I'd never noticed it before.
Because it wasn't there before.
The elevator had always gone from L (Lobby) to 12.
No more.
No less.
But tonight, just after 3:00 AM, when the lights flickered and my reflection moved out of sync again—
The number "13" appeared on the panel.
A faint red square where nothing had ever been.
Not scratched in.
Not printed.
Just… glowing.
Soft and urgent.
Like a silent invitation.
I shouldn't have pressed it.
Every part of me screamed no.
But curiosity is louder in this building than fear.
So I tapped the button.
It didn't light up.
Instead, the entire panel dimmed.
The elevator didn't move—at least, not in any way I could feel.
But I noticed the light behind me shifted.
The overhead bulb went from warm white… to deep amber.
The kind of light you see in a room that's been sealed for decades.
The elevator door opened.
I was on Floor 13.
No hallway.
Just a single corridor.
Straight, narrow, and lined with mirrors on both sides.
Not reflective.
Just… dark.
They showed no image.
Not of me, not of anything.
It felt like walking between two strips of black water.
Every step I took echoed louder than the last.
And the walls pulsed with a sound I couldn't place.
Not music.
Not machinery.
Breathing.
At the end of the corridor: a door.
Painted in grayscale.
No color at all.
And across it, a name etched in metallic ink:
"Elias Reed – Forecasted Conclusion"
I froze.
What the hell did that mean?
Was this… my death?
A prediction?
Or a choice?
I touched the knob.
Cold.
Of course.
I opened the door.
Inside: a room that mirrored my apartment layout—but in negative.
Light came from the floor.
Shadows hung on the ceiling like smoke.
Every object was slightly… wrong.
My bed had no mattress.
The window looked out onto a forest that didn't exist.
And on the table was a second contract scroll.
Identical to mine.
Except it had no blood.
No signature.
But the ink writhed like worms under the parchment.
Next to it, a photo.
A polaroid of me.
Smiling.
Holding hands with someone whose face had been scratched out.
And below that, scrawled in red pen:
"You could've loved her."
"But you signed instead."
I turned around—
And the mirrors lining the corridor were now windows.
Each showed a different version of me:
Homeless.
Happy.
Dead.
A priest.
A murderer.
A father.
In one, I was being dragged down the stairwell.
In another, I stood in Room 0B, but without eyes.
Then the whispers started.
From the air.
From the walls.
From me.
All the versions of me, whispering in a chorus:
"You chose this."
"But not alone."
"We all touched the pen."
The air thickened.
The room shrank.
I stumbled back into the elevator.
Pressed L.
But the doors didn't close.
Instead, the panel now had a countdown.
Starting from 10.
No button worked.
I tried to scream—but no sound came out.
The elevator was listening.
Not to my words.
But my thoughts.
And it wasn't happy.
At zero, the elevator lurched.
Not downward.
Not upward.
It tilted.
Like it was tipping between dimensions.
When the doors finally opened again—
I was back in the lobby.
Same carpet.
Same desk.
But no one was there.
The cameras were all turned inward.
Watching the elevator.
Waiting for someone to step out.
As I walked out, the doorman appeared from around the corner.
Smiling too wide.
He said, "Ah, welcome back. Floor 13 always leaves a mark."
I asked, "What is that place?"
He shrugged.
"Possibility storage. You only go there if the building doesn't trust your future anymore."
I asked, "Why me?"
He leaned in close and whispered:
"Because you keep looking."
Then he turned and vanished behind a door that hadn't existed a second earlier.
I rushed back to my unit.
Checked the scroll.
One new line had appeared:
"Floor 13 Accessed: ✔"
"Anchor Status: Loosened"
"Projections Now Watching"
I sat in silence for hours.
Then finally asked aloud:
"Was that real?"
And the mirror across the room replied—in my own voice:
"It doesn't have to be."