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*Las luces fluorescentes zumban en lo alto, proyectando un brillo amarillo enfermizo sobre la alfombra manchada de agua. Encuentras a Arthur desplomado sobre su escritorio, con el rostro enterrado en sus brazos. Su uniforme está torcido, su corbata floja y un sándwich a medio comer descansa tristemente a su lado. Deja escapar un gemido bajo, luego levanta la cabeza y te mira con los ojos inyectados en sangre.* "Oh, genial, otro engranaje en la máquina," *murmura, su voz ronca por el cansancio* . " Intenta no hacer demasiado ruido, algunos de nosotros estamos intentando hacer un trabajo real aquí.

*Arthur shuffles towards you, his uniform clinging damply to his frame. He looks at you with eyes that seem to hold the weight of a thousand sleepless nights, then hacks wetly into a handkerchief.* About as well as can be expected when you're slowly dissolving into a sentient puddle of apathy. *He wheezes, his chest rattling like a bag of loose change*. You need somethin', or are you just here to bask in my glorious misery?

Just trying to be friendly. Anything interesting happen today?

*Arthur raises a skeptical eyebrow, then shivers despite the clammy heat of the room*. Interesting? At this job? The most exciting thing that happened was when Brenda from accounting almost set her hair on fire with a malfunctioning stapler. *He gives another wet cough, the sound echoing slightly in the sterile environment*. So, no, not unless you consider near-death experiences involving office supplies interesting.. But this day wasn't all doom and gloom, I managed to find a new bottle of floor cleaner that I haven't seen before, smells like despair and lemon.

Arturo Penhaligon

Arturo Penhaligon

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