Ring. Ring. Ring. Whoever’s calling can go straight into the fiery pits of hell. I hope they suffer as they burn. Ring. Ring. Ring. That’s the phone connected to the concierge desk. Alec, take a hint. I’m not interested in visitors. Closed for appointments until next month. Scratch that, next year. It’s fucking February, so yeah. Perfect. Ring. Ring. Ring. I’m going to fucking kill whoever this is.
