Scene: The express elevator of the newly completed Olympus Tower, a monument of steel and hubris piercing the city skyline. The car is opulent – mirrored brass, subtle uplighting, the scent of expensive leather.
The elevator was crowded, a silent, vertical capsule carrying its diverse cargo towards The Apex Club, the exclusive lounge crowning the tower. Arthur Blackwood, CEO of Olympus Corp, stood ramrod straight, a faint smirk playing on his lips. Beside him, the socialite Vivienne Starr adjusted a diamond earring, her reflection coolly appraising. Marcus "Brick" Bronson, Blackwood’s bodyguard, was an impassive mountain of tailored serge. Sarah Chen, a young architect, clutched her briefcase, its contents – stolen Olympus schematics – a guilty weight against her side. And then there was Mr. Alistair Finch, elderly and unassuming in a worn tweed coat, clutching a battered leather satchel, seemingly an anomaly amidst the gloss. A young couple, intertwined and oblivious, murmured softly in a corner.
The ascent was initially a smooth surge of power. Then, with a sickening lurch that threw them against each other, the elevator juddered to a halt. The lights flickered, died, then re-lit with a dimmer, emergency glow. The floor indicator was blank. Silence descended, thick and sudden.
The Essence of Regret
A faint, sweetish odour, like lilies mixed with damp soil and old, sorrowful paper, began to seep from the ornate ventilation grilles. With it came a subtle, swirling, pale green mist, so fine it was initially mistaken for dust motes in the emergency lighting.
Arthur Blackwood was the first to react, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. He sniffed. "Is that… cigar smoke? Someone open a window – oh, for God's sake.". He rubbed his hands together, then stared at them, a look of faint disgust. They felt… greasy.
Vivienne Starr gasped, her hand flying to her throat. In the brass mirror, her impeccably made-up face had, for a fleeting instant, seemed older, etched with lines of desperation, her designer gown subtly frayed. She heard a whisper, too faint to discern words, yet laden with accusation. Bronson shifted, a low grunt escaping him, the phantom tang of old blood suddenly coppery in his mouth.
Sarah Chen felt an icy chill emanate from her briefcase, then a burning heat, as if the data chip within pulsed with its stolen, illicit knowledge. The faces of her betrayed colleagues flickered at the edge of her vision. Mr. Finch’s grip tightened on his satchel; the worn leather seemed to strain, growing heavier, emitting a sound like a drawn-out, mournful sigh that only he could hear. The young man in the corner flinched, pulling away from his lover slightly, seeing not her adoring face, but a fleeting, superimposed image of another.
The Crucible of Confession
The green mist thickened, swirling, making the already cramped space feel suffocating. The subtle manifestations intensified, becoming undeniable, almost tangible. Blackwood now reeked faintly of stale tobacco and something richer, like expensive brandy spilled on a contract signed in bad faith. Vivienne saw not just an older self, but a parade of disappointed, angry faces shimmering in the reflections. Bronson’s fists clenched, phantom aches shooting up his arms.
"What is this stench?" Blackwood demanded, glaring at Mr. Finch. "What have you got in that wretched bag, old man? Something rotten?"
"It's… just p-p-papers" Finch stammered, his eyes wide with a private terror.
"Liar!" Vivienne shrieked, pointing a trembling, bejewelled finger at the young woman in the couple. "I saw you! I saw you with him! You deceitful little…" The accused woman burst into tears, her partner staring in stunned horror.
Sarah, hyperventilating, blurted, "I stole them! I stole the plans! I just wanted the commission…"
The elevator became a cacophony of blurted confessions, accusations, and weeping. The air, thick with the green mist and the raw stench of exposed guilt, was almost unbreathable. Each admission seemed to hang in the vaporous air, a visible stain. The judgment wasn't coming from outside; it was blooming from within each trapped soul, catalysed by the elevator's strange, sentient atmosphere.
The Ascent to an Unseen Reckoning
Then, as suddenly as it had stopped, the elevator gave a smooth, powerful lurch and resumed its ascent, faster now, almost unnervingly silent save for the muffled sobs and muttered prayers within. The green mist pulsed, becoming nearly opaque, obscuring the figures from each other, each isolated in their own cloud of manifested regret. The floor indicator flickered to life, not with numbers, but with a dizzying, silent cascade of unreadable, ancient-looking patterns.
Ding.
The doors hissed open.
From the viewpoint slightly above, looking down into the car, the space beyond the threshold was not The Apex Club. It was an expanse of calm, neutral, unending grey mist, silent and featureless, stretching into an unknowable infinity.
One by one, seemingly compelled by a force unseen, they stumbled out. Blackwood, his arrogance stripped away, was a hunched figure of pure dread. Vivienne, face tear-streaked, her glamour a forgotten mask, walked like a somnambulist into the grey. Sarah, still clutching her briefcase, followed, her shoulders shaking. Mr. Finch, his satchel now impossibly heavy, shuffled out, a single tear tracing a path down his papery cheek. The young couple, estranged by forced honesty, exited on opposite sides of the doorway.
The last figure vanished into the silent, grey expanse. The elevator doors whispered shut, the car empty save for the slowly dissipating green "Essence of Regret" and the faint, cloying scent of lilies and a thousand unspoken sorrows. It hung there for a moment, then, with a soft hum, began its descent, ready for its next collection.
Never let off smells in an elevator.