You wake up. Quite jarringly, in fact. Your head hurts, and you seem to be in a polished metal box. There's a set of doors on one side, but no doorknob. Right next to the door, there's a small panel. It has half a dozen buttons, labeled 1-6.

The button with the number 6 looks as if it's out of order. The button is hanging out of the socket by a red wire.

You're sure you've been in a place like this before, but you seem to remember it moving. Yes, these things are supposed to move. This one must be stuck. Call for help? Yes, you can call for help. But... how? You have no way to contact any people, and the elevator has nothing but the doors and the buttons.

Maybe you should press one.

You slowly pull upon the broken sixth button. It falls loosely from the wall. In its place, a feint light glows a soft orange.

Peering through the hole offers no relief, the light is too distant to determine a source.

You stand there, crouched, eye glued to the hole where number six used to be until your back hurts and you retire to slumping down on the floor of the small, cramped box-like room. The ceiling seems to be made of one big mirror, or at least a highly polished metal, and your own face stares back at you, warped by the circular dome shape above you. Your hair is messy, and you see a darkened dried substance smeared across your head. It looks like blood. You shut your eyes then, hoping some sort of sense will flow back to you.

It doesn't.

You press button five.

"Going down," a disembodied voice speaks from some invisible hiding place, vaguely feminine and robotic, like the sound of a lover in a dream oft revisited.

The room seems to move with a lurch, and high above you, beyond the mirrored ceiling, something moves, creaky and mechanical, humming like an old man, as you are rocked to the side with the force of movement. A song begins to play from the same hiding place the woman was in, a slow song that sounds like the memory of a time gone by, like a jazz club full of girls with short hair and brand new outlawed cocktails. It had a name, you're sure, some era glossed in glamour and blood.

It doesn't come to you, but inexplicably, the image of a woman with short hair and cupid lips sat at a piano with a mechanical voice does, the woman from before playing the song you hear now.

The room stops moving. The woman speaks again: 'Floor 5," she says, before the music cuts off, and the doors whir open on hydraulic arms.