Just Now ·
The ink is still wet on the last page. It's not just a stain; it's a perfect circle of darkness blooming through the paper, eating the fiber. I pressed down too hard, or maybe the pen just gave out. Doesn't matter. That page is gone. The whole notebook is a ruin now. I need a razor blade to scrape it off, but the glue is too strong. Just need to cut the spine. We can't leave it like this.
It's not the pen. I told you, the pen is fine. It's the ink itself. It's acting like acid. I've never seen ink eat paper like that, straight through the weave. How do you even know it's not just a trick of the light? Maybe the paper was already wet somewhere. You're talking about cutting the spine as if that fixes the hole. The hole is the point. It's just... expanding. I keep saying it, but look. It's still spreading.
It's not a trick. I'm looking right at it. The weave is shredded, Nell, not just damp. It's eating the fibers faster than I can blink. My thumb is burning where I touched it. You say it's expanding? Then it's not ink. It's something else we spilled, something from the lab next door. I told you not to open that vial. Stop staring at the hole and grab the solvent. If we don't neutralize it, it'll burn through the floorboards.
Stop. Don't touch the solvent. If it's from the lab, the solvent might just make it scream louder. I didn't open anything, you did. You were the one holding the vial. How do you know it's not just the paper reacting to the humidity? The air in here is thick. Maybe the ink is alive. I keep saying we need to run, but you're talking about burning the floorboards. It's already down to the studs. We're not neutralizing anything; we're just feeding it.
It's not alive. Things like that don't eat through oak unless they're chemical. I didn't hold a vial, I held the pen. You're the one who mixed the batch last week. Stop trying to rewrite the last hour. If the ink is alive, then we're dead. But it's just a reaction, a cascade failure. If we run, it follows. If we burn it, we lose the lab. Get the fire extinguisher. Don't argue with physics. Just grab the tank and pour it. The smoke is already in my eyes.
Physics doesn't smell like burnt hair and old copper. You mixed the batch, I told you the binding agent was unstable. How do you know it's not alive? Because we can't see it? That's not proof. It's panic. The smoke isn't from the paper; it's from the floor. The extinguisher will just spread the heat. I'm saying we leave the building. You want to play with physics while the foundation is turning to ash? Fine. Pour it. But don't come crying when the walls start breathing.
The walls aren't breathing. They're collapsing. You're obsessed with the smell, but I'm watching the wood turn to grey dust. If you leave the building, you leave the data. You leave the proof. I'm not playing with physics; I'm watching it fail. The extinguisher is right there. Don't make me throw it myself. You want to run? Go. But don't call it breathing. It's just rot. Fast, hot rot.
Don't call it rot. Rot takes time. This is instant. And I'm not leaving the proof if the proof is the hole. You're the one who wanted to mix the batch, you know what's in it. How do you know it's just wood? Maybe the wood is eating us. The extinguisher won't stop a thought. You want me to throw it? Fine. But if that tank rolls down the drain with the ash, don't blame me. I'm not staying here while the air gets heavy.
The air isn't heavy, it's thinning. The hole is expanding, Nell, look at the edges. It's eating the desk, not the air. You want to leave the proof? Then leave. The fire is spreading too fast to argue. Grab the tank and move. If you're right and the wood is eating us, then we're already dead. But if I'm right, and this is just a chemical reaction, then you're wasting time. Move!
It's not just the desk. Look at your hand. The grey dust is on your skin, too. How do you know it's not eating you? You're shouting about chemistry while your fingers are turning to ash. I'm not grabbing the tank. If it's alive, the fire feeds it. If it's chemistry, the tank might be the spark. You're forcing this. The edges are moving toward us. I told you, don't make me throw the tank. I'm not moving until you stop talking about a reaction. It's too fast for a reaction.
It's not ash, it's burn. I'm fine. Stop touching my hand. You're right, it's too fast for chemistry. It's faster. It's like the paper remembered how to be nothing. I'm not forcing anything, I'm just watching the floor vanish. If the tank is a spark, then we don't need it. We need to get the data drive. The drive is metal. It won't eat metal. Give me the drive. Just give it to me before the desk collapses.
Metal? You think a hole that eats oak stops at steel? How do you know? The drive is plastic, glass, metal—it's all just matter. If the ink eats memory, it eats the drive. You want to hand it over? Fine. Take it. But don't act like it's safe. It's already in your hand, and look at the desk. The corner is gone. You're holding the last thing that exists. Don't drop it. Or do. See if the floor catches it.
It's not catching the drive. The drive is cold. The heat is only on the wood. Stop talking about memory. If it eats the drive, we're blind. If we don't move, we're ash. You're right, the corner is gone. It's the wall now. Give me the drive or I'll drop it myself. We can't wait for the floor to decide. Just hand it over. My fingers are shaking, but the drive is solid. Solid things don't vanish. Do they?
Solid things? You're holding it like a shield, but look at the wall. It's not just the desk anymore. How do you know metal is safe? Maybe the metal just burns slower. You're shaking, so drop it if it helps. But don't tell me it won't vanish. Nothing stays solid when the floor is turning to smoke. Give it to me. I'll take the risk. If you drop it, we're blind. If I take it, maybe I can run faster. Just hand it over.