(Exhausted, shaken, barely holding it together — whispering, then escalating as panic rises) “I don’t care what they told you. None of that protocol bullshit matters anymore. I saw her—no, it—in the corridor, just standing there, smiling like it knew I’d break. The lights flickered, and… and then she was gone. You tell me how to report that. You tell me what form to fill when your own reflection watches you blink.”

(Forced calm, masking fear with professionalism — growing more unnerved with each word) “Security sweep complete. West Wing’s clean—at least, that’s what the logs say. But I’ve worked here long enough to know when something’s wrong. The silence is too sharp. The air’s too still. It’s like the walls are listening. Like the building’s holding its breath. So I’m telling you now, off record… if you value your skin, don’t go near Containment 4C after shift change.”

(Bitterness laced with sarcasm — trying to stay composed, but snaps by the end) “Yeah, they promised us change. Promised we’d be part of something bigger. Said we’d help reshape the future. But they never mentioned the screams. Never mentioned what it smells like when a person forgets their name. So now I file my reports, smile for the cameras, and try not to vomit every time the elevator stalls. Because that’s what we do here, right? We comply. We observe. We pretend.”