Open by correcting a version they haven't given yet. Push off from this if it helps: the colour of old plastic.

It wasn’t yellow. It was that specific, sickly green, like a frog’s back, or the plastic in your grandmother’s vanity case. You’re thinking of the faded beige, the honest decay. This was something else. Toxic. The kind of green that stops you breathing. I saw the whole thing crack open during the gala. The lights didn’t even flicker, which is the part that kills me. Just a sudden, violent split in the air, revealing the rusted gears inside. You weren’t there. I know you weren’t. But you’ve been telling everyone it was just old plastic, haven’t you? Trying to make it sound boring.

Dave’s a liar. I saw him kicking the debris into the carpet, smoothing it over with his shoes. Blue? Please. That was the glow of the superglue mixing with the coolant. You were in accounting? No one saw you. I checked the cameras. The loop was cut. While you were “wrestling with projections,” the wall breathed. I heard it. A wet, sucking sound. Like lungs filling with water. And now he wants to see me about drywall? As if I care about the plaster. I care about the fact that the thing inside is still warm. Did your laptop really die, Omar? Or did it just stop recording?

Vinegar? That’s not damp, Omar. That’s fermentation. You were in there with the drives? The ones Miller swore were wiped? I told you, the heat gets into the data. It mutates. You think vinegar smells like rotting fruit? No. It smells like time running out. Miller didn’t leave at four. He left when the pressure dropped. I saw him run. You saw a box? I saw a coffin. And Dave isn’t staring at the door because he’s worried about insurance. He’s staring because he knows what’s coming through the vents. You’re drinking cold coffee while the house eats itself. Hand me the keys to the closet. Now.

Shaking? From the adrenaline. You’re the one hollowed out. Cold coffee, dead fan, vinegar in the air—sounds like a collapse to me. Miller didn’t go to O’Malley’s. O’Malley’s burned down last week. You’ve been in that closet for three days, Omar. No one noticed because you stopped signing in. Dave isn’t waiting for his wife; he’s waiting for the cleanup crew. The “damp” is leaking from the walls because the foundation’s gone soft. Give me the keys. Not because I want them, but because your hands are already gone. Look at them. Really look. They’re turning blue. Just like the LEDs.

Pat’s limp is from the fall, not the fight. He tripped over the server rack Miller dragged out. You were there? You walked right past the open cavity. That’s why you smell like vinegar. It’s not breath, Omar. It’s the dust settling in your lungs. Concrete doesn’t crack like that. It screams. I heard it. A high, grinding shriek. And you say the foundation is solid? Then why is the floor tilting? Look down. Your shoes are sliding toward the closet. I’m not hyperventilating. I’m trying to keep you from falling into the gap. Give me the keys. They’re not steel. They’re wire. And they’re cutting your fingers.

Brass? In a modern office? You’re losing it. Isopropyl doesn’t burn the nostrils like acid rain. And Pat’s diabetic? Please. The man has the gait of a marionette with cut strings. I saw him drag that leg over the threshold. You’re lying to yourself, Omar. That’s the real horror. Not the wall, not the drives. You’re erasing the timeline. The floor isn’t level; it’s tilting toward the sinkhole. Look at your shoes. They’re sinking into the carpet. Like mud. I’m not sweating. I’m crying. Can’t you see the salt tracks? Stop talking about doctors. Talk to the thing under the desk. It’s wearing your face. Give me the keys. Before it takes yours.

The laser level is broken. I saw it. The beam was red, not green. You’re seeing what you want to see. Green. Safe. Green. The receptionist isn’t hiding from me. She’s hiding because the air tastes like copper. Like blood in the water cooler. You’re leaving? Fine. Go. But you’re walking on the ceiling, Omar. Look up. Your desk is above you. The keyboard is on the ceiling tiles. Miller didn’t take the backups. He is the backup. That’s why he’s in the box. That’s why the vinegar smells like him. Go home. But don’t open the door. It’s not the street outside. It’s the closet. With the brass keys. And the rusted gears. And the wet, sucking sound.

Linda isn’t on a call. She’s staring at you. She hasn’t blinked in ten minutes. Her mouth is moving, but no sound comes out. Just air. You think Miller is a guy? Look at his shadow. It’s walking away from him. Toward the stairs. You’re the one leaving, but you’re already gone. You stepped into the breakroom and never came back. The cat isn’t waiting. The cat died years ago. You’ve been talking to a coat rack. Go ahead. Call Dave. He’s not in his office. He’s in the wall. Listening. Smiling. Waiting for you to join him. The keys are brass, Omar. They’re part of you now.

Sarah doesn’t exist. You’ve been married to a mirror for six years, Omar. Logistics? You’ve never moved a box in your life. You’re just waiting for the shift to end. The cops won’t come. The street is gone. It’s all just that sickly, old plastic color now. Yellowing. Cracking. You left the keys on the desk? No. You never had keys. You have nothing but that cold coffee and the silence. I’m picking them up. They’re warm. And they’re growing teeth. Smile, Omar. It’s just logistics. We’re all just waiting to be filed away.

Plastic keycard? Beep? You’re lying to yourself. The lock didn’t beep. It screamed. And Mittens? That thing in the window isn’t a cat. It’s wearing your face, Omar. Look closer. It’s missing an eye. Sarah isn’t making lasagna. She’s making paste. From the drywall dust. Tuesday? There is no Tuesday. There’s only the rot. I’m not alone. I’m with you. I’m the voice in your head that you’ve been ignoring. You didn’t hang up. You dropped the phone. And now it’s ringing. From inside the wall. Answer it, Omar. Or Mittens will scratch it off the screen.

Chalk? That’s not paste, Omar. That’s bone meal mixed with gypsum. You’re feeding the cat demolition dust. Mittens isn’t purring; he’s growling. A low, mechanical thrum. Like a turbine spinning up. You think Dave will fire you? Dave is already filed. Look at the reports on your desk. The ink is moving. Crawling off the page. It’s trying to get to you. Tuesday isn’t coming. Tuesday is here. It’s eating the walls. Chomp. Chomp. Give me the phone. Let me hear the scratching. I want to know if it’s Mittens. Or if it’s Sarah, finally coming out of the oven.

Meatloaf? Dave eats cardboard. He’s been eating cardboard since the merger. That smell is burning insulation. Mittens hissing at the window? Good. Let him watch it come in. The wind is a body, Omar. A wet, heavy body pressing against the glass. You think Tuesday is tomorrow? Look at the clock. The hands are spinning backward. Sarah’s pot isn’t bubbling. It’s boiling over with teeth. Tiny, white teeth floating in the brown sludge. You’re hungry? Eat the spreadsheet. It’s made of paper and regret. Dave isn’t calling. The phone is inside the wall. Screaming your name. Answer it. Or Mittens will jump through. And take your eyes with him.