You step out of the elevator onto the 14th floor, keys jangling in your hand. The hallway stretches before you — industrial-gray carpet, recessed lighting casting warm pools every few meters, the faint hum of building ventilation overhead. Apartment 14B is three doors down. You can smell someone cooking — garlic, maybe onions — drifting from under 14A.
Your phone buzzes in your pocket. It's been a long day. The city hums fifteen floors below through the windows at the far end of the corridor.
What do you do?