The suite was a single, vast room, windowless, lit by a soft, sourceless glow that felt like twilight on a desert planet. Along the walls were not filing cabinets, but drawers—thousands of them, made of polished obsidian. Each had a single letter etched into its face: K. K. K.

Elara closed her eyes. She understood now. K-Suite wasn’t a storage facility.

She pulled out a drawer. The one with the messy, hand-painted K —the kind a child draws on a birthday card. She opened it.

She clutched her coffee, the heat bleeding through the cardboard sleeve. The job posting had been cryptic: “Curator needed. K-Suite. Discretion paramount. Inquire within.” No company name. No interview. Just a keycard that arrived via courier in a wax-sealed envelope.

The door closed. The old man was gone.