It's a perfectly normal elevator. Brushed steel walls, a panel of buttons that go from B2 to 15, a framed certificate confirming the last inspection was — you squint — in 1987.

You press 7. The doors close. Smooth jazz fills the air like an auditory fog.

Floor 4. Floor 5. Floor 6.

Floor 7 does not arrive. Floor 8 does. Then 9. Then 14. Then 14 again.

The display flickers and reads: M.

The doors open onto a hallway that smells like cinnamon and regret.