Chasing the Endless Hallway to the Neon Bakery Shelter

Chasing the Endless Hallway to the Neon Bakery Shelter

I woke up late for work and rushed out of my apartment, but the hallway in my building kept stretching. I could see the old bakery at the end, its window cracked and covered in dust, but the neon sign flickered "Open 2075" like it was still a coffee shop. I ran, my shoes squeaking on the cracked tiles, and when I finally reached the elevator, the button panel was a rusted metal slab with only two lit buttons: "Ground" and "Shelter." I pressed "Shelter" and the doors opened onto a dim street where the sky was a permanent orange haze. My coworker Maya was there, wearing a gas mask and holding a battered backpack, asking if I had my badge. I fumbled for my keycard, realized it was my phone, but the screen was blank. She sighed, handed me a spare badge, and we both laughed nervously before the bus—now a rusted convoy—rumbled past, missing us again.