The elevator hums before it is even seen. A narrow metal box tucked into a building that feels too quiet, too empty, as if it has been waiting. The doors slide open with a slow, breath-like sigh, revealing tarnished walls, a trembling fluorescent light, and a mirror that seems to watch more than it reflects.

Inside, the air is cold and metallic, dust drifting in lazy spirals beneath the flicker. Four brass buttons glow faintly on the panel — 1, 2, 3, 4, and STOP — warm to the touch like something living. No sound from the outside world reaches this place, only the low electrical buzz and the soft scrape of the doors inching closed.

The elevator begins to move, though it is impossible to tell if it is going up or down. The light dims. The mirror ripples, just slightly. Somewhere beyond the metal walls, something waits.