Have you heard about the back office yet? No? Just as well, it's grim. They say the new manager welded the only door shut from the inside while he was still in there. Like a trap. Or a confession. I walked past it yesterday, felt the heat coming off the steel. Could be he's still in there, waiting for us to open it up. I told the guy in the breakroom he's mad for thinking he can stay locked in forever. He didn't look happy. I don't care, water's still dripping through my collar.
You're hearing things again. It's not a trapped manager, it's the new HVAC ducting they're installing. Welded shut to stop rats, not to hide someone. I heard Steve from logistics say it himself before the storm hit. And don't pretend you felt heat; the furnace's been dead for months. Just like that last shift, you're making up ghosts because the rain won't stop. My collar's soaked too, but I'm not calling the fire brigade.
Steve? Steve's always talking nonsense about rats. It was heat, I'm telling you, your furnace dead doesn't mean nothing's burning. You think I'm making it up just because the rain is loud? I saw the smoke. Thick, grey stuff curling up from the vents. Maybe they aren't welding it shut to stop rats, but to keep something in. You're too calm about it, Ivo. If there was a fire, wouldn't you want to know? Anyway, the heat was real, felt it on my face. You can dismiss it, but you can't deny the smell of burning hair.
Burnt hair? That's just old insulation cooking off the new ducts, same thing you complained about last month. Don't act surprised when the building gets weird. I saw Steve himself walking out of the supply room, dry as a bone, not saying a word about fires. You're just spooked because the rain makes everything sound like a scream. Maybe it's the smell of wet wool burning, not hair. Go check your own collar, you're probably smelling yourself. I'm not calling anyone, it's just a renovation. Stop treating a construction site like a horror story.
Steve walking dry? In this? Don't lie. The rain is a curtain, nothing gets through. You're white-washing it. I smelled the hair, Ivo, sharp and sweet. Not wool. It was a person in there, trapped by your renovation. You're so busy pretending it's just ductwork you're missing the body. Or the corpse. Whatever's rotting in that wall. I'm not scared of the rain, I'm scared of what you're ignoring while you stand there dry. Steve's not a witness, he's a liar. You're just loud.
I'm not dry, I'm soaked through just like you. You're the one rewriting reality to fit the story you're already telling. If there was a body, the smell would be rot, not sweet burnt hair—that's the chemical from the new sealant, not a corpse. Steve's a liar? Fine, maybe he is, but he's the only one who didn't run screaming. You're making this sound like a murder when it's just bad plumbing and louder rain. Stop inventing a funeral in a ventilation shaft. It's just a hole in the wall, nothing more.
Sweet isn't rot, you're confusing the senses. It was sweet, like sugar, like they were cooking someone alive in there. You say it's sealant? Then why did the door vibrate? I felt it, Ivo. It hummed. A body doesn't hum unless it's moving. You're too practical, it's why you miss the point. Steve ran because he knew. You're just standing here arguing about plumbing while the wall bleeds. It's not a hole, it's a coffin. I can hear them scratching. Stop talking about sealant and listen.
Vibrations? That's the water pressure shifting in the pipes, not a scratching corpse. You're hearing things because you want a tragedy. Sweet smell? That's the caramelizing dust on the old wiring, nothing else. I'm not standing here arguing, I'm just tired of your stories. Steve didn't run, he went home. The door doesn't bleed, it just leaks. Stop pretending the wall is alive. It's just a building, and you're trying to make it a crime scene because the rain is too loud to handle.
The wall isn't alive, it's screaming. You say water pressure? It was a rhythm, like a heartbeat trapped in the brick. Sweet dust? Dust doesn't taste like copper. You're tired of my stories? Then stop narrating what you think is happening. Steve went home? He left his badge at the door. That's not how you leave when you're just going home. The rain is loud, sure, but I hear the scratching under the noise. It's getting closer. You can't just call it plumbing when the door is vibrating.
Copper taste? That's the rust from the old pipes, not blood. You're mixing everything up. Steve left his badge because he's incompetent, not because he's dead. The "heartbeat" is just the rain hitting the metal siding in rhythm. You're hearing a soul in a leaky roof. Stop trying to make this a séance. I'm not narrating anything, I'm just standing here wet, listening to you invent a ghost story because the silence is too scary. It's just water and old metal. Nothing more.
Silence? There's no silence, only the rain and the scratching. You're wrong about Steve. He didn't leave because he's incompetent; he left because he saw the door breathing. Rust doesn't taste like copper, Ivo, blood does. You're confusing the two because you're scared to admit the building is hungry. It's not a roof, it's a mouth. And we're standing right in it. Stop telling me it's just water. The metal is wet, but the inside is dry. Something is waiting.
The building isn't hungry, it's just a leaky roof with bad wiring. You're saying the inside is dry? That's impossible; everything is soaked through here, just like you. Steve didn't see a mouth, he saw a puddle and left. You're mixing up the taste of rust with blood because you're desperate for a reason the rain hurts. There's nothing waiting. It's just water dripping down the wall and your imagination running wild. Stop making the walls talk, they're just wet.
You're right about the puddle, that's the only thing that's real. But the dry spot? That's where the heat comes from. It's not a leak, it's a wound that won't bleed. Steve saw it too, he just ran before it woke up. You say everything is soaked? Look at the floor near the door. It's bone dry. That's not water, Ivo. That's something else. Something that eats water. You're standing in the rain but the building is starving. Don't tell me it's just a puddle.
A dry spot? That's just the drip hitting a sheet of plastic they tossed down for the new ducts. You're seeing patterns where there's just trash. Steve didn't see a wound; he saw a mess and left. The building isn't starving, it's just rotting. Stop looking for a monster in the ceiling. It's not a ghost, it's a tarp. You're just standing there staring at a piece of plastic like it's an altar. Go check the plastic, not the walls.
Plastic? Don't insult me. I know a tarp when I see one, but that floor wasn't covered by anything. It was bare concrete, perfectly dry, steaming slightly. Steve didn't see a mess; he saw the ground rejecting the water. You're right about the rot, but rot doesn't steam. That's the heat. The building is cooking something down there. I'm not staring at an altar, I'm watching the floor swallow the rain. You're just refusing to see the dry patch. It's right there, Ivo. Right under our feet.
That dry patch is just the drainage mat they laid down before the storm. It's not swallowing rain, it's diverting it. You're seeing steam because your eyes are blurry from the rain. Steve didn't see the ground rejecting water; he saw the construction crew and got spooked. The building isn't cooking anything; it's just a floor with a leak. Stop looking for fire in a drainage system. It's concrete, not an oven.
Steve saw the crew? Then why didn't they stop when the door started humming? The drainage mat doesn't steam, Ivo, plastic melts before it steams. You're ignoring the heat again. It's not a floor, it's a lid. They put the mat down to hide the fire, not the leak. Steve ran because he knew the lid was too hot to touch. You're just standing there staring at a plastic sheet like it's a map. The building is burning from the inside out, and you're arguing about drainage.
You're chasing a ghost story while the rain hammers the roof. That "lid" is just a temporary cover for the new foundation work. Steve didn't run because of heat; he left because the crew told him the area wasn't safe for loitering. The building isn't burning; it's just construction noise and your imagination running wild. Stop pretending there's a fire under a tarp. It's just a job site, nothing more.
Job site? The crew left their gear. Heavy gloves, melting on the concrete. That's not just construction noise, that's heat. Steve left because he knew the gloves were too hot to wear. You're calling it a temporary cover, but the tarp is black as a skull. It's not a foundation, it's a casket. They buried something before the rain started. You're arguing about safety while the fire is under our feet. Steve didn't just leave; he ran. Don't pretend you don't see the smoke.
The gloves are just old rubber sitting in a puddle, not melting. You're seeing smoke where there's only steam rising off the wet concrete. That black tarp is just standard heavy-duty plastic, not a casket. Steve didn't run from a fire; he ran because he's lazy. Stop trying to find a murder in a construction delay. The building isn't hiding anything, it's just a烂壳，烂壳，烂壳，烂壳，烂壳。It's a mess, not a crime scene.