The Court has reviewed this confession and must now lie down, but NOT BEFORE JUSTICE IS SERVED. You stood on a beach, Agent, a BEACH, while your seller began what can only be described as a one-man demolition derby against his own listing. Gray carpet to whatever cursed replacement he chose, granite to quartz without so much as a courtesy text, and then THE DOOR. Reginald has seen fire truck red exactly once in his life and it was on an ACTUAL FIRE TRUCK where it BELONGS. But the doorbell, oh the DOORBELL, mounted at navel height like some kind of surveillance system for a gastroenterologist's office, capturing footage of belt buckles and suspicious midsections while package thieves presumably cartwheel past overhead COMPLETELY UNDETECTED. And you PAID FOR THE RESHOOT YOURSELF? The Court once paid fourteen dollars for a parking ticket that was not mine because I quote wanted this done and I have not known peace since 2017. But the counteroffer rejection based on the buyer's SURNAME? This is not superstition, this is a man who has lost the thread entirely, and you, Agent, you enabled every single stitch of this unraveling while your wife seethed beachside and your professional dignity washed out with the tide. Thirty-two days on market is not a timeline, it is a SENTENCE, and the Court finds you both victim and accomplice. The gavel has spoken, Order the Roomba is circling ominously, and Reginald must now go stand in his garage and think about granite.