[EP4] The Architect Broke

Sometimes the safest structures are built by the most wounded hands.

[Scene opens in the main council chamber. Tension hums like a static charge. The chandelier flickers slightly, as if bracing for impact. The group is gathered. The room feels brittle.]

Trevor: [storms in, wild-eyed and livid] What the hell happened? WHOSE IDEA WAS THIS?! I executed a brilliant plan, and you led me straight into a look-a-like convention!

[Everyone freezes. Even the fireplace seems to flinch.]

Trevor: Someone is about to be put in a permanent time-out if you get my meaning.

Dion: [opens his mouth]

Trevor: [already pointing] If you so much as crack a fucking grin, I’ll turn your silk robe into a body bag and trap you in it until the maggots feasting on your rotting flesh start shitting worms. Sit. The fuck. Down. NOW.

[Kurt chokes on his protein shake.]

Trevor: [turns to Lenny] Well? What happened, Four Eyes? Did your math stop mathing? Did your data come up clean, and you just trusted the fucking spreadsheets to do your job for you? You of all people. You sneaky little shit—this was on purpose, wasn’t it? You wanna be in charge again. Go back to when it was just you. All alone. Hiding in the closet like a scared little puppy.

Cyril: [stands calmly] That’s enough, Trevor.

[Kurt visibly flinches.]

Trevor: Oh, let’s talk about “The Mighty Concierge”, shall we? The all-seeing, all-knowing, preemptive-strike machine who supposedly knows everything ten steps ahead. Tell me, genius, what happened to your 10-D chess this time? What happened to your whispers of inevitability and perfectly timed tea rituals? You know what I think? I think you’re a fraud. I should turn your room into a sauna—at least there hot air serves a purpose.

[Cyril doesn’t move. But he does stop blinking.]

Trevor: If you couldn’t predict this, what good are you? You’re not protection. You’re not foresight. You’re a walking thesis statement that never delivers.

[He exhales like he wants to ignite the room.]

Trevor: Fuck this. I’m going outside. You all figure out what the hell you want to do now.

[He storms out. The double doors slam so hard they bounce off the walls and nearly close again.]

Dion: [stands up slowly]

Cyril: [without turning] Don’t. You. Dare. If you say something glib, I’ll have Kurt knock you into next Tuesday, and then for good measure, I’ll burn your silk sheets and force you to sleep on cotton. Go ahead. Try me.

[Dion sits back down. Wide-eyed. A stillness settles over the room. A velvet, breathless grief. Simon the plant droops. He always droops when Trevor breaks. Kurt shifts in his seat. The leather creaks too loud. He freezes. Then adjusts slower—trying not to offend the silence. The creak still sounds guilty. Artie rocks under the table. Nels clicks his teeth. Casper doesn’t speak. Then, finally…]

Lenny: [voice cracking] I’m sorry. I—I messed up.

[The room turns to stone. Everyone stares. Lenny never messes up. He can’t.]

Lenny: I thought I had it handled. I thought if I accounted for all the variables...

[Nels walks over. Kneels beside him. Gently places a hand on Lenny’s shoulder.]

Nels: You don’t have to carry it alone anymore. We’ll figure it out. Together.

[Scene fades with the sound of someone exhaling too loud, and the chandelier slowly stabilizing itself above their heads. Simon leans slightly toward the light.]

End Session.