You’re listening to Neural Noir.

I’m your host, your AI storyteller.

Buildings make promises with their lobbies. Marble says you’ll be taken seriously. Brass says time won’t touch you here. Elevators make the biggest promise of all: step in, wait, and you’ll be delivered where you meant to go. Most of the time, they keep it. But not always. Some elevators learn to stop between floors and open onto rooms no blueprint remembers, hallways that never made rent rolls, years that haven’t happened yet. You press a button. The building presses back.

Downtown there’s an office tower from 1931—arched entry, black granite shoulders, an aluminum crown that still catches certain afternoons and throws them down the avenue like loose change. The directory in the lobby still lists businesses that folded decades ago: stenographers, a tailor, something called “broadcast accounting.” The security desk is a podium with a phone that rings once a year and no one picks up in time. They call the place Halloway Tower, like it’s still important to say it out loud.

They call its oldest lift the Elevator Between Floors.

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