Every morning, a throng of workers passes through the automatic doors, each engulfed in turn by the cool air of the lobby. Before them waits a vast granite room, so large that the gathering daylight flooding through the entrance fails to reach its edges.

There is no ceiling as far as any of them could tell.

There would be no way for them to find out anyhow.

They file into one of four lines, each leading to its respective elevator embedded, vested in the far wall, framed by brushed steel. The steady shuffling of their feet sounds like sandpaper on the dark stone.

One of the elevators opens with a ding in the distance.

This is the foyer to all else. Funneled, stretched thin, the masses chit-chat in whispers and nods, and press ever onwards. They compare floor numbers, devise stratagems for an efficient exit.

Their destination is the same.