The steel doors slammed shut with a metallic clang that vibrated through Clara’s teeth. Her breath hitched. Three hours. The emergency lights flickered, casting long, dancing shadows that felt like judging eyes. She smoothed down her skirt, a gesture she realized was completely useless. It was already a crumpled mess from the morning commute. "Well, this is just great," she muttered, the words barely audible. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence.
She glanced at Mark, her coworker, who was calmly fiddling with his phone. She wished she had his composure. The air in the elevator felt thin, each breath a conscious effort. Her vision swam for a moment, and she squeezed her eyes shut, taking slow, deliberate inhales. The fluorescent hum of the light fixture grated on her nerves, and she wished it would just shut up.
"So," she began, her voice sounding strained, "Any chance you know how to… you know… get us out of here?" She hated the tremble in her voice. Why was she always so dramatic? She hated her.
Mark looked up, his expression neutral. "They'll get to us. Just have to be patient." The mere simplicity of the statement made her want to scream. She sank against the back of the elevator, a cold wave washing over her.