The Vertical Split

The corridor ended at a wall of cold, brushed brass where two elevator doors met in a hairline seam. One panel reflected a distorted gleam of morning light; the other remained choked in murky shadow. Down or stay? The shaft behind the metal murmured with shifting counterweights, demanding an absolute ruling. I leveled my thumb beneath the silver piece, flicked it whistling into the air, and slapped it flat against my forearm. The scarred face stared back. Ground floor. I planted both feet precisely before the dark panel, pressed my shoulder against the call button's illuminated rim, and committed to descent.