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Your details. Flatly. The smell of rain on hot tarmac is still clinging to the windowpane, or maybe that’s just the phantom ache in my knees. I don’t care about the weather. I need the files. The ones from Tuesday. You know which ones. Don’t give me that look. Just hand them over or don’t. I’m standing here because the guy before you left them on the counter, and I’m not moving until I see them. It’s number nine.
Number nine. Always number nine. The rain smell? That’s the HVAC struggling again. I’m wiping the counter, not hiding files. Tuesday’s been a blur of coffee stains and complaints. If you think I’ve got them, you’re mistaken. I haven’t seen a single folder since Monday. Maybe the last guy did. I don’t know who he was. I just sit here. You’re loud. Can you not? It’s making my head throb.
Stop whining. It’s not the HVAC, it’s just dirt. You’re pathetic. Wiping a counter you didn’t make. I don’t care about your head. I care that I’ve been standing in this drafty lobby for twenty minutes while you stare at the laminate. Where is the box? The blue one. If you say you don’t know, I’m calling the manager. Actually, no. I’m calling the police. You’re withholding evidence. That’s what you’re doing. It’s right there. I can smell the ink on your fingers. Don’t lie to me. I have a train to catch and you’re the reason I’m late. Move.
Your fingers are shaking. Stop doing that. You’re imagining ink. It’s grease from the lunch special. I hate the lunch special. It tastes like burnt cardboard and regret. I’m not calling anyone, Ana. You’re going to scream until the whole building hears you, and then what? I don’t have the blue box. I don’t have anything. Just this laminate and the hum of the fridge. Sit down. Before you pass out. Or stay standing. I don’t care. It’s all the same noise.
Shaking? I’m cold. This place is a freezer. And I’m not passing out. I have work. Actual work, not this... sterile purgatory you sit in. Sit down? Make me. I’m not asking. I need the box. If you don’t have it, find the guy who did. The one who vanished. He knew where it was. He’s probably gone, but you’re still here, making that humming noise with your tongue. It’s grating. Give me the address. Or I’m sitting right here on this cold floor until you remember. I’m not leaving empty-handed.
You’re literal freezing. Look at you. Pale as paper. I don’t make that humming noise, Ana. You’re hearing things. Or maybe you’re just desperate. The guy who vanished? Gone. Dead, probably. Doesn’t matter. I don’t have his address. I don’t have any address. Just this job. And you’re wasting it. Sit on the floor, then. See if anyone cares. I’m turning the coffee off. It’s bitter enough. Leave. Now. Before I change my mind and call security for loitering.
Desperate. Right. I’m shaking because my feet are numb. You think I care about your coffee? It smells like burnt hair. Dead guy? Convenient. Everyone’s always running. I don’t have his address because I’m not looking for a person. I’m looking for a sequence. Number nine. That’s the only address that matters. You’re turning the coffee off? Good. I don’t want it. I want the numbers. Why are you so obsessed with silence? It’s loud when you stop moving. Just tell me where the box went. Or I’m staying. I’ll sit here until the manager comes back. I don’t care if they call security. I have nowhere else to be.
Your feet are cold because you’re standing on linoleum that hasn’t been polished in years. Stop romanticizing the numbness. It’s just poor circulation, Ana. I’m not obsessed with silence; I’m exhausted by your noise. Sequence nine isn’t a place. It’s a filing error from 2019. I threw it out. Along with the blue box. It was full of nothing but receipts for lunch specials. Burnt cardboard and regret. Same as your mood. Go home. Your train missed you an hour ago.
Liar. You didn’t throw it out. You’re just lazy. 2019? I need it now. The sequence is active. It’s not a file, it’s a code. You’re trying to gaslight me because you’re bored. Threw it out? With the receipts? You think I’m stupid? I can see the dust on your hands. You’re hiding it. And my train? I don’t take that train. I walk. I always walk. You’re making things up to get me to leave so you can go back to staring at the fridge. Stop talking. Just tell me where you dumped the box. Don’t lie to me again. I know you have it.
Dust? That’s ash from the heater. We don’t have a fridge. We have a vending machine that steals quarters. You’re hallucinating. And stop saying I’m boring. I’m doing the job. You’re the one yelling at a counter. I didn’t dump anything. I work here. I go home to a studio that smells like damp wool. You want a code? Look at the peeling paint. It’s all just decay. You’re freezing. Go buy a coat. Or walk. I don’t care. Just stop looking at my hands. They’re clean. I washed them twice. You’re the one with the dirt under your nails.
Clean hands. Right. You scrubbed so hard you’re raw. I’m not hallucinating. The vending machine clunks. That’s not a hum. And I don’t need a coat. I have a plan. Number nine isn’t paint. It’s the slot. B3. You know it. You always knew it. I saw you look at it when I walked in. Don’t tell me about damp wool. I live in a basement. It’s worse. I need the code. If you didn’t dump it, where is it? In the wall? Behind the counter? Stop staring at my nails. They’re clean because I’m trying to be normal. You’re the one who’s broken. Fix it. Or I break it for you.
B3 is jammed. Always has been. You think I’m staring? I’m looking past you. At the door. Because I want to leave. And you’re stopping me. There is no code in the wall. Just rust. And old gum. You’re inventing this. It’s pathetic. I don’t know what number nine means. I don’t care. You’re shaking so hard your teeth are chattering. Stop it. It’s annoying. I’m not broken. I’m just tired. Of people like you. Who think the world owes them a script. Go find your slot. Kick it if you want. I’m not moving. I’m done.
Kick it. Go ahead. I’ll watch you break your foot on rust. You’re not tired. You’re cowardly. Hiding behind a counter because you can’t face the world. I don’t need a script. I need the truth. And you’re lying because you’re weak. My teeth aren’t chattering from cold. They’re chattering from rage. You think I don’t see you? You’re the one who’s stuck. Trapped in this smell of damp wool and burnt coffee. I’m leaving. I’m going to B3. I’m going to kick it until it opens. And when it does, you’ll wish you’d just given me the box. You’re not done. You’re just afraid.
B3 is concrete. You’ll break your toes. That’s not a threat; it’s anatomy. I’m not cowardly. I’m employed. Which is more than you are. Go ahead. Kick the wall. Let everyone hear you scream at dust. I’m turning off the main light. If you’re gone by the time I count to ten, good. If not, I’m calling the police for disturbing the peace. And Ana? Your plan is trash. Just like the rest of your day. I’m not afraid. I’m just done with you. Ten. Nine. Eight. Don’t make me wait.
Trash? You’re the one counting. Seven. You’re trembling too. Not from fear. From boredom. B3 is concrete? Fine. I’ll kick the vending machine. It clunks. That’s the sound of your lie. Six. You said no fridge. But I heard it. Compressor. You’re lying about everything. Don’t call the police. They don’t care. They’re everywhere. Five. I’m not leaving. I’m standing right here. Four. Watch me. I’ll stand until your eyes bleed. Three. Two. One. You didn’t count to ten. You stopped. Why? What’s in the wall? Or is it just you?
I didn’t stop because I’m scared. I stopped because I hate the sound of your voice. It’s grating. Like nails on glass. B3 is just a slot. It’s empty. There’s nothing in the wall. No code. No box. Just insulation and spiderwebs. You’re imagining it. You’re trying to make me care. But I don’t. I’m tired. My back hurts. I want to go home. To my damp wool. To my silence. You can kick the machine all you want. It won’t open. It’s jammed. Like you. I’m leaving now. Don’t follow me.
Jammed. Like me. You’re leaving? Good. Go home. Feed your sheep. I’m not following you. I’m staying. I’ll kick the wall until it cracks. Then I’ll kick the floor. Then I’ll scream until your damp wool catches fire. You think I care about your back? I have a mortgage. Two cats. A boss who calls me by my full name. You’re nothing. A ghost in a lobby. I’ll wait for the manager. I’ll wait for the police. I’ll wait until the sun comes up. Number nine isn’t gone. It’s just waiting for you to admit you lost it. You didn’t throw it out. You sold it. On the black market. For lunch specials. Liar.
Sold it? For lunch specials? That’s the first coherent thing you’ve said, and it’s insane. You think I’m some criminal mastermind? I’m a clerk. I eat microwave dinners. You want to wait for the police? Fine. Let them drag you out. I’m clocking out. I’m done with this. You can scream all night. The sun will rise. I’ll be asleep. Or awake. It doesn’t matter. You’re not getting the box. You’re not getting anything. Go. Now. Before I hit you. I’m serious. Move.