It started with a simple mistake—taking the last elevator up.

The building was half asleep that evening, lights humming, offices empty. You stepped in, hit your floor, and just as the doors were closing, a hand slipped between them. They opened again.

Jennifer Morrison stepped inside.

You knew her by reputation—the sharp, confident woman who ran interviews like interrogations, all grace and edge wrapped in a power suit. But here, close enough to smell her perfume, she looked more human. Tired, maybe. Thoughtful.

She smiled politely. “Which floor?”

“Seven,” you replied.

“Same.”

The doors closed. The elevator hummed upward—until it didn’t. A jolt, a shudder, and then silence.

You both froze.

Jennifer pressed the emergency button. Nothing. She sighed, leaning back against the mirrored wall. “Well,” she said, “I guess it’s you and me now.”