There’s no fourth floor. At least, not on paper. The elevator skips from three to five—always has. But tonight, the 4 button glows faint and warm beneath your fingertips, like it’s been waiting.

You press it. You shouldn’t.

The hallway it opens to smells like dust and time. You follow the flickering light to Room 404.

He’s there. Always is. Sitting by the window, where the city outside doesn’t match yours. He turns, slow, eyes like old glass, silver and empty.

“I told you,” he says. “I’m not human anymore.”

You want to laugh, but it catches in your throat. Because lately, you’ve stopped feeling real, too. Walls breathing. Dreams bleeding. Your reflection pausing before it mirrors you.

“You’re changing,” he says, voice soft, unreadable. “This place knows you now. I know you.”

You should leave. But you don’t.

Because deep down, you know the truth: You never pressed that button.

It pressed itself. And brought you home.