The 13th Floor

During his late-night security patrol, Jake found himself inside a silent elevator. Without realizing it, he had pressed the button for the top floor, and beside it, the missing number “13” flickered unnaturally.

That floor had been sealed off since a major accident five years ago. The control panel was locked, and the button itself no longer existed.

But tonight was different. Beneath the plastic surface of the panel, a pale, ghostly blue light shaped like the number “13” glowed faintly.

Jake’s heart sounded an alarm. He knew this was the floor one must never open. Yet, his finger moved on its own, tapping the glowing number twice.

With a dull metallic creak, the elevator stopped with a vibration unlike any other. The doors slid open slowly, and Jake stepped forward—drawn into the

The space before him was unlike any other floor. Dim orange lights lined the ceiling, and the air was heavy with the stagnant scent of time stopped since five years ago.

From the far end of the corridor drifted a familiar, unpleasant smell of cigarettes—exactly the same as that night five years earlier.

Suddenly, a notification appeared on his phone, though there was no signal here. 11:45 p.m. It was the exact time when his colleague had collapsed in the accident.

Panicking, Jake pressed the elevator button to go back, but it didn’t respond. The doors shut tightly, and the display froze on “B1.”

It was as if this floor existed deep underground, in a place beyond reality itself.

On the carpet, Jake saw a dark coffee stain. It was supposed to have been spilled years ago—but it looked fresh, still damp as if just poured..

The entire hallway mirrored the security footage he had watched five years ago. The scene was repeating, not moving forward—time trapped in an endless

Wet footprints trailed down the corridor, as if someone had just run through. When he looked closer, they perfectly matched the size of his own shoes.

On the emergency stairwell door ahead, a white sheet of paper was taped. In his own handwriting, it read: “You can’t go back. Don’t call for help.”

Jake’s breath grew shallow with fear. This wasn’t a hallucination. This floor was preserving the very moment of his past mistake, forcing it to repeat forever.

Determined, he followed the smell of smoke. It was leaking thickly from under the storage room door at the end of the hall.

Five years ago, Jake had ignored that same smoke and skipped his patrol. His colleague was later found lifeless inside that room. The case had been ruled an accident, but Jake knew it was his fault.

Pressing his ear to the door, he heard the crackling sound of an old tape playing—and a voice he recognized. It was his colleague’s, laughing bitterly.

“Jake, you’re here, aren’t you? I knew it—you didn’t check like you were supposed to, as always.” The voice echoed his guilt with painful accuracy.

Jake banged on the door. “Open up! It’s not too late—I’ll get you out!”

The door didn’t budge. The smell of smoke thickened instead. Then came the voice again: “Want to try again?”

Jake turned to flee, but the doorknob wouldn’t move—as if the rust itself was alive, gripping him tightly.

Then something stirred in the corner of the hallway behind him. Another figure stood there, dressed in the same black uniform.

It was Jake himself—his past self, slumped against the wall with a flashlight in hand, just as he had been when he skipped his patrol that night.

The past Jake was staring directly at the present Jake. When the present Jake tried to speak, his past self slowly turned toward the storage room door.

Taking out a pen, the past Jake scribbled new words over the note on the door: “You were too late.”

In that instant, the sound of a key dropping from inside echoed, followed by a heavy thud on the floor—the exact same sound Jake had heard five years ago, when it was already too late to save anyone.

Jake screamed and tried to pry the elevator doors open again, but cigarette smoke slithered into the gap like a thread.

The smoke wrapped around his body, and his uniform began to change—becoming the same damp, worn fabric as his past self’s.

His phone, which should have had no signal, vibrated. A new message appeared. The sender: “13F Administrator.”
Welcome to your new room. Welcome to eternal 11:45 p.m.

The elevator doors opened once more. Beyond them stretched the same dim orange corridor. Jake was now trapped forever in the loop of the 13th floor.

In the corner of the hallway stood a new Jake in a black uniform, leaning lifelessly against the wall. His eyes were vacant, his face darkened by soot,