Exhibit A: The Breakroom Microwave and the 2:13 Nobody Will Claim

Reported from the fourth floor breakroom, where the fluorescent light flickers and the smell of someone's salmon has not fully left the building since Tuesday.

Every office has one. A machine that performs a single, mundane task and yet generates more interpersonal conflict than the entire annual review cycle. It is not the printer. The printer is a separate scandal. This is the microwave.

The microwave is where a shared space becomes a shared crime scene. Nobody has seen anything. Everybody has opinions.

The Scene

The breakroom sits at the far end of the floor, past the conference room nobody books and the fridge nobody cleans. The microwave was installed at some point in the past decade, according to the facilities logs, which are written in pencil and have been updated twice.

We can confirm the following: there is a splatter on the interior ceiling. Its origin is unknown. There is a plate in the sink that has been there since before the reorganization. And there is a timer display that reads 2:13 — a ghost time, frozen in amber, claimed by no living employee.

'2:13,' a colleague said, staring at it. 'Two thirteen. You know what that means? Nothing. It means nothing. That's what makes it terrifying.'

The Suspect Profiles

The Fish Reheater. Not malicious. Not even fully awake. Just a person who brought leftovers and did not think, for one second, about the hallway. The Fish Reheater is the reason the building has a rule now. The rule is a printed sign. The sign is ignored.

The Nineteen-Minute Soup. Runs a bowl of tomato soup for nineteen minutes in a container that was never meant for heat. Result: a small volcanic event, a wiped-down tray, and a faint red ring that will outlast us all.

The Popcorn Contender. Attempts to make popcorn from scratch in a paper bag, an act of optimism that fills the entire floor with a smell that reads as burnt and yet somehow also as smug.

The Lid Flinger. Places an object inside without a cover. Walks away. Returns to a small crime scene of their own making and looks surprised, as though physics is a personal betrayal.

The Vigilante. Did not use the microwave. Did, however, leave the sign. The sign says PLEASE CLEAN UP AFTER YOURSELF. The sign is laminated. The lamination is the loud part.

The Evidence Board

Breakroom documentation tends to accrete. Within a month of any incident, the wall above the counter becomes a layered archaeology of passive notes:

• A sticky note reading 'Whoever microwaved the fish: we know.'
• A second sticky note, added later, reading 'We do not know. But we have suspicions.'
• A printout titled MICROWAVE USAGE GUIDELINES, half of which is about the microwave.
• A single, unlabeled Tupperware lid with no container, sitting there like a cold case.

The notes are never signed. Signing would be escalation. The unsigned note is the office equivalent of an anonymous tip to a very small police department.

The Passive-Aggression Propagation Scale

For those monitoring a breakroom near them, we've developed a rough index. Score each item that applies.

1. Someone sighs audibly while wiping the counter. +2
2. A new sign appears, laminated. +3
3. Someone brings their own microwave-safe cover, announces it, and does not share. +4
4. The floor manager mentions the breakroom in a meeting without naming names. +5
5. A calendar appears tracking 'microwave incidents.' +6
6. HR sends a message with the word 'reminder' in the subject line. +7
7. Someone starts heating lunch in the kitchenette on another floor. +8
8. The 2:13 is cleared and everyone privately wonders who did it. +9

Anything above twelve and you're not a workplace anymore. You're a documentary.

How It Ends

It never ends, exactly. It cycles. The office reaches an uneasy peace, usually aided by a new hire who cleans the machine out of sheer first-week terror and briefly becomes a folk hero.

Then someone reheats fish. The signs return. The 2:13 is punched in by a person who will never be identified, and the counter resets to zero.

We asked facilities if there are plans for a new microwave. They said the request is 'in the queue.'

The queue, we were told, is written in pencil.

The investigation continues. If you have information about the 2:13, please do not leave a sticky note. We can't read them anyway — there are too many.