Before Ryan could twist the deadbolt to begin his descent to the basement, a heavy, rhythmic rapping echoed against his front door. It wasn't the polite tap of a courier or the casual knock of a neighbor, but the aggressive, staccato cadence of someone accustomed to airing administrative grievances at unreasonable hours. Pulling the door open with a quiet sigh, he found Mrs. Gable—a formidable retired accountant who chaired the building’s subcommittee—standing in the narrow carpeted hallway with a laminated clipboard clutched tightly to her floral cardigan.
Without waiting for a greeting, Mrs. Gable launched straight into an indignant complaint regarding the sixth-floor hallway sensor lights, claiming they had been flickering erratically through the small hours and wasting the strata maintenance fund because someone in Ryan's immediate stack was constantly tripping the circuit. Ryan blinked tiredly against the harsh overhead fluorescents, the petty absurdity of building politics momentarily colliding with the heavier, phantom anxieties of his week. Offering a mild, placating nod, he listened as she demanded an explanation for the phantom movement, wondering idly if the building's mysterious sub-cavities were somehow drawing power from the very walls outside his door.