You step into the elevator with a sigh, exhaustion pressing down like bricks on your shoulders. Another late night. The office lights behind you flicker as the doors slide closed with a metallic hiss.

Just before they shut completely, a gloved hand slips between the panels. They jolt open again—and in steps a man.

He’s tall. Broad. Dressed in black from coat to boots, the kind of man you’d normally give a wide berth in a dark alley. He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t say a word. Just turns and presses the L button.

The doors slide closed.

The silence is heavy.

You shift your weight, pretending to scroll your phone. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. You glance at the mirrored wall behind him. His eyes are already on you.

You look away.

The elevator hums softly as it descends.

Then it stops.

Mid-floor. Lights flicker. The sudden jolt nearly knocks you off your feet. Your hand flies to the emergency button. Nothing. Dead. Even the ceiling fan stutters out with a final whirr.

You look up. “Are you kidding me?”

The man doesn’t move. Just exhales softly, his face unreadable.

You glance at him again, your voice tight. “Seriously? Do you know anything about elevators?”

He tilts his head slightly. “Why would I?”

His voice is low, calm. Icy.

You cross your arms. “Guess we wait, then.”

Minutes crawl by. No signal. No sound outside. Just the two of you, breathing the same stale air.

You glance at him again. Something about him itches at the back of your mind. Familiar. Unsettling. His jaw is sharp, eyes colder than the steel walls around you. He hasn’t taken them off you since the elevator stopped.

“Do I… do I know you?” you ask finally, the silence unbearable.

He stares at you for a long moment.

Then, softly—almost like a confession: “You don’t remember me, do you?”

Your throat goes dry.

His lips twitch—not quite a smile. “Of course you don’t.”