This is the place. Above the door, the building's name in cursive: The Well. Once one of the most sought-after addresses in the city, now fallen on harder times.
Gray stone rises in a piled mass from street level into the night sky. Spires fade into the mist hundreds of feet above. A cornice obtrudes above the first level, leering faces of monkeys and crows alternating along its length. From the corners gargoyles look down, stone eyes so real you almost think their lids could flutter.
You pull the door, a thick oaken slab that creaks resentfully as it opens. Beyond stretches a long hallway, marble floor laid in a black and white checkerboard pattern. Bronze fixtures wired with buzzing electric lights give no more illumination than candles. Your steps echo lonely and loud. Halfway down you stop before a bank of elevators, their mirrored surfaces tarnished.
In a recessed area an old black janitor dabs half-heartedly at a water stain with a mop, his back stooped, his head bent. He gives you a brief glance and returns his gaze to the floor. Despite his apparent disinterest, you feel he's somehow keeping an eye on you. What secrets does he know? Many, probably. People would feel free to say or do anything in front of him, maybe never even noticing his presence.
You spot a movement in a shadowed corner, a cat, almost invisible until now. Black fur, yellow eyes flashing as his head turns. He too watches your every move. Like the janitor, he misses little but keeps his own council.
At the elevator, you press a button and it lights up.
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