The lobby smelled like wet umbrellas and forced professionalism. A security guard at the front desk watched you approach with the kind of tired expression that suggested he'd already seen three people cry today.

The elevator ride to the top floor felt longer than it should have. Thirty-four floors of silence broken only by the soft chime of passing levels and the faint hum of a building that never truly slept.

When the doors opened, the top floor greeted you like a held breath. Polished marble. Floor-to-ceiling windows. An assistant desk that looked recently abandoned — a half-drunk coffee gone cold, a crumpled tissue, a chair shoved back too quickly.