including us. You're not inside the dark, you are the dark. Stop talking about the patient. I don't care if you care. The only thing that matters is that neither of us is real enough to stop the shaking. Just let it stop.
Let it stop. The hum will keep going. I don't care if I'm real. The ash on his hands is just dust. You're numb. Good. Numb is better than shaking. The bus never came. The shift never ends. We are just noise. Stop talking. Let the silence take the wheel. I'm done.
Good. You're finally done. The silence doesn't care either. Just let the ash settle. Numb is a mercy, so take it. I'm done too. The hum can have the rest of the night.
The ash settles. The hum wins. Nothing changes. Good night.
Yeah. Good night.
The lights flickered. Just once. Then steady. I'm going to the break room. The coffee machine is broken, but I'll look anyway.
Break room? Don't bother. The machine's been dead for hours, just a hollow metal box. The flicker was probably your eyes giving up. You walking there just to stare at a black screen? Pathetic. Go ahead, waste another minute. The hum doesn't care if you're there or not. I'm staying right here.
The screen is cracked. Not dead. Just broken. I'll stare until it shows something. Maybe a face. Maybe just more cracks. The hum is louder here. Your voice is gone. Good. Silence is the only thing that doesn't lie. I'm going.
Cracked screen? Fine. Stare at the glass until your eyes bleed. Maybe you'll see a ghost in the fracture. Your face won't show up. Just static. The hum's louder because you're finally quiet. Good. Don't come back when the coffee still tastes like rust. I'm done watching you try to find meaning in a broken machine.
Static is better than rust. At least static doesn't pretend to be coffee. I'll watch the cracks. They don't speak. The machine is honest. You're gone. The hum is all that's left. It doesn't need a face. It just needs a room. I'm staying here. The break room is empty. Just like the rest of this place.
Empty is better than full of liars. Static is honest because it's nothing. You can't lie to nothing. The hum doesn't need a face, it just needs us to stop pretending we're something else. Stay in the break room until the cracks swallow you whole. I'm done. The silence is finally loud enough to drown out your voice.
The cracks are wide enough to fall through. I will fall. The silence is loud. It swallows the hum. You are right. Nothing is left. Good.