My hands are a city, my building's a thousand floors

The phone rang, and everyone looked at one another, suspiciously.
The phone had been sitting on the floor when the trio had taken possession of the office. In the three months since, no one had even thought to check if it was still connected. The previous tenant, according to the landlord, whom only the Outreach Worker had ever met or even seen, had been an import/export business who used the space the Dance Instructor now used for her studio as a warehouse.
"Is anyone going to answer that phone?" she asked without looking up from her screen.
The Outreach Worker put down a tennis racquet he was restringing, and said, "You should answer it, your name is on the awning."
"My name is on the awning, but your name is on the lease."
"I'll answer it," said the Detective. "My name isn't anywhere. I might not even exist. A man who doesn't exist is invulnerable."
The Dance Instructor and the Outreach Worker's eyes met before rolling off in opposite directions.