I open the door to the sixth floor. They haven't been trying to kill me for a while now; I only see strange, but not shocking, things. Who knows, maybe things are taking a turn for the better.
The situation in front of me is calm: a completely white corridor with some mirrors on the sides and a few hanging clocks, interspersed with a series of small meeting rooms. These are two-person rooms, usually used for job interviews, particularly small and bare, entirely white: white chairs, white table, white walls, and nothing hanging inside.
They are practically all occupied by a candidate. This must be a large employment agency. I've frequented few of them because, after a few days of job hunting, I found that strange assignment with Tito and settled down.
However, the people here seem very tense. These must be important interviews. I wonder what they are hiring for! Maybe this could be my chance.
I look into the first few rooms and see people with their hands in their hair, women crying, people talking loudly to themselves. No one, however, is actually having an interview. They've all been left alone.
At the far end, I see a door open, and a very elegant man emerges, broad-shouldered and of average height. He is completely bald, with a small patch of beard. He looks muscular but doesn't have a menacing air. He seems like one of those typical former rugby players who have let themselves go a bit, keeping their broad shoulders but gaining a belly.
He comes towards me, and I read the name on the tag pinned to his elegant jacket: Mr. Threeheaded.
This sturdy gentleman extends his hand and says, "Good morning, welcome. I am Mr. Threeheaded." He smiles and explains that this floor of the building is where interviews are held for the people who will work on the other floors. I wonder if this is where they hired the sorceress or the thief! I'd also like to tell him that the padel court maintenance workers aren't very good... but he's the first person I've managed to have half a conversation with without guns pointed at me, without cards predicting my future, and without being robbed. In fact, compared to the padel player, this person even answers! I take the opportunity, then, to ask where I've ended up, how big this building is, if they know that the top floor caught fire, and a thousand other questions that are clearly buzzing in my head because of everything that's happened to me so far.
In a gentle manner, Mr. Threeheaded tells me that he will come back to answer all my questions and that I can take a seat in one of the small rooms. Okay, ten extra minutes sitting on a comfortable chair certainly won't hurt me today—there's no fire, no guns, and perhaps I can just relax.
I accept and sit down in one of the rooms, despite seeing that the people in the rooms before mine are taking some kind of test that doesn't look pleasant. Once I'm seated, he leaves, telling me he'll be back shortly. He has to take care of an urgent matter first, and then he can answer my questions.
I look around: these rooms are completely sterile. There are only a couple of odd things. For example, a clock hanging on the wall, which shows a completely different time than my wrist watch. Then, a mirror. I approach it, try to look at my reflection, and see a distorted image: swollen or elongated, depending on the angle. It's one of those mirrors used for optical illusions. Hmm, maybe it has some metaphorical meaning for the interview.
Oh well, better not to think too much about it. I continue to look around, but the room is completely white apart from these two objects. There are only a chair and a desk.
Ten minutes have passed, but I don't see anyone returning. Honestly, I'm starting to get a little bored. Then, I notice an unusual detail that I hadn't seen before: the clock hands are turning backward! This, along with the mirror, could also be a way to test the candidate's powers of observation. Maybe he'll ask me about it later and will be satisfied that I noticed. And perhaps, about the mirror, he'll ask me "Do you see yourself as fat or thin?" and I could reply that it depends on the perspective, showing in the mirror that I can stretch or shrink. Brilliant, right? Why aren't they giving me a job?
It must be twenty minutes now, and although I have to admit I've rested enough, I'd like to leave and go home to take a shower. Roughly speaking, I still have five floors to cross.
I get up and go to the room door. I'll find someone else to answer my questions. I don't have all this time to waste!
I put my hand on the handle and... surprise: it's locked.