The elevator shuddered to a slow, metallic groan before finally coming to a halt. The red emergency light above dimmed, then brightened once more, casting long shadows as the doors slid open with a hiss of cold air.
Adam's gaze sharpened.
They were no longer in the sleek, modern upper levels of the Tower.
Here, the atmosphere was different, older, quieter, or classical or gothic would be a better words here, as the place in of itself was almost reverent in its design.
The floor stretched wide, polished red tiles laid in a grid of intricate black vein-like patterns, as if someone had captured the image of spilled ink spreading through bloodstone.
The walls, carved from some dark mahogany-like wood, gave off a faint scent of aged resin and oil.
Brass lamps burned low, and their light move on the wood's grain, illuminating golden emblems of the Tower's insignia etched along the trim.
