The man—tall, silent, dressed in crisp black—led Emily down the hallway without a word. The corridor stretched long and dim, lit only by recessed violet strips along the baseboards that cast cold, elongated shadows.
Doors lined both sides, heavy matte-black panels with no handles on the outside, no numbers, no names.
Each one looked the same: thick, seamless, swallowing sound before it could even form. No bass leaked through.
Just the soft click of the worker's polished shoes and the faint rustle of Emily's dress against her thighs.
He stopped at the last door on the right. No knock. He simply pressed a discreet panel; the door parted with a low pneumatic sigh.
Emily hesitated. The worker gestured inside—open palm, polite but firm—then stepped aside.
She leaned forward, just enough to peek.
