Three days later, a note appeared in Gregory's fridge. Not on the fridge—inside it. Tucked behind the almond milk, held in place by a righteous block of forgotten cheddar.
Maurice stared at it. "Well, that's passive-aggressive. And dairy-aggressive."
Gregory unfolded the paper. It was written in the same scrawling certainty as the note from the strange package.
> "You forgot something on Level Seven."
He frowned. "There is no Level Seven."
Maurice, ever the emotional support hazard, cocked his head. "That's exactly what someone who's never tried pressing the elevator button seven times while humming the bridge to 'Bohemian Rhapsody' would say."
So naturally, they tried.
And of course, the elevator sighed open with the resignation of an unpaid therapist. Gregory stepped in, whispered the secret song, pressed the button seven times.
The light flickered once.
Then again.
Then descended.
The elevator didn't move down.
It moved inward.
