The familiar layout of Ashmere Towers was something I knew by heart—every floor was identical, a comforting routine. That comfort shattered yesterday when the elevator doors opened to an eerie hallway I’d never seen before. As I stepped out, I was met with a dim corridor where the carpet was the unsettling color of dried blood. The doors bore tarnished brass numbers that created a confusing landscape, and an unsettling silence wrapped around me, almost drowning my thoughts as I ventured deeper into this unsettling version of the building. I noticed the numbers disorientingly escalate—14, 14A, then back to 14 again. In a desperate attempt to mark my path, I used a grocery receipt, only for it to vanish without a trace. Oddly enough, the painting of a woman with hollow eyes seemed to follow me, a haunting presence as a low, mechanical hum pulsed beneath my feet. Panic hit hard; the groceries grew heavier in my arms. I felt compelled to run when I heard soft footsteps behind me, my heart racing as I fled back to the elevator. When I finally stepped inside, the sickly glow of the interior hit me. There, in the mirrored wall, I caught my hollow reflection. As the elevator began its slow descent, dread washed over me—I realized that I wasn’t in Ashmere Towers anymore. The unknown awaited me on the other side, and my fate hung in the balance.