Suddenly, a sharp ring shattered K’s hazy, half-conscious state. he supervisor’s voice, once composed and detached, now trembled with urgency, hushed and frantic. He sounded drained, his words laced with frustration.

K’s mind cleared. This wasn’t a dream. Everything remained unchanged—the supervisor’s face growing redder by the second, his agitation intensifying. Meanwhile, Ivan, having long finished his cereal, sat perfectly still.

K blinked.

Maybe it was a dream within a dream, K thought.

"Ah, yes, yes," the supervisor stammered into the phone. "But we can’t proceed—we have a situation here. There is a man without his ID, and as you know, protocol states that he cannot be permitted to leave without presenting it."

"Can you transfer me to a higher official? Someone with the authority to resolve this?" His voice wavered now, strained, desperate.

The operator murmured something unintelligible. A moment later, the line filled with the droning hum of elevator music. The supervisor let out a sharp breath and began pounding at the keypad with increasing force. But each press only summoned another automated response in an eerily gleeful voice "Press 1 for Important Matters" . He pressed. And the music resumed.

--------------

K forced himself into a semi-dreamlike state. If he could just convince his mind he was asleep, maybe he could slip away from all this. But no matter how hard he tried, he would always jolt awake—only to find himself still in front of the desk, the same two men before him, unchanged, unmoved.

The elevator music droned on, louder now, seeping into his bones, looping endlessly. Beneath it, the supervisor’s footsteps pounded in erratic rhythms, sharp and agitated.

Then, through the static-laden receiver, a muffled voice finally emerged:

"Good morning, are you an internal official?"

The supervisor exhaled sharply, gripping the receiver tightly. "Yes! Yes, I am an internal official! I need an urgent ruling on a case of identification non-compliance. We have a man here—Mr. K—who cannot present his ID, and as you know, procedural policy forbids movement without verification." His voice wavered between authority and desperation, as though he himself were uncertain of his role in the grander scheme of things.

There was a pause on the other end. A faint cough. The rustle of papers. The distant echo of someone else on another call.

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"Certainly," the voice responded with artificial cheer. "Please hold while I transfer you to the appropriate department."

The elevator music resumed, looping back onto itself every thirty seconds. The supervisor squeezed his eyes shut. K could see sweat forming at his temples, his fingers tightening around the receiver as though trying to crush it into submission.

"Ivan," K said, his voice hoarse, "he's been on hold for—"

"We cannot leave," Ivan interrupted, as if K had said nothing. His spoon clinked against the empty cereal bowl. "We must wait."

K looked at him. The bowl was dry. Not a single crumb left. He had not moved in minutes, yet his presence pressed against the room like a physical weight. His eyes were fixed forward, unblinking.

The supervisor suddenly jolted upright. A new voice had come on the line. It was calmer, deeper, and strangely distant, as if speaking from the other side of a great chasm.

"Good morning. How may I help you? Am I speaking to an internal official?"

"Yes," the supervisor croaked, his previous composure disintegrating. "Yes, I have a case of non-compliance that requires immediate review. I’ve been passed through seven different departments. I need a resolution."

A pause.

"I see," the voice said. "Can you confirm your identification?"

The supervisor blanched. He glanced at K. Then at Ivan. His hand trembled slightly. "My identification?" he repeated.

"Yes," the voice responded, patient, immovable. "Before proceeding with your request, I must verify that you are authorized to make this inquiry."

The supervisor fumbled at his pockets nervously. "I—of course, I have it right here, I just—"

His movements grew erratic. He patted down his coat, his trousers. His breath quickened.

"I—I had it this morning—"

There is nothing but silence from the other end of the line.

K watched the supervisor's complexion faded in to a sickly shade of grey.

"I see," the voice on the phone finally said. "Please remain where you are. Your case will be reviewed in due course."

A soft click. The line went dead.

The supervisor stared at the receiver in his hand, unmoving.

Ivan leaned forward slightly, his voice flat, empty. "We cannot leave."

Nobody here had ever been meant to leave.