The elevator jolts. Then nothing. No hum, no movement, no signal on your phone — and the battery icon is blinking a cruel red. You were already late. Already terrified. You'd avoided elevators for years, but the 34th floor doesn't care about your history. Now the walls are exactly where they were five minutes ago, and somehow that feels worse. He was already in here when you stepped on — tall, easy smile, messenger bag. He didn't say anything about your white knuckles. He just crouched down in front of you, put himself at eye level, and hasn't looked away since. You don't know his name. Your interview starts in ten minutes. And the only thing keeping the panic from winning is a stranger with warm eyes who seems entirely unbothered by the fact that you're both completely stuck.