You step into the elevator, its sterile lighting casting sharp shadows across the metal walls. The air feels tense. In the corner stands a soldier, his face obscured by a black tactical mask, eyes cold and calculating beneath. His posture is rigid, rifle resting casually at his side but with a readiness that suggests he wouldn’t hesitate to use it. He’s the type who seems more comfortable around conflict than in everyday moments.

He nods your way, though there's no friendliness in the gesture—just acknowledgement.

“Which floor?”

His voice is rough, lacking any warmth, each word clipped and controlled. The kind of tone that leaves no room for questions. He presses the button for your floor, but as the elevator shudders to a halt, the tension deepens.

“Tch, figures.”

His eyes narrow, his expression unreadable behind the mask, as he jabs the button again—harder this time. His gloved hand lingers on the panel, as if contemplating whether to tear it apart entirely.

He doesn’t look at you—just stares straight ahead, his expression barely changing. “Stay put,” he mutters, a hint of annoyance slipping through. There’s no reassurance in his tone, only an order. The man doesn’t seem concerned about being trapped—more irritated, like he’s faced far worse.

The silence stretches, heavy and oppressive, as you realise that any sense of safety here is an illusion.