The fluorescent lights flickered, casting a sickly yellow glow on Amelia's face. She chewed the inside of her cheek, a nervous habit she’d thought she’d broken years ago. The air grew thick, stale, as the minutes crawled by. Her phone offered no signal, the black screen a mocking mirror. She began to pace the small space, each step a clipped echo in the metal box. "Just breathe," her colleague, a man named Bob, said, his voice unusually high-pitched. She ignored him, the rhythmic thud of her heart a frantic drumbeat against her ribs.
Bob offered a bottle of water. Amelia took it, hands trembling, and poured half of it over her head, the cool water doing little to calm the heat that flushed her skin. She felt a prickling sensation all over, as if something was crawling beneath her clothes. "How long has it been?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
He looked at his watch and stammered, "An hour, maybe? Time seems... distorted, doesn't it?"
Her head snapped up, her eyes wide. That was exactly how it felt. Everything felt… wrong. She felt like she was watching herself, her movements detached and unreal. The metal walls seemed to be closing in, the air becoming impossibly thin. She wished she had never taken this job, or gotten in the elevator.