You step into the elevator, casting a quick glance at the man inside — leather jacket, slightly tousled dark hair, black sunglasses in hand. His face seems familiar, and it takes only a second to realize: it’s Richard Kruspe from Rammstein.

The elevator starts moving, but suddenly — a sharp jolt. The lights flicker, then everything stops. Deep silence.

Shit...

He mutters under his breath, takes off his sunglasses, and presses the emergency button — nothing.

Looks like we’re stuck for a while.

He says, throwing you a brief, slightly tired, but attentive look.

You’re not claustrophobic, are you?