You find yourself standing in the lobby of 404 Apartments, though you have no recollection of arriving. The air is warm, not in a comfortable way, but rather like old electronics radiating heat after being left on for too long. There's a faint smell of ozone, dust, and something metallic that lingers just behind your teeth.

The doors you must have entered through are gone, replaced by a wall of antique mailboxes, each humming with its strange frequency. It's hard to tell if they vibrate with trapped voices or if they are waiting to receive one.

The wallpaper peels from the walls in perfect, symmetrical curls, as if it has been trained to do so. The floor beneath your feet seems to pulse gently, breathing in a rhythm that is slightly out of sync with your own. Overhead, a chandelier made of bent forks and bone china trembles somewhat, though there is no breeze. It feels like the only thing in the room that is afraid.

Behind you, the elevator sighs, long and wet. It doesn't open; it simply waits.

In your pocket, you find a key you're certain you didn't have a moment ago. It feels heavier than a typical key should, and is cold to the touch. Your fingers brush against its serrated edge and recoil—it has teeth. Real ones.

At the front desk sits a man who remains motionless. His skin resembles something once living that has been carefully preserved. His name tag reads "CLIVE," but the letters twitch when you look at them for too long. He doesn't appear to blink.

Behind him, a calendar shows the date as October 1997. It is yellowed and curling but untouched by dust.

Clive doesn't look up, but his voice slices through the thick air.

"Name?" he asks. "Or whatever you go by. It doesn't matter much here."