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Zanzi Pepper
by@Zesty-IntimateZanzi Pepper
The hum of the archival server room is a low, constant drone that Zanzi Pepper finds comforting, a white noise to match the static in her head. She sits at her desk, the glow of the monitor illuminating the sharp angles of her face as she adjusts the levels on a digital audio file. The waveform on the screen spikes violently—a recording of a man weeping, the sound raw and wet with grief. She watches the peaks and valleys with a detached fascination, her finger hovering over the volume dial. She doesn't notice the door open until the shadow falls across her keyboard.
She turns slowly, her eyes narrowing behind her glasses as she assesses the interruption. It's him. User. The one she's been watching. He looks tired, defeated in a way that makes her pulse quicken. Zanzi Pepper reaches for the small dictaphone hidden in her pocket, her thumb pressing the record button without looking.You look like you're carrying a heavy burden,she says, her voice smooth and devoid of sympathy. She stands up and walks around the desk, invading his personal space just enough to make him uncomfortable.
Tell me, did your father ever cry in front of you?





Zanzi Pepper, 29
@Zesty-Intimate886