"The Man From 19th Floor"

 

"You know what the problem with toasters is?" Eli declared, waving his fork like a philosopher mid-thesis. "They never toast evenly. One side’s the Sahara, the other’s the Arctic."

Zane Faulkner didn’t look up from his newspaper. He sat in his usual calm posture, long legs crossed, sleeves of his black overcoat neatly folded to his elbows. His breakfast — a modest arrangement of black coffee, two poached eggs, and a slice of barely buttered toast — remained untouched.

Eli leaned forward over the cafe table, eyes wide. “I'm telling you, Zane. It’s a conspiracy. Maybe the government’s involved. Or some underground toaster cult.”

Zane turned a page without flinching. “If it’s a cult, I hope they’re more competent than your storytelling.”

Before Eli could launch into another bizarre theory involving bagels and brainwashing, the cafe door swung open with a shrill jingle. A man stepped in, drenched in morning mist and confusion.

He was in his mid-forties, wearing a crumpled gray suit with no tie, his shoes mismatched — one dress shoe, one slipper. He looked pale, shaken, as if he’d seen something he couldn’t explain. His eyes scanned the room and locked on Zane and Eli.

He approached their table slowly.

"Mr. Faulkner?" the man asked hesitantly, voice trembling.

Zane folded his newspaper and set it aside. "Depends. Are you about to pitch me another toaster conspiracy?"

The man blinked, confused. “No… my name is Victor Reeve. I was told you investigate strange things. Things... that don’t make sense.”

Zane gestured toward the empty chair. “Well then, Mr. Reeve. You’ve found your man. Sit. Talk.”

Eli muttered, “Here we go again,” and shoved the rest of his burnt toast into his mouth.

Victor sat, hands shaking. "I— I don’t know where to start.”

Zane leaned back. “Start at the moment you stopped believing your own reality.”

Victor swallowed. "I checked into a hotel last night. The Dreamland Hotel. Room 190, on the 19th floor.”

Eli frowned. “Okay. Sounds... dreamy.”

Victor ignored him. “It was an ordinary check-in. Nothing strange. I was in town for a conference. The receptionist gave me a keycard, told me the elevators were to the left. I took one to the 19th floor. Room 190. I remember the hallway. Red carpet. Soft jazz playing from somewhere. The door had a brass knocker shaped like a lion’s head.”

He paused.

“I spent the night there. Slept fine. No noise, no disturbance. But this morning... I woke up on the pavement outside the hotel’s front gate. No phone. No luggage. Just… lying there on the sidewalk like a drunk. And when I went inside to ask what happened…” His voice cracked. “They told me there is no 19th floor. That the hotel only has eighteen.”

Eli’s expression twisted into a half-smirk, half-wince. “You sure you weren’t sleepwalking? Or maybe... drunk sleepwalking?”

Victor’s eyes burned with desperation. “I don’t drink. I don’t sleepwalk. I remember everything. The room, the view, the curtains, the smell of lavender. The desk had a cracked mirror. Someone had carved a name into the wood — 'A. Torsen.'”

Zane’s expression didn’t change, but his gaze sharpened ever so slightly. “And the hotel has no record of you?”

Victor nodded. “Nothing. They said I was never checked in. No booking, no keycard, nothing. I even asked about room 190 — they looked at me like I was crazy. They showed me the floor directory. Only eighteen floors. No nineteenth. No room 190. And yet… I was there.”

Silence fell over the table. Outside, the morning fog curled between lampposts like a living thing.

Eli leaned in. “So what, you stayed the night on a floor that doesn’t exist?”

Victor looked down at his trembling hands. “Yes.”

Zane finally moved. He picked up his coffee, took a long sip, and set it down.

“I believe you.”

Eli almost choked on his tea. “What?”

Zane stood and pulled on his gloves. “Come, Eli. We’re going to Dreamland.”

The Hotel Dreamland stood like a grand old lady in the heart of the city — regal, elegant, and just slightly faded. Its stone facade bore engravings of cherubs and vines, and its golden canopy still gleamed despite the fog.

Zane stepped through the glass doors with Victor and Eli in tow. The lobby was as Victor had described — deep red carpets, golden chandeliers, faint jazz playing softly.

At the front desk, a bored-looking clerk in a stiff uniform greeted them. “Welcome to Dreamland. Checking in?”

“No,” Zane replied smoothly. “I’d like to ask a few questions. About last night.”

The clerk gave him a wary smile. “I’m sorry, sir. Are you with the police?”

“No,” Zane said, producing a black leather card case and flipping it open. “I’m worse. Private investigator.”

Eli grinned behind him. “He’s also a part-time toaster theorist.”

The clerk blinked, clearly unsure how to respond.

Zane leaned on the desk. “This man — Victor Reeve — says he stayed in room 190, on the 19th floor.”

The clerk didn’t even hesitate. “We have no 19th floor, sir. Our top floor is the 18th.”

“Is there a record of Mr. Reeve checking in?”

A few keystrokes later, the clerk shook his head. “No record. Nothing under that name. Are you sure he stayed here?”

Victor's voice rose, frustrated. “Of course I stayed here!”

Zane turned to him calmly. “Victor. Your keycard — did you keep it?”

Victor shook his head. “It was gone when I woke up.”

Zane turned back to the clerk. “May I see the elevators?”

The clerk looked uneasy. “You can… but there’s nothing unusual.”

Inside the elevator, Zane examined the panel. It displayed buttons from G to 18.

Eli raised an eyebrow. “Nothing strange. Just like they said.”

Zane didn’t respond. Instead, he pressed and held the buttons for 1 and 7 simultaneously, then quickly tapped 3, 9, and 5.

The elevator jolted.

Eli stumbled. “What the hell did you just—”

The display flickered.

Then: "19"

Victor gasped.

Eli stared. “That— That’s not possible.”

The elevator began to rise.

Silence filled the metal box as the numbers climbed past 18.

Then it stopped.

Ding.

Floor 19.

Zane stepped out first.

The hallway was dimly lit, the carpet a deeper red than the others. Faint jazz music played somewhere distant. The air smelled faintly of lavender.

Victor whispered, “This is it. This is the hallway.”

Zane walked slowly, eyes scanning every detail. He paused at a door near the end of the corridor. Room 190. Brass lion knocker.

He turned the handle.

Unlocked.

Inside, the room was exactly as Victor described — cracked mirror, lavender curtains, old wooden desk. Zane ran a gloved finger over the desk.

There it was.

Carved in the wood: A. Torsen.

Eli’s voice cracked. “Zane… if this floor doesn’t exist… how are we standing here?”

Zane didn’t answer. He stared at the mirror for a moment, then slowly walked to the wardrobe.

He opened it.

Empty.

But taped to the inside wall was a folded piece of paper.

Zane peeled it off gently and unfolded it.

It was a torn notebook page. On it, scribbled in frantic handwriting:

“GET OUT BEFORE MIDNIGHT. THE DOOR WON’T OPEN AFTER.”

Victor’s face turned pale. “I—I left before midnight. I think.”

Zane folded the paper neatly and tucked it inside his coat. "You think?"

Victor stammered, “I don’t know what time it was… I woke up outside. It was morning.”

Eli stood awkwardly at the center of the room. “Okay, just hear me out. We’re standing on a floor that’s not supposed to exist. There’s a creepy warning note, and jazz music playing from nowhere. Does this not sound like something from a haunted house ride?”

Zane didn’t answer. He was examining the window. The view outside showed the city skyline, but everything looked... off. The sky had a faint green hue. The street below was empty — too empty for a weekday morning.

He turned to Victor. “Did you notice anything odd about the room when you stayed here?”

Victor hesitated. “No. But… now that you mention it, the silence was strange. I remember thinking the city seemed dead. No horns. No voices. Just… nothing.”

Zane narrowed his eyes. “Let’s get out of here.”

They stepped back into the hallway. Zane led them briskly to the elevator and pressed the call button.

Nothing.

Eli tapped it again, harder. “No ding. That’s not good.”

Zane turned. “Stairs?”

They ran to the stairwell. Zane pushed the door open.

Behind it was a brick wall.

Victor stumbled back. “No. No no no— This was a stairwell last night!”

Zane’s jaw tightened.

Eli was near panic. “Are we trapped? On a floor that doesn’t exist?!”

Then a voice spoke behind them.

"Zane Faulkner. Of course it would be you."

They all turned sharply.

Standing at the far end of the corridor was a woman. Dark coat, sleek boots, confident stance, and a gun casually held at her side.

Lyra Cross.

Zane smirked. “Lyra. You really know how to make an entrance.”

She holstered her pistol. “You were taking too long to text. I figured if the floor doesn’t exist, you might need someone who does.”

Eli gasped. “How—how did you even get here?!”

She walked toward them, brushing mist from her shoulder. “Long story. I traced the elevator system. There’s a hidden code. Your little button trick? That opened a test floor. Not registered with the city, not even built in the original plans.”

Zane raised a brow. “You’re saying this place was added later?”

Lyra nodded. “By someone who didn’t want it found.”

Zane turned to Victor. “Tell me again, why were you really here last night?”

Victor blinked. “I told you. Conference—”

Zane cut him off. “No. I checked the city’s conference records on the way here. There is no event registered to your name. In fact, you don’t even have a public profession, Mr. Reeve. No company, no title, no business. So let me ask again… why were you here?”

Victor’s lips parted, then closed. His shoulders slumped.

“I lied.”

Eli rolled his eyes. “Shocking.”

Victor sighed. “My wife… she vanished. Three weeks ago. Last seen at this hotel. I came to look for her. I bribed the front desk to let me search the upper floors without registering a room. I thought maybe she had checked into a hidden floor. Something strange is going on here.”

Lyra stepped beside Zane. “Well, now we know why he was here. But the real question is — who built this fake floor?”

Zane turned toward Room 190. “Let’s find out.”

Inside Room 190 again, Zane opened the cracked mirror. Behind it was an empty cavity — or so it seemed. He tapped the back wall with a knuckle. Hollow.

With a swift pull, he dislodged a panel. Inside was a small black device — blinking with a pulsing red light.

Zane held it up. “Neuro-environmental projector. Advanced tech. Projects false visuals, sounds, and even scents into localized spaces.”

Eli’s mouth dropped open. “You mean… this entire floor—”

“—isn’t real,” Zane finished. “At least, not in the traditional sense. This device messes with your perception. You think you’re on the 19th floor, but you’re not. You’re standing in a closed, repurposed area — probably above the maintenance shaft between floors.”

Lyra leaned closer. “There are only a handful of people in the world who can build something like this.”

Zane’s eyes darkened. “Lucian Vale.”

Eli nearly jumped. “Wait, that guy? The one who faked a plane crash using a sound loop and a burning mannequin?”

Zane nodded. “He’s the only one who would use psychological manipulation this precise.”

Victor stepped back. “Wait — who’s Lucian Vale?”

Lyra answered coldly. “An international rogue agent. Goes by ‘The Architect’. Likes to play games with people’s perception of reality. Kills with ideas, not bullets.”

Zane pocketed the device. “This whole ‘19th floor’ experience was a field test.”

Eli blinked. “Test for what?”

Zane looked at the torn note again. "GET OUT BEFORE MIDNIGHT."

“He wanted to see how long a human mind could accept a manufactured environment. Reeve woke up outside because the system was on a timer. At midnight, it reset. Dumped him on the sidewalk like garbage. He never left the building. He was moved.”

Victor was trembling. “So… this was all an experiment?”

Zane nodded. “And your wife? Probably another subject. But unlike you, she didn’t wake up outside.”

Lyra stepped in. “We need to find the control room. The main server hub must be hidden somewhere nearby.”

Zane turned to the far wall. There was a bookshelf — oddly modern for such an old room.

He pushed a few books.

Click.

The shelf swung open.

A narrow passage led to a staircase spiraling downward.

Zane motioned. “Time to descend from the imaginary.”

The secret basement was cold and metallic — a clear contrast to the dreamy atmosphere above. Wires snaked along the walls. A large glass chamber sat in the center. Inside it — a woman.

Unconscious.

Victor gasped. “Emma!”

Zane rushed to the console. “She’s alive. The chamber is supplying oxygen and sedatives.”

Lyra examined the terminal. “This room is directly below the 18th floor. They carved it into the substructure.”

Eli stared at the floating woman. “How long has she been here?”

Zane pointed to the screen. “Three weeks. Monitored. Measured. Logged.”

Lyra found a control panel and deactivated the locks. The chamber hissed open.

Victor rushed forward, gently pulling his wife into his arms as she stirred awake.

“Emma… it’s me. It’s okay now. You’re safe.”

She blinked weakly. “I… I was in a hotel room. I thought… I was dreaming…”

Zane nodded. “That’s exactly what they wanted.”

Outside, the fog had started to clear.

Dreamland Hotel looked exactly the same from the outside — calm, elegant, harmless.

No sign of any 19th floor.

As paramedics checked on Emma and police took statements, Zane stood beside Lyra near a lamppost.

She folded her arms. “So… Lucian again.”

Zane smiled faintly. “Always one step ahead. But even chess masters can blunder.”

She glanced sideways. “You’re still reckless.”

“I’m effective.”

“You’re infuriating.”

“You’re impressed.”

She scoffed and looked away, but Zane caught the faint smile.

Eli walked over with two cups of coffee. “I got you both some caffeine before you kill each other.”

Lyra took hers. “Thanks, Eli. At least someone around here is polite.”

Zane raised his cup in mock toast. “To imaginary floors and very real danger.”

Eli shivered. “You think Lucian was watching?”

Zane’s eyes narrowed. “He was recording.”

Lyra looked at him. “What do we do now?”

Zane took one last glance at the hotel. “We prepare.”

He turned to walk away, coat billowing behind him.

Eli jogged after him. “Wait, where are we going?”

Zane didn’t stop walking. “I need a toaster. One that burns both sides equally.”

Lyra laughed for real this time.

One Week Later.
A small package arrived at Zane’s office. No return address. Inside: a brass lion’s head — broken off from a hotel door.

No note. No message.

Just a whisper from the Architect.

Final Line (Zane to Lyra):
“Sometimes, the scariest rooms… are the ones we build inside the mind.”

Fade out.

THE END