I have a question that’s been nibbling at my frontal lobe lately: Why do brick-and-mortar banks still exist?

No, really. Every time I pass one, it looks like a set from a post-apocalyptic finance movie. There’s the eerie fluorescent lighting, rows of perfectly aligned cubicles that sit as empty as a Monday morning gym, and maybe if you squint you will see a photo of someone’s smiling child on a desk, as if to say, “Yes, a human once worked here.”

But there’s no human. Not a single soul in sight.

Well, except for the lone security guard standing stoically by the ATM, the modern temple of the anxious tap-tap-tap generation. He’s like the last sentry guarding the kingdom of checking accounts. Sometimes I think he’s just protecting the ghost of overdraft fees past.

Today I walked by a particularly intriguing specimen, that of a bank in midtown Manhattan. It was, of course, empty. The cubicles gleamed in their stillness. But then I noticed something.

Escalators.

Going down.

Yes, a basement. In a Manhattan bank. Cue the cinematic music.

Because let’s be honest. If anything mysterious ever happens in New York City, it happens in a basement. Speakeasies? Basements. Secret poker clubs? Basements. Ninja restaurants? Basements. And now, apparently, the entire missing staff of the modern banking system.

Maybe they’re all downstairs, sipping lattes, processing invisible transactions, and reminiscing about the good old days when people actually came in to deposit paper checks. Or maybe the basement is where they keep the  the last remaining pens still chained to the counter.

Part of me wonders if these empty banks are just elaborate set pieces; like pop-up museums of capitalism. Soon we’ll pay $25 for timed entry to “The Last Bank: An Immersive Experience.” You’ll get a free tote bag and a 0.01% interest rate coupon as a souvenir.

But I suppose the banks persist because we humans cling to the illusion of solidity. We like to see the thing that holds our money, even if it’s just an empty marble lobby with echoing footsteps and a faint smell of sanitizer. It’s comforting, in a weird way similar to like seeing a physical anchor for an increasingly virtual world.

Still, I can’t shake the feeling that beneath those escalators lies something more. Maybe it’s a subterranean lair of loan officers, or a hidden door marked “Employee Reality Check.” Or maybe, just maybe, that’s where they store the lost art of customer service.

Either way, next time I pass one of those silent glass fortresses, I’ll nod respectfully to the security guard. He knows something we don’t.

And maybe one day, he’ll tell us what’s really in the basement.