I scanned the card on the wall panel.

The elevator doors slid open silently, revealing an interior lined with mirrors and green velvet.

There was only one button inside: *PH*.

I pressed it, and the elevator began its smooth, silent ascent.

My stomach dropped as the numbers climbed.

When the bell dinged, the doors parted to reveal a hallway carpeted in thick, cream-colored wool.

Soft track lighting illuminated large abstract paintings hanging on the walls.

It looked peaceful, but the air was different up here.

The scent of cedar was gone, replaced by the faint, sharp sting of rubbing alcohol and bleach.

I walked down the corridor, my steps completely muffled by the carpet.

I passed a recessed door with a digital keypad.

Through a small glass pane in the door, I saw stainless steel counters and rows of amber medicine bottles.

This wasn’t a residence.

It was a clinical ward disguised as a luxury apartment.

At the end of the hall, there was a double door made of frosted glass.

A brass plaque on the wall beside it read: *Suite A*.