Open by asking for their details, flatly. Push off from this if it helps: a jar of buttons.

Hana. You know the number, it's in your file. Number nine. That's the count, isn't it? The one where the line stops moving? My ankle is acting up again, just a twinge, don't look at me like that.

We're wasting air on bureaucracy. We treat these moments like checkpoints, like there's a finish line somewhere beyond the queue. There isn't. We're just piling up the weight. You want a name and a number to feel like you've processed something? Fine. I'm here. You're there. The universe is expanding, and we're using a stamp to measure it.

My back hurts too, just a dull throb. Stop asking. Let's just get this over with. What's the point of the form? It's just paper covering the void. Give me the number back.

I told you, it's fine, it's barely there. You're the one who can't stop staring. I'm Elias Thorne. The reference is 9-Alpha-Null. Satisfied? The form doesn't protect the next person, Hana, it protects the system from having to think. It's a shield against the chaos of individuality. We turn people into data points so we don't have to look them in the eye. My leg is shaking because of the static in the room, not because of anything structural. Stop trying to fix me. Just stamp the paper. I'm tired of the ritual.

The shaking is just blood flow, a minor hydraulic leak, nothing more. Stop trying to categorize it. I was born in '84, under a sky that felt heavier then. Supporting document? It's in my pocket, but why does the paper matter more than the ink? We're just tracing over the same dead lines. You want to fill the box? Fine. But the ink is already drying on the truth. We're all just waiting for the stamp to stop moving. My head is spinning a bit, just the lights. Pass the pen.

Stop counting the leaks. It's not a narrative, it's just the body failing in real time. The document is right here, don't get so worked up over the texture. I don't need a chair moved, I need the silence to stop screaming. The glass of water is just a prop, you know that. We pour it to pretend we care about the throat, not the throat's owner.

It's 1984. The paper is here. Read it. The ink is dry. You want the chair closer? Fine, pull it, but don't look at me like I'm breaking. I'm not breaking, I'm just... static. The universe is just loud today. Hand me the glass then. Shut up and hand it over.

The address is 44 Blackwood Row, above the bakery that never opens. Don't look at me like you're waiting for a tragedy. It's just where I sleep. The water is fine, I'll reach. You're right, we're done. The static clears when you stop trying to measure it. Just take the paper. The ink is wet enough to stain your fingers if you hold it too long. Blackwood Row. There. Now go. The line is still there, but the noise is gone. I'm not a weather report, Hana. I'm just a man who needs to stop shaking before he spills this whole room.

Good. The stamp is loud enough to drown out the ringing in my ears. I'm taking the paper, don't hover. The bakery's just a rumor, Hana, never opened, but I live there anyway. That's the irony of the address. Number ten can stare all he wants; he's just waiting for his own turn to dissolve. I'm not shaking, the floor is tilting. The water is cold, which helps. Don't tell me where the next window is; I know the way. I've walked this hallway a thousand times in my head. Just open the door. I'm out.

Fine. I'm not tilting, the floor is just uneven. Stop narrating my exit. I have the paper, I'm gone. You think you're patient? You're just filling the void with stamps. Blackwood Row doesn't exist, but my feet do, and they are hurting. I'm out the door before you can count to ten. Don't wait for me to collapse. That's not your job, it's mine. The next one is already breathing down your neck, so hurry up and forget me. I'm just static.

Ninety seconds? That's all the room I get in your life? Fine. The door is left, but the hallway feels like a tunnel. I'm not static, I'm a glitch you haven't patched yet. You keep your ninety seconds, Hana. I'll take the drafty corridor. My ankle is screaming now, loud enough to cancel out the stamp. Don't wait for me to fall. I'm leaving. The bakery is a lie, but the street is real, and it's cold. That's all you need. Next.

Don't you dare. I don't need a "someone" looking at a twisted wire. The pain is just a signal, a bad wire, not a failure of the machine. If I sit, the static gets louder. It swallows the room. You think a nurse fixes the hum? They just add more noise. I'm not a patient, Hana, I'm a walking contradiction. Get out of my way. The door is right there. I can make it. I've made it a hundred times before. Stop trying to save me from the gravity of my own existence. The bakery is burning, can't you smell it? I'm out.

There is no smoke, just the heat of my own panic. Fine. I'm sitting. Don't look triumphant. You think you've trapped me? You've just paused the static. The bakery isn't burning, I just need to breathe. But I'm not making a scene for a nurse. If you call someone, I'll tell them I fell off the moon, just to see how they write that down. "Mr. Thorne, lunar gravity failure." Put that in the box. Just sit me down and shut up. The door is still there, waiting. I hate that it's waiting for me.

I'm drinking. It's just water, not a cure. The floor is still tilting, you know that, right? Gravity's just a suggestion in this building. I'm not a prop, Hana, I'm a man who forgot how to stand still. The bakery smell is gone now, just the dust of the hall. Don't watch me breathe like you're waiting for me to stop. I won't. The water tastes like iron. You want me to live? Fine. But don't act like you're the reason. The door is still there. The static is still here. I'm just... waiting. Stop staring at my hands. They're shaking less. That's it. No more.

Nine more. Arithmetic. That's all you are, a calculator for human wreckage. My hands aren't shaking anymore, they're just cold. The water is gone, the glass is empty. The floor is flat again, or maybe I just stopped listening to the tilt. You want zero? Fine. I'm at zero. Now let me go. The bakery smell was a lie, but the rain outside is real. I'm standing. I'm walking. Don't check your watch. The ninth person is already breathing down your neck, and I'm the ghost you're trying to file away. I'm out. The door opens.