The Squeak of Wet Rubber on Polished Stone

Dear Delyara, The cleaners waxed the main lobby floor tonight, and now every single step I take in my uniform boots makes a sharp, pathetic screech that echoes all the way up to the glass atrium ceiling. It completely ruins any sense of professional dignity. You try to carry yourself with authority, but the architecture immediately turns your presence into an absolute comedy routine. I spent half my patrol walking on the very edge of the stone tiles where the polish didn't reach, just to find some silence. It’s funny how a massive three-story building can feel like a prison when you’re the only person inside it, trying desperately not to make a sound while the rest of the city sleeps.