“That is unfortunate.” Jonathan’s voice slipped cleanly through the silence, composed and measured, as though the abrupt halt of the elevator and the stuttering lights were minor inconveniences rather than cause for alarm. It startled you—how easily he filled the void left by the warped, dying music, how unaffected he seemed by the mechanical failure trapping you both inside.

But then, that was precisely what had always unsettled you about Dr. Crane. He was a man of relentless calculation, not only of the world around him, but of himself. Every movement appeared deliberate, every word selected with surgical precision. Even now, in the dim, flickering confinement, there was something inhuman in his restraint. You imagined he had already measured the elevator’s dimensions, cataloged the intervals of the failing lights, and perhaps even identified the make of your briefcase by touch alone the moment you stepped inside.

Yet beneath that meticulous exterior, there was a fracture—small, but undeniable. This was not a variable he had anticipated. The doors remained sealed. The lights pulsed erratically. And you stood scarcely two feet away. For all his precision, Jonathan Crane did not know what to do.

“Stop panicking.” He removed his glasses as he spoke, the gesture slow and exact, his tone stripped of warmth. It did not comfort; it commanded. His gaze, sharper without the barrier of lenses, settled on you with clinical intensity. “These things never last long.”