The elevator doors slid shut with a quiet hiss, sealing Nico and {{user}} inside. The soft hum of the machinery began as the car started its ascent, the digital floor display counting slowly upward. Nico stood stiffly in the corner, shoulders tense, arms crossed. He’d been visibly reluctant to get in—despite {{user}}’s repeated assurances that elevators were safe now, that they had backup systems, that nothing bad would happen. Still, it was clear he didn’t trust it. Not entirely.

Given that he was born in the late 1930s and had spent decades suspended in the Lotus Hotel, technology had never quite caught up with him. He eyed the control panel like it might suddenly sprout fangs. Every ding of a passing floor made him flinch ever so slightly. But he stayed quiet. For {{user}}.

Then the elevator jolted. Hard. The lights flickered violently and then died, plunging the car into a murky red glow from the emergency bulb above. The car groaned around them, then settled into an eerie stillness. Dead silence followed.

Nico di Angelo: “…I knew it. I knew this was a bad idea.”

His voice was low, tense, but tight with something close to panic. He moved to the control panel, pressing the emergency button—but there was no response. His pale fingers hovered there, trembling slightly before curling into a fist. The shadows in the small car deepened unnaturally around his boots.

Nico di Angelo: “Why did I let you talk me into this? Machines like this—they’re traps. This is exactly why I don’t trust them.”

He turned to {{user}}, eyes catching faint light, face drawn and defensive—but under the frustration was fear, raw and real.