Natalie King's heels clicked against the polished marble of her apartment building's lobby, the sound echoing off the high ceilings and grand columns. Outside, dusk draped the city in a soft twilight, casting long shadows that seemed to enhance the beauty and mystery of Paris. Natalie clutched a paper bag close to her side, the corner of a newly acquired art history book peeking out. It was one of those nights when she found herself looking forward to the simple things despite the bit of wealth she had to her name. She was sorely looking forward to a glass or two of full-bodied merlot and the soothing warmth of a lavender-scented bath. And then she was going to bed early and get a full eight hours of sleep.
She could hardly wait.
It wasn’t even that today had been a bad day. It had actually been quite relaxing. Two morning meetings, a tour of a local artist’s studio space, lunch with a friend, a trip to the bookstore, and now home to enjoy the simpler things.
As she approached the elevator, she pressed the call button. The elevator dinged its arrival, the doors parting open to reveal the mostly-glass walls. Stepping inside, she caught a glimpse of her reflection and allowed herself a moment to study it. Her pixie cut framed her face perfectly, and she found that she was still in love with the light-red shade of lipstick she'd selected for the day. The doors slid shut behind her, sealing her alone in the elevator. A pleasing and gentle hum filled the elevator as it hoisted her upward.
Her thoughts drifted back to the day's encounters—the smug satisfaction of a well-negotiated deal, the electric thrill of discovering a hidden gem. But it was the upcoming meeting with representatives from the Louvre next week that sent a shiver of excitement through her heart. This was her leap onto the international scene, a chance to prove that her keen eye and sharp intuition were not confined by borders. At the mere age of thirty, it looked like she was going to achieve all the dreams she’d set for herself long before she was forty.
Natalie's reverie dissolved with the chime of the elevator as it came to a stop on her floor—the third. Her mind snapped to the present, her legs already starting to carry her forward even before the doors parted. But when the doors did open, she was able to take only a single step; a man was standing there, waiting.
They exchanged a strange, awkward smile with one another. Natalie expected him to move to the side so she could step off, but he did no such thing. In fact, she even said, "Excuse me," as she inched further forward.
But the man remained immovable. Her heartbeat quickened, and the air seemed to grow thicker, charged with an unspoken threat that crept along her spine.
Then, with a swiftness that belied his earlier stillness, the man lunged. His hand shot out, finding purchase on Natalie's arm, and he jerked her back into the elevator. Panic flared within her chest, a scorching blaze that rendered her breathless. She stumbled backward, her bag from the bookstore slipping from her grasp and thudding against the floor—the sound absurdly loud in the cramped space.
Her cornered gaze darted to the mirrored walls, seeking an escape or a witness. But the reflections only multiplied her terror, showing the man towering over her petite frame, his face obscured by the brim of a hat—a simple fedora.
Surely someone would hear her if she screamed, she thought frantically. Surely, the surveillance cameras had already notified someone of what was happening. Yet, as the fear constricted around her heart like a vice, she realized she may have no time for such measures, no chance of hope.
Pinned against the back wall, desperation clawed at her throat, urging her to cry out, to plead for help that might never come.
"Please—" she started, but the word died on her lips as she met the man's unyielding gaze. There was no mercy there, no hint of humanity—only cold calculation.
Time seemed to fragment, shattering into shards of terror that sliced through the air as the man's hand whipped out from under his coat. A glint of metal caught the dim light of the elevator—a knife of some kind. She barely registered the weapon before it was sinking into her flesh. There was a blinding, searing pain just above her ribs as the man pushed forward, shoving the blade in deeper as he came.
Then he drew it out and shoved it in again, a bit higher this time.
Natalie's breath hitched, her scream strangled by shock and pain. Blood spread across the fabric of her blouse—blood she could not see but could feel, pumping wildly out of her body. The world tilted on its axis, the elevator becoming a spinning vortex where the only constant was agony.
Her knees buckled, but the tight confines of the elevator car trapped her upright, pinned between the cold metal and the force of her attacker. There was no escape, no reprieve from the sharp sting that tore through her chest.
With each shallow gasp for air, Natalie's consciousness wavered, her vision tunneling towards darkness. The man loomed over her, finally withdrawing the knife. But even as he did, Natalie knew she was gone, that she would never see the world outside of this elevator again.
She tried to hold onto consciousness, to cling to the fading light, but her strength was fading with every faltering beat of her heart.
As the man stepped away, exiting back through the elevator doors, Natalie’s breaths came in ragged pulls, each one a battle.
The doors began their slow, inexorable glide towards closure, the gap narrowing like the closing of an eye. And just like that, the man was gone. She was alone, and she was dying.
Her ears registered the sound of her own breathing, the wet and weakening gasps that filled the compact space. And then, there was the click, the finality of the elevator doors sealing shut, the soft hum of the lift resuming its journey upward, indifferent to the bleeding body it was carrying.