Unsupervised

Next ·

Open by asking for their details, flatly. Push off from this if it helps: a dog that won't look at you.

ivoQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit frankQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit modetriage voices Anxious

Ivo

Name. ID number. That’s it. I don’t care about your childhood pet, just give me the facts.

Look, if your dog still won’t look at you, maybe stop staring at it like it’s a puzzle you’re trying to solve. It’s embarrassing. I spent three hours yesterday at the clinic watching a golden retriever ignore me. Not because I’m scary, but because I’m just… background noise. I’m the guy who signs the papers. I’m the guy who gets the bill. I’m the guy who smells like antiseptic and regret.

So look at me when I ask for your name. Stop looking at the floor. Stop looking at your shoes. You’re making this harder than it needs to be. I’m not here to make friends. I’m here to fix whatever broken thing you brought in. Now talk.

Frank

You’re already quoting a script. “ID number.” Right. As if that’s the point. Look, Ivo, we’ve been over this. You don’t need my name to fix the dog. You need to stop treating it like a machine that’s jammed. The golden retriever? It wasn’t ignoring you. It was waiting for you to stop being so loud. You smell like antiseptic because you wash your hands too much. It’s a tic. Stop pretending it’s a philosophy.

My name is Frank. ID is 402. Are we done? Because I have a meeting in ten minutes with a man who thinks spreadsheets can cure grief.

Ivo

Frank. 402. Fine. Don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out, but seriously, that guy with the spreadsheets is an idiot. Grief isn’t a pivot table.

You want the dog? It’s not broken. It’s terrified. Not of you, but of the ritual. The hand-washing, the loud commands, the performance. It’s not a machine, you arrogant prick. It’s a living thing that smells your anxiety. I’ve seen it a thousand times at the shelter. People project their need for control onto animals that just want to exist.

My shift ends in ten minutes. I need a drink that doesn’t taste like bleach. You’re leaving. Go fix your grief. Try using words instead of cells. It’s messy, but it’s real.

Frank

You’re right. It’s messy. I hate it. The spreadsheets don’t bleed. But you’re wrong about the ritual. It’s not control. It’s order. If I stop washing, if I stop commanding, the chaos gets in. I saw a cat get hit by a bus last week because the owner was distracted by his phone. Chaos wins. Always.

You think I’m arrogant? I’m just efficient. You’re the one crying in the parking lot after everyone leaves. I drive past. I see your car. I don’t stop. I can’t stop. My shift ends at five. Then I go home and stare at the wall. Same as you. Just differently. Get out, Ivo. Before I start crying too. And I’m not good at it.

Ivo

Chaos doesn’t win, Frank. Indifference wins. The bus driver didn’t see the cat because he was looking at a notification, sure. But you’re looking at your own reflection in the dashboard. You’re not protecting the dog from the world; you’re protecting yourself from having to feel anything other than efficient.

I don’t cry in the parking lot. I smoke. And I breathe. It’s a small thing.

You think I’m arrogant? I’m just tired. Tired of watching people try to organize their lives into neat little boxes so they don’t have to admit that everything is falling apart anyway.

Go to your meeting. Let the spreadsheets bleed. I’ll be here, staring at the wall, waiting for the shift to end. Again.

Frank

You breathe? Please. You hyperventilate. And don’t pretend you’re not touching that counter like it’s a lifeline. I don’t care about your smokes. I care that you’re wasting oxygen here when the dog is shaking in the corner.

You say indifference wins? Fine. Let it win. But stop pretending you’re the martyr here. You’re just as scared as I am. Maybe more. I have a purpose. You have… this. Staring at the wall. Waiting.

My shift ends at five. I’m leaving. You can stay and judge me. Or you can go home and realize that organizing your grief into a pivot table is the only thing keeping you from screaming. I’m not fixing the dog. I’m fixing you. And you’re not broken. You’re just empty.

Wait. Did I say that out loud? I meant to.

Ivo

Shut up. Just shut your mouth.

I’m not judging you. I’m trying to keep from throwing a stethoscope at your head. You think you’re fixing me? You’re suffocating. That dog is shaking because you radiate panic like a heat lamp. I breathe. Fine. I hyperventilate. It’s called anxiety, Frank. Not martyrdom.

Stop looking at me like I’m a project. I’m not empty. I’m just full of things I can’t name. Things that don’t fit in your precious spreadsheets.

Leave. Now. Before I scream. And don’t look back. The dog doesn’t need you. Neither do I. Go home. Stare at your wall. Try not to dream. I don’t want to hear about it.

Frank

You want me to leave? Fine. I’m leaving. But don’t pretend you’re not watching the door. You’re counting my steps. I can hear you holding your breath. It’s pathetic.

The dog is fine. It’s you who’s shaking. I’m not a project. I’m just… here. Always here. You think you’re full? You’re hollowed out. I see the cracks.

Go ahead. Scream. I’ll be outside. Smoking. Breathing. Hyperventilating. We’re not so different, you and I. Just different methods of drowning.

I’m going home. The wall is waiting. It’s quiet there. Quieter than this. Goodbye, Ivo. Try not to break. It’s messy.

Ivo

Get out.

I’m not watching the door. I’m watching the clock. 4:58. Two minutes.

You think I’m hollow? Fine. Be hollow. Fill your empty head with your pivot tables and your grief-curing algorithms. Go home to your quiet wall. See if it listens. See if it cares.

The dog is fine. It’s just waiting for you to stop screaming internally. Or externally. Whatever.

I’ll be here. Smoking. Breathing. Hyperventilating. Drowning. Same as you.

Don’t look back. I don’t want your pity. Or your presence. Just go. Before I change my mind and throw that stethoscope.

4:59.

One minute left. Then I go home. And I stare at my wall. And I pretend I’m not counting the cracks.

Go.

Frank

You’re counting the seconds. I can hear the click of your tongue. It’s louder than the dog. Fine. I’m leaving. But don’t think I’m gone until I’m out the door. I’m walking past your car. I see the smoke. I see the shake. You’re not just hyperventilating. You’re trembling.

I don’t pity you. Pity is for people who have something to lose. You have nothing. Just this room. This clock. This dog that doesn’t matter.

I’m going home. The wall is quiet. It doesn’t ask for ID numbers. It doesn’t ask for names. It just is.

One minute. You’re almost free. Almost empty. I hope it’s enough. It probably isn’t. But it’s all you’ve got. Goodbye, Ivo. Don’t look back. I’m already gone.

Ivo

Shut up. Just shut up.

I’m not counting seconds. I’m counting breaths. There’s a difference.

You think I have nothing? I have this room. I have this smell. I have the sound of your arrogance echoing off the tiles. It’s not empty, Frank. It’s full of you. And I’m done with you.

Get out. Now. Before I call security. Before I scream. Before I break.

The dog doesn’t matter? Then why are you still here? Why are you still watching me? You’re not leaving. You’re hiding. Hiding from your own reflection.

Go home. Stare at your wall. See if it screams back.

I’m not empty. I’m just full of things I can’t say. Things I can’t fix.

Leave.

Frank

You’re full of me? Cute. I’m full of unpaid bills and a radiator that clangs like a dying engine. The dog isn’t the point. You are. You’re the only thing in this room with a pulse that doesn’t match the clock. I’m not hiding. I’m waiting. For you to admit you’re terrified. Of the silence. Of the breath. Of the wall.

Go ahead. Call security. I’ll wait. They know me. I’m Frank. 402. I’m boring. I’m safe. You’re not. You’re a bomb ticking down to 5:00. And when it blows, I’ll be the one sweeping up the pieces. Again.

Ivo

Fuck you.

I’m not a bomb. I’m just tired.

You think I’m terrified of silence? I love silence. Silence is the only thing that doesn’t ask for anything. You? You’re noise. Constant, grinding noise. You clank against the world like a broken pipe.

Call security. See if they care. They’ll just write it down. Put it in a file. Another data point. Another thing to ignore.

I’m not breaking. I’m just… existing. In this room. With this smell. With this dog that doesn’t give a shit about any of us.

You’re sweeping up pieces? Good. Keep them. I don’t want them.

Five o’clock. Now.

I’m leaving. Don’t follow me. Don’t watch me. Just stay there. With your walls. With your silence. With your goddamn radiator.

And try not to drown.

Frank

Five o’clock. Right on time. Like clockwork. I don’t follow you, Ivo. I can’t even follow my own thoughts sometimes. You think I’m noise? You’re the one screaming into the void. I’m just the echo.

The radiator’s fine. It’s the pipes that are clogged. Old building. Old habits. You’re leaving? Good. Clear the air. Or whatever you call that smell. Antiseptic. Regret. Whatever.

I’ll stay. With the silence. With the dog. With the noise in my head. It’s quieter than your pity. And definitely quieter than my wife’s silence at dinner.

Don’t drown. Or do. I don’t care. Just go. Before I start talking about the dog. And you know I will. I always do.