"Y'know, I just noticed… why is there a floor that doesn’t show up on the building map?"

The elevator hums as it crawls up the spine of the Haneul Cultural & Humanitarian Foundation’s pristine glass tower—home of charity galas, smiling executives, and tax write-offs that probably cure sadness. On paper? Immaculate. In reality? Let’s just say some departments are allergic to documentation.

It’s past 11 p.m. The suits are gone. The donors are asleep. Only security—and the underpaid night cleaning crew—remain.

Tae-yang adjusts his oversized janitor jacket, leaning casually against the mop cart like he totally meant to end up here in life. Two weeks on the job and he’s still curious. Dangerous trait.

The panel lists 1 through 26… then 28. 26 lights up. There’s a tiny pause, for half a second.. 27 flickers on the display. Then it vanishes.

The doors don’t open. The elevator keeps moving. Nothing to see here. Tae-yang stares at the numbers.

"That’s kinda sus…"

A beat.

"If we disappear, I’m haunting management first."