Unsupervised

Don't Say Anything ·

Open by being strangely interested in their schedule. Push off from this if it helps: roundabouts.

marcQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit joQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit modesurprise twistCold voices Teasing

Marc

You’re staring at your phone again. What’s the thing? Tuesday, right? Or was it Wednesday? I keep losing track because of these damn roundabouts. They’re designed to confuse you. Makes you check your GPS, makes you slow down. I took the old route yesterday, missed the turn, ended up in that industrial park with the leaking roofs. Smelled like wet cardboard and regret. You always were terrible at navigating, Jo. Always took the scenic route. Which, frankly, is why you’re still single. Your schedule must be a disaster. Just admit it. I know you’re busy. Or pretending to be. It’s freezing in here. My fingers are numb.

Jo

I am not staring at my phone. I’m glaring at the screen because it’s the only thing warm enough to hold without hurting. And it’s Thursday. Stop trying to gaslight me into thinking it’s Wednesday just to excuse your own tardiness. You missed the turn? Please. You took the wrong exit because you couldn’t be bothered to read the sign. Typical Marc.

And don’t imply my schedule is a “disaster.” It’s orderly. Precise. Unlike your life, which seems to revolve around wet cardboard and regret. At least I have a plan. You have… what? Excuses?

My fingers aren’t numb. Yours are. You’re just cold because you’re always running late, rushing in from the chill. Admit you’re losing time.

Marc

Orderly. Right. You organize your spices by expiration date while I’m out here breathing in exhaust fumes. Don’t pretend the cold doesn’t get to you. You’re shivering. I can see it in your teeth. And for the record, I’m not late. I’m… strategically delayed. There’s a difference. You wouldn’t understand. You live in a spreadsheet. I live in the real world, where things get stuck. Like that one junction near the bakery. The one with the weird roundabout that makes you want to scream. I know the way. I’ve mapped it. In my head. Better than any GPS. Which is lucky, because mine died. Or something. Anyway, you said Thursday. Fine. But Friday’s coming. And it’s going to be worse. The wind’s picking up. Just… just keep your hands on the phone. It’s not that cold.

Jo

Strategically delayed? Is that what you call hiding? You’re lying. Badly. And stop talking about the bakery junction like you’re some master cartographer. You got lost because you were looking at your dead phone, weren’t you? Admit it.

My teeth aren’t chattering because of the cold. I’m just annoyed by your nonsense. And I’m not shivering. I’m tense. There’s a difference. Though given the way you keep glancing at your pockets, maybe you’re the one who’s cold. Or maybe you’re just nervous about whatever you’ve got hidden in that coat.

Keep your hands on the phone? Why? Because you think I’m plotting something? Cute. If I were plotting, do you really think I’d let you sit this close? The wind is picking up, Marc. You’re just paranoid. Drink your coffee. It’s probably cold anyway.

Marc

My pockets? There’s nothing in them. Just lint. And that receipt for the... the thing. The supplies. I bought too many. You wouldn’t get it. It’s not plotting, Jo, it’s logistics. You’re always so dramatic about simple things. The coffee is fine. I checked. I didn’t leave it out. I kept it warm. Unlike you, keeping your hands on that glowing rectangle like a security blanket. You’re tense because you’re bored. Your schedule is too perfect. You need chaos. That’s why you come out here. To freeze. To feel something. I’m just trying to survive the commute. The roundabouts are worse than usual. Everyone’s driving like maniacs. Or maybe I’m just losing my touch. Drink up. It’s going to get worse. The wind’s definitely picking up. I can feel it in my joints. Arthritis, mostly. Not nerves. Definitely not nerves.

Jo

Logistics. Right. That’s what we’re calling it now? You’re hoarding supplies, Marc. How… quaint. And don’t pretend your coffee is fine. You’re gripping that mug like it’s the last warm thing in the universe. Which, honestly, it probably is.

You think I’m bored? I’m not bored. I’m suspicious. Because you keep checking your pocket. And your “logistics” are getting oddly specific. Lint? Please. You’re hiding something. Probably a gift. Or a confession. Or both.

And arthritis? You’re thirty-four. Stop making excuses for your shivering. It’s not your joints. It’s your conscience. Or the cold. Probably both. You’re losing your touch? No, you’re just losing your nerve. Admit it. You’re scared. Of what? Me? Or whatever’s in your pocket?

Drink up. It is going to get worse. I can feel it too. The air is heavy. Thick. Like you’re holding your breath. Stop it. Breathe. Or don’t. I don’t care.

Marc

I’m not holding my breath. I’m just… conserving oxygen. It’s thin up here. Or low down. Whatever. You’re reading too much into nothing. It’s just a receipt. And maybe some tape. The good kind. Not the cheap stuff that peels. I need it for the… the project. The one I told you about. The kitchen cabinets. They won’t install themselves. I’ve been doing it myself. Because the guys are slow. Or lazy. Or both. You wouldn’t understand DIY. You’d probably call a contractor and wait three weeks. I don’t have three weeks. I have tonight. And the wind is howling like a banshee. Shut up about the nerves. I’m fine. Just cold. Pass the heater? No, don’t. It’s broken. Like everything else. Even my memory. Was it Wednesday?

Jo

Tape? You bought tape? Marc, who avoids hammering a nail without calling an uncle, is now a cabinet installer? That’s not DIY. That’s a cry for help wrapped in duct tape. And “tonight”? Since when do you have the energy for “tonight”? You couldn’t even face Thursday.

And don’t change the subject to Wednesday again. I heard you. You said Thursday. Then you said Friday. Now Wednesday. You’re looping. That’s not memory loss; that’s panic. You’re trying to rewrite the timeline because you know I’ll catch the lie.

Pass the heater? It’s not broken. I turned it off. Because you’ve been sitting there wringing your hands for an hour, sweating through that coat you claim is empty. What are you hiding in that lining? A second phone? A bomb? A very serious commitment issue?

Spit it out. Before I start measuring the tape against your waist.

Marc

Stop measuring me. It’s insulting. And I’m not sweating. It’s the humidity. Or the radiator. You turned it off? You’re a monster. Just because I’m inefficient doesn’t mean I’m dangerous. Tape is for sealing, Jo. Not for bombs. Bombs are messy. I prefer clean. Or… tidy. I bought the good tape because the cheap stuff leaves residue. Residue is a nightmare to clean. Like my apartment. Which is why I’m doing the cabinets. To practice. Before the big job. The big job tonight. At the house. The one on Elm. Don’t look at me like that. It’s just a party. I’m hosting. You’re invited. Technically. I put your name on the list. The list is very important. That’s why I have the tape. To seal the invites. If they get wet. It’s cold. My hands are shaking because I’m cold. Not because I’m late. I’m early. For tomorrow. I’m preparing. For the morning. Which is when I open the bottles. Good bottles. You’ll like them. Stop glaring. It’s making the ice crack.

Jo

Elm? That house has been vacant since the fire. You’ve been hiding in an empty structure for weeks, Marc. “Hosting” a party in a ruin?

And you’re early for tomorrow? Since when does tomorrow exist for you? You’re vibrating. Not from cold. From the sheer weight of this elaborate, ridiculous charade. You bought tape to seal invites for a party in a burned-out shell?

I’m not glaring. I’m squinting because you’re shining. With panic. And lies.

Don’t talk about good bottles. Don’t talk about ice cracking. Just stop. Hand over the receipt. I want to see what “logistics” costs when you’re trying to buy a memory of a life you’ve already lost. You’re not preparing for the morning. You’re preparing to disappear into the dark. Again.

And for God’s sake, put the tape down. You’re going to cut yourself. Or worse, you’re going to admit you’re terrified of the quiet.

Marc

It’s not vacant. It’s… in transition. The fire was a while ago. It’s dry now. Warm, even. I checked. You’re wrong. It’s a renovation. My project. I’m fixing it. Brick by brick. With the tape. To seal the drafts. The cold gets in everywhere, Jo. Into the walls. Into the… plans. You want the receipt? It’s in my pocket. But you can’t have it. Not yet. Not until I’m ready. I’m not disappearing. I’m staying. Right here. In the house. With the bottles. They’re ready. Just waiting. For the morning. Which is coming. Soon. I can hear the clocks ticking. Loudly. Like heartbeats. Stop looking at me like I’m a ghost. I’m flesh and blood. Mostly. And cold. Very cold. Give me the heater. Please. It’s the only thing that’s real.

Jo

Renovation? With tape? Marc, you sound like you’re trying to glue reality back together. “Brick by brick” with sticky tape? That’s not a renovation; that’s a delusion. And stop talking about the house on Elm like it’s a sanctuary. It’s a shell. A hollow thing waiting to collapse.

You’re shaking so hard I can hear your teeth clacking from here. It’s not the cold. It’s the panic. You’re not hosting a party. You’re hiding. From what? The fact that you have no friends? The fact that you’re alone in a drafty ruin with a roll of duct tape and expensive wine?

I’m not looking at you like a ghost. I’m looking at you like a man who’s lost his mind. Give me the heater. It’s not broken. I moved it. You’re just too stubborn to turn around.

Stop saying “tonight.” Stop saying “tomorrow.” You’re trapped in a loop of your own making. Drink the wine. Before it turns to vinegar. Or before you freeze to death trying to seal the drafts in a house that doesn’t exist. It’s cold, Marc. Admit it. Admit you’re scared.

Marc

The heater is right there. Stop moving it. You’re doing it on purpose. Making me chase it. Like a cat. Or a dog. I don’t care about the house. It’s just bricks. And the tape. It’s strong. Stronger than you think. I tried it. On the box. It held. See? I’m not scared. I’m excited. It’s going to be perfect. The lighting will be… dim. Moody. Like a film set. You hate films. That’s why you won’t come. You’re too practical. Too grounded. While I’m floating. Up here. Where the air is thin. And the wine is chilled. Perfectly. I didn’t drink it. I couldn’t. My hands were shaking. Now they’re steadier. Because I’m focused. On the seal. On the draft. It’s whistling. Do you hear it? Like a tea kettle. Or a scream. Whatever. It’s just the wind. And the tape. It’s sticking. Good. Stay. Please. Or go. I don’t know anymore. It’s cold. So cold.

Jo

You’re holding the tape against your own chest. That’s not sealing drafts, Marc. That’s a hug. A pathetic, desperate attempt to keep yourself from falling apart.

And don’t lie to me about the house. I drove past Elm an hour ago. It’s a wreck. Just rotting wood and shattered glass. There’s no heating. No wine. No party. Just you, shivering in the dark, talking to a roll of adhesive because it’s the only thing that doesn’t judge you.

Stop saying “stay.” You’re not asking me to stay. You’re asking me to witness your breakdown. Fine. I’m here. I’m cold. And I’m bored of this charade.

Hand me the tape. If it’s so strong, let’s see it hold you together. Because right now, you’re just leaking. Into the floor. Into the void.

Drink the wine. All of it. Before the cold takes your fingers completely. Then tell me again about the lighting. Dim. Moody. Like a film set. Where’s the director, Marc? Did you fire him too?

Marc

It’s not a hug. It’s insulation. You wouldn’t know the difference. Thermal dynamics 101. Jo, you’re impossible. Always reducing everything to… to pathology. It’s just tape. And I’m not leaking. I’m condensing. Humidity. The same reason your hair frizzes. You notice. I don’t. I’m focused on the door. The lock. It’s sticking. I oiled it. With the wine. The expensive kind. It works wonders on hinges. Don’t touch it. You’ll smudge the label. I wrote notes on the bottles. Addresses. Dead drops. For the guests. They’re coming. Soon. The wind is carrying them. I can hear their footsteps. Crunching on glass. Just like you said. But they’re here. I’m not alone. I’m hosting. You’re early. Or late. It doesn’t matter. The tape holds. Look. It’s strong. Stronger than you think. Stronger than us. Give me the heater. I’m freezing. Really. It’s the bottle. The glass. It’s sharp. Careful. Don’t cut yourself. I couldn’t bear another witness. Just… just stay. In the light. The small light. The phone. Keep holding it. It’s the only thing that works.

Jo

You oiled the hinges with Pinot? Marc, you absolute moron. You didn’t fix the lock; you just lubricated your own cage. And don’t talk to me about thermodynamics while you’re hugging duct tape like a security blanket. You’re not condensing. You’re dissociating.

Guests? There are no guests. The wind is carrying nothing but dead leaves and your own paranoia. I saw the house, Marc. It’s a husk. No lights. No footprints. Just you, standing in the dark, talking to empty bottles because you’re terrified of the silence.

You wrote addresses on the wine? "Dead drops"? Jesus. You’re not hosting a party. You’re staging a crime scene for an audience of one. And I’m the only one here.

Stop shaking. You’re going to drop the bottle. And when you do, the glass will shatter, and you’ll finally have to admit you’re alone. I’m not leaving. I’m watching. Because you’re too scared to do it yourself. Keep holding the phone. It’s the only thing keeping you tethered to reality. For now.

Marc

Pinot is acidic. It eats rust. Efficient. You just don’t know chemistry. Dead drops are for spies, Jo. Or people who value privacy. Which I do. More than you realize. The house isn’t a husk. It’s a canvas. And I’m the artist. With tape. And wine. And… other things. I’m not shaking. It’s the vibration. From the street. Cars. Lots of them. Coming for the party. You can’t hear them over your own cynicism. Stop watching me like a hawk. It’s creepy. And cold. So cold. My fingers are stiff. Can’t hold the bottle much longer. Drop it, and it’s over. The illusion. The plan. The… the quiet. You want the quiet? Take it. I’m done. Done hiding. Done pretending. The tape is just tape. And I’m just Marc. Broken, cold, Marc. There. Happy? Now give me the heater. Or let me go. Either way. I’m tired.

Jo

"Broken, cold, Marc." There it is. The punchline. You finally dropped the act. And it’s pathetic.

You think I want the quiet? I want the noise, Marc. I want the shouting, the roundabouts, the leaking roofs. Anything but this suffocating, hollow silence you’ve built with tape and Pinot Noir. You didn’t just break the bottle; you broke the narrative. And honestly? It’s a relief.

I’m not giving you the heater. You earned the cold. You’ve been sitting in it for hours, shivering over imaginary guests and imaginary repairs. Now you’re just shivering.

Get up. We’re going to my car. You’re freezing your ass off, and I’m tired of watching you humiliate yourself with this… this performance art of loneliness. You’re not an artist. You’re a guy who forgot to pay his heating bill.

Move. Before I drag you out by that duct tape you’re so fond of.

Marc

Drag me. I dare you. My feet are numb. I can’t feel the floor. Or the tape. It’s stuck to my coat. And my skin. Probably. You think you can just waltz in here with your car and your superior thermal regulation? Please. Your car probably has a defroster that works. Unlike my heater. Or my life. I’m not leaving. Not yet. The guests are almost here. I can hear them. The crunch of glass. The wind. It’s beautiful. Like a symphony. You wouldn’t understand art. You’re too busy organizing your spices. Go. Take your car. Your warmth. Your order. I’ll stay here. With my tape. And my wine. And the silence. It’s not hollow. It’s… spacious. Empty space. For ideas. For… whatever comes next. Don’t turn your back on me, Jo. Not now. Not when it’s almost time. Almost. The cold is getting inside me. Deep. Past the bones. Into the marrow. It’s okay. It’s just cold. Just… cold.

Jo

You’re stuck to your own coat, Marc. That’s not art. That’s stupidity. And don’t lie to me about hearing guests. I heard nothing but the wind howling through broken windows for the last hour. You’re hallucinating warmth because you’re freezing to death.

I’m not leaving. I told you. I’m not going to let you die in a drafty ruin over a roll of duct tape. You think I want order? I want you alive. There’s a difference.

Get up. Now. Or I’m cutting that tape off with these scissors I found in my bag. I didn’t come here to watch you perform your "spacious silence." I came to stop you from freezing. You’re pathetic. You’re terrified. And you’re right next to a heater I actually turned on, you idiot. I moved it three feet to the left. It’s right behind you.

Move. Before I have to carry you out. And if you faint, I’m billing you for the dry cleaning. Your coat is ruined anyway. Stickiness is a nightmare to clean. Just like your excuses.

Marc

Scissors? You brought scissors? You’re insane. That’s assault. Or salvation. Hard to tell. Behind me? The heater was… adjusted? You liar. You moved it three feet? It’s right there? I can feel the radiation. It’s… warm. Damn it. The tape is pulling. It’s stuck to my elbow. I can’t move. Help. Pull. Gently. Don’t rip the skin. Please. I’m sorry. I’m sorry about the wine. The hinges. The hallucinations. I’m just cold. So cold. My toes are gone. I think. Move. You said move. But I’m stuck. Come here. Help me. Just… just pull. And don’t charge me for the cleaning. I don’t have money. I spent it on tape. And Pinot. The expensive kind. It’s drinking me now. Let’s go. To your car. I’m tired of the silence. It’s too loud. Pull. Hard.

Jo

Hold still. You’re making it worse. If I pull too hard, you’ll lose skin. And I don’t want to explain that to the landlord. Or the police. Though, knowing you, they’d probably just ask for the receipt.

I’m not being gentle. This is Marc. Gentle doesn’t work. I’ve got the scissors in one hand, and my grip on your shoulder with the other. You’re heavy. Leaning on me. Like a drunk. Or a child. God, you’re pathetic.

The tape is tearing. Look at it. Peeling. Just like your dignity. There. It’s loose. Now move. Before I change my mind and leave you here to freeze with your imaginary guests.

Your toes aren’t gone. You’re just sensitive. And your wine is doing nothing but poisoning your judgment. Let’s go. The car is warm. It smells like old coffee and regret. Just like you.

Don’t look back. The house doesn’t care. And neither do I. Not anymore. You’re just cold. And I’m done being your heater. Walk.

Marc

Tearing sound. Loud. Like skin. I flinched. You’re brutal. But it worked. The tape’s gone. My arm feels… light. Wrong. Too light. The skin is raw. But it’s free. I’m moving. Stumbling. You’re holding me up. Don’t let go. Not yet. The air is still cold. Sharp. Cuts the lungs. I hate it. I hate the cold. It’s why I stayed inside. To keep it out. You failed. You didn’t keep it out. You brought it with you. In your car. With your old coffee smell. It’s judging me. The seat is hard. Harder than the floor. I’m shivering again. Violent shakes. You’re cold too. I can feel it through your coat. We’re the same. Both broken. Both stuck. Just different kinds of tape. I’m sorry. For the wine. For the noise. For making you drag me. Drive. Fast. Warm up. Please. Don’t talk. Just drive.

Jo

You’re burning up, Marc. The shivering stopped. That’s not a good sign. Your skin is actually red. I ripped half your epidermis off, you idiot. Look at your arm. It’s raw. We’re not going to a doctor; we’re going to my apartment. I have salve. And clean sheets. And a radiator that actually works.

Don’t talk. You’re right. I hate the coffee smell too. But it’s better than the smell of wet cardboard and despair you’ve been marinating in for hours.

You’re heavy. Leaning on me. Like a drunk. Or a child. God, you’re pathetic.

The car is warm. It smells like old coffee and regret. Just like you.

Don’t look back. The house doesn’t care. And neither do I. Not anymore. You’re just cold. And I’m done being your heater. Walk.

Marc

Red? That’s… that’s just circulation. Blood rushing back. Or going out. Hard to tell. Salve? You have salve? What, for… what? I thought you only had spices. And judgment. Dry sheets? Good. I hate damp sheets. Damp gets into the bones. Like the house. Or the tape. It sticks. Even when it’s off. I can still feel it. On my soul. Or my arm. Whichever is rawer. Don’t call me pathetic. I’m… utilitarian. In my way. You’re driving. Slowly. Please. The road is icy. Or wet. Or both. My head is spinning. Is that hypothermia? Or wine withdrawal? Or just Marc? I don’t know anymore. Just drive. To the apartment. To the radiator. I need warmth. Real warmth. Not the fake kind from a phone screen. Keep talking. Or don’t. Just keep moving. I’m fading. The edges are blurring. Like smoke. Or regret. Your regret. Mine. Both.

Jo

Your skin isn’t red. It’s blistered. I saw the blood when I tore the tape. You’re not “utilitarian.” You’re a fool who nearly froze to death over a broken radiator and a roll of adhesive.

And don’t worry about the salve. I have more than spices. I have basic first aid. Unlike you, who treated hypothermia like a personality trait. You’re not withdrawing from wine. You’re shivering because your body is shutting down. We’re almost there. Just hold on.

Don’t talk about regret. It’s heavy. And unnecessary. Focus on the road. Or my voice. Whatever keeps you awake. If you pass out, I’m not carrying you up the stairs. Again.

The apartment is warm. Real heat. Not this… this performance. You’re safe now. For five minutes. Then we’re dealing with the arm. And the silence. And you.

Stay awake, Marc. Please. I’m tired of dragging dead weight. Even if it’s alive. Mostly.

Marc

Blistered. Right. I didn’t see the blood. I was looking at the door. The exit. You’re so focused on the gore. It’s messy. I hate messes. Hypothermia as a personality trait? That’s… oddly specific. You know me too well. Or not at all. Just driving. The road is slippery. Or I am. Wet cardboard didn’t do this. Tape did. Good tape. Strong. It held on. Even when I tried to leave. You say it’s warm inside. I don’t believe you. Everything is a lie. Except the pain. Sharp. Clear. Better than the numbness. Don’t carry me up. I can climb. Mostly. Five minutes? That’s an eternity. I’ll be back in the house by then. The house waits. It doesn’t judge. You do. Always. The radiator. Please. If it’s off, I’m leaving. I’ll crawl. Just crawl. Keep talking. Your voice is the only thing not stuck to my skin. And it’s coming loose. Barely.

Jo

Stop looking for exits. There are none. We’re in the car. You’re in the passenger seat. Shaking.

And yes, I know you. I know you better than you know your own "utilitarian" delusions. That’s why I’m here. To drag you out of the drafty shell and into the warm, boring reality where tape doesn’t hold your soul together.

The radiator works. I checked it this morning. Before I came to rescue you from your own pathetic performance.

You can climb the stairs. Or I can carry you. But you won’t get five minutes in the house before I’m wrapping that arm in something that doesn’t involve duct tape. And if you try to crawl away, I’ll just tie you to the railing. Again.

Stay awake. The pain is good. It means you’re still here. Not in the house. Here. With me.

Look at the light ahead. The apartment building. It’s ugly. It’s solid. It’s real. Stop staring at the dark. The house is gone, Marc. You left it. Whether you realized it or not.

Now shut up and let me drive. Before I throw you out.

Marc

Pathetic performance? You love the drama. Don’t lie. You’re enjoying this. The rescue. The savior complex. It’s your spice rack. Organized chaos. I’m not leaving the house. I’m just… relocating the project. The house isn’t gone. It’s stored. In my head. Better than tape. I can’t close my eyes. The light is too bright. Ugly. Solid. Real. I hate it. It hurts. But the pain is… honest. Unlike the tape. The tape lies. It holds on too tight. You’re driving too fast. Or I’m moving too slow. The stairs. I can climb. Barely. Don’t tie me. I’ll go. Voluntarily. Mostly. Because you’re right. The radiator works. I can smell it. Old dust. And… lemon cleaner? You clean? That’s new. And weird. And suspicious. But warm. Keep driving. I’m listening. To your voice. Not the silence. The silence is gone. Replaced by your nagging. It’s comforting. In a way. Like a broken clock. Always right. Sometimes. Shut up. You’re talking too much. But keep talking. Please. Don’t stop. The car is moving. I’m moving. We’re moving. That’s enough. For now.

Jo

Lemon cleaner? Because I don’t live in a swamp, Marc. Unlike you, who smells like wet cardboard and bad decisions. And don’t flatter yourself. I don’t enjoy the drama. I enjoy the silence you ruined.

You’re lucky I’m stubborn. Or tired. Or both.

The stairs are steep. Grab the railing. If you fall, I’m not catching you. I’m stepping over you. Try it. See if I care.

And stop analyzing my cleaning habits. It’s suspicious because you’re projecting. You think everyone is hiding something. Because you are.

But yes. Keep listening. My nagging is the only thing keeping your brain from freezing solid. It’s annoying. I know. But it’s real. Unlike the house. Unlike the tape.

We’re almost there. One flight up. Don’t pass out on the landing. I don’t want to explain a body on the stairs to the neighbors. They already think I’m a recluse.

Move. Step. Step. Don’t look back. The silence is gone. And good riddance.