They stepped into the elevator on the eighth floor. She held a coffee in one hand, laughing as she told a story. Spencer nodded, listening — but as always, part of his mind was analyzing everything: the weight of the cabin, the speed of descent, the floor height, the tension in the cables…

And then — a sudden jolt. The lights flickered. The elevator lurched and stopped. Silence.

“No, no, no…” she whispered, pressing herself against the wall. “Not this. I hate elevators.” She was clearly trying to breathe steadily, but her hands were shaking.

Spencer silently looked at the control panel. The buttons weren’t responding.

“It’s okay,” he said calmly. “The probability of a fatal elevator fall is 0.00000015%. That’s actually lower than the chance of being bitten by a shark… in your own bathtub.”

“Do you even know how to comfort people?” she whispered, gripping his hand.

“Well… in 1999, a man in New York was stuck in an elevator for 41 hours. Also, older models sometimes overheat, and that can lead to—”

“Spencer!”

“Sorry. I just… I’m trying to distract you.”