Floor Thirteen: Where Tiffany Green Lost Control

Behind Closed Doors, Her Secrets Began to Moan

Tiffany Green’s stilettos clicked sharply across the marble floor of her downtown apartment lobby. Midnight shimmered on her skin like oil, and her dress—tight, black, dipped dangerously low—hugged every curve like it had been painted on. 

She was running late for the main event at the arena, but something inside her wasn’t in a rush.

She called the elevator.

The mirrored doors slid open, revealing an empty lift bathed in a soft crimson glow. She hesitated for a second. The building had never looked this seductive at night. There was something… different. But she stepped in. Pressed 1 for the parking basement. The doors whispered shut.

And then nothing.

No movement. No sound. Just that eerie red glow and her own reflection staring back at her—sweaty, flushed, aroused by something she couldn’t explain.

Suddenly, the numbers above the door flickered. Then stopped at 13.

“There is no floor thirteen,” she whispered aloud.

The lights dimmed further, her phone signal died instantly. The air grew warm, then wet. She reached for the emergency button, but the panel sizzled at her touch. That’s when the elevator jolted.

The doors parted with a slow, almost teasing motion.

What she saw outside wasn’t the parking lot. It was a hallway—narrow, Victorian, lit only by flickering candles. Velvet wallpaper bled from the walls. The air smelled of roses and rust.

Her legs, somehow moving without command, stepped out onto the blood-red carpet.

She knew she shouldn’t.

But her body craved this place. Craved what it promised.

She walked forward, the corridor pulsing with heat behind each step, her heels echoing like moans against the walls. A door creaked open on its own.

Inside: a candlelit lounge. Plush, crimson chaise. A mirror taller than her stood angled in the corner. As she stepped in, the door slammed shut behind her.

She looked in the mirror.

And saw herself. But different.

Her reflection was in lingerie now—black lace over bare skin, lips smeared with a dark red gloss, hair wilder, fuller. That version of her looked back with hunger.

She reached toward the mirror. It wasn’t cold.

It was skin.

A hand reached back. From the glass.

Tiffany gasped as her reflection’s hand gripped hers—and pulled her through.

She fell. Onto a bed she didn’t remember laying in.

Now she was no longer alone.

A shadowed figure loomed beside her. His voice, deep and slick, poured into her ears like syrup:

“You came looking for escape… but you summoned desire.”

“I need to get to the arena,” she whispered, trying to rise.

But her body wouldn’t move. Not because it couldn’t—but because it didn’t want to.

His hands traced fire down her body without ever touching her. Her back arched, breath sharp, nipples aching beneath the lace that now wrapped her like a gift.

“I feed on lust, Tiffany,” he whispered, his lips at her neck without a kiss. “And you're full… so full.”

She moaned—soft at first, then louder. Her thighs pressed together. Her body betrayed her every thought.

The candles dimmed.

And then the real horror began.

The figure’s touch finally landed—hot, magnetic. But instead of pleasure, she felt her energy being drained. Her lust was being harvested. Like fuel. Her back arched, her pulse raced, but her body began to lose strength.

She was feeding him.

And he was getting stronger.

The room changed. She could now see dozens of mirrors on every wall, each one showing a woman—some struggling, some surrendering. All trapped. All reflections of her.

She screamed.

He laughed. “They all rode the lift, Tiffany. They all pressed that button with the hope of arriving somewhere else. You just happened to want lust more than escape.”

“Let me go,” she begged, fighting the waves of heat and weakness coursing through her.

“You can leave,” he whispered. “But only if you promise… to bring someone else in your place.”

Her breath caught. The arena. Her match. Her opponent.

Could she?

Would she?

She closed her eyes. Her chest heaved.

Then she whispered: “Yes.”

In an instant, the room spun. She was back in the elevator, standing tall, breathless, her dress perfectly in place. The lights returned to white. The panel lit up:

B1 - Parking.

The doors opened.

Tiffany stepped out, her heels unsteady, her legs trembling, her lips swollen from the ghost of touches she couldn’t explain.

Her cab was waiting.

She slid into the backseat. The driver, a young man with sharp eyes, said nothing. She looked at herself in the mirror above the seat—still beautiful, still deadly.

She touched her lips and smiled.

Because in two hours, she’d be face-to-face in the ring with Vanessa Vixen—a rising star who just so happened to live in the same apartment building.

And Floor Thirteen?

Was hungry again.