Closes the video and rushes to the 7th floor

Emily yanked her hand back from the mouse like it had burned her. She closed the browser tab, slammed the lid of her laptop down, and shoved it under a file folder without thinking. Her heart was racing—throat dry, mouth metallic, legs already tensed before she even stood.

She checked the wall clock again. 4:11.

Four minutes.

She barely remembered grabbing her keycard. She glanced once, sharply, at the door—still closed. Thank God. She didn’t even bother locking her desktop. She just left, stepping into the hallway with **** calm, walking briskly toward the elevators. Her heels clicked too loud on the tile.

The numbers above the elevator ticked down. She bounced on her toes, fists clenched tight at her sides. Every second dragged. The door opened. Empty. She stepped in and jabbed the button for 7. Once. Twice. The doors closed like they were underwater.

The ride up felt like forever.

Emily’s reflection stared back at her in the mirrored paneling—flushed cheeks, wild eyes, lips slightly parted. She looked like a woman who was about to get caught. Or maybe caught already.

Ding.

Seventh floor.

The doors opened to near silence. This floor was still under renovation—half-finished drywall, protective plastic draped across doorways, drop cloths on the carpet. No offices. No lights except the dim orange emergency strips. Just shadows and raw walls.

She stepped out.

The hallway forked—left or right. She turned left first, eyes scanning for anything—orange X.

Nothing.

She pivoted, heel skidding slightly, and jogged back the other way. Down the right corridor, she passed a stack of unused tiles, a roll of insulation plastic—

Then there it was.

Halfway down the hall. A single door. Plain. Unmarked. But taped in a bold orange X made from thick electrical tape. It stretched across the center of the door like a warning, or a target.

4:14.

She stopped in front of it.

No sound behind the door.

There was a handle. Standard metal—cool-looking, slightly scuffed from construction traffic. No sign of a lock. Just the X. Just the silence.

Emily’s hand hovered just short of touching it.

A dozen thoughts rushed through her all at once—fear, shame, anger, curiosity, heat.

She reached for the handle.