Marcus moved through the narrow corridor as if the walls were closing in. His every step felt louder than thunder in his ears. The air had weight—dust, humidity, and something metallic that lingered in the throat like regret.
He'd been trained for pursuit, for escape. But this—being hunted by something unseen, perhaps not entirely human—was different. The service hallway felt like a pulse vein in a sleeping giant, every vibration hinting at the hotel's hidden heart.
He could feel Griff's awareness—like an unseen lens turning slowly to follow him.
Marcus stopped by a service junction, muscles coiled. Ahead, the hall split: left to maintenance, right to laundry. Behind him came a faint hiss—the whisper of a door easing open.
He turned right.
The laundry corridor was draped in hanging sheets that swayed faintly from unseen drafts. He moved between them, flashlight off, heart hammering in rhythm with the rustling cloth. The smell of bleach barely masked the stench of something older—something rotten beneath the sterile perfume.
A reflection caught his eye in a detergent glass: a tall, still shadow behind him, framed by the pale fluttering of sheets.
He didn't breathe.
Marcus ducked low, moved fast, and slipped through a half-open door. The room beyond was dark, tight, and still—a linen closet, stacked floor to ceiling with folded sheets. He closed the door quietly and pressed his ear against it.
Nothing.
He waited. The silence was almost worse than pursuit.
In the dark, the tick of his pulse was a metronome of panic. He counted the beats—fifty, sixty, seventy—until his breathing calmed just enough to think.
He turned on his flashlight, a dim cone of light illuminating floating dust. He crouched beside the lowest shelf, pulled out his phone, and opened the photo files he'd stolen. Ledger entries. Maps. Blurry snapshots of faded ink and scrawled margins.
He tried to connect them—dates, symbols, names. A pattern teased the edge of his thoughts, elusive.
Then, on the corner of a torn map, he saw it again: a faint crescent shape biting into a circle of flame. Beneath it, handwritten words barely visible under smudges—
"Ritual time—rotate with lunar passage."
Marcus frowned. That phrase had appeared before, in the journal he'd found weeks ago. He opened the photo of that page—yes, there it was. Same handwriting. Same symbol.
He cross-referenced the journal with the ledger. The girl's name—Thecla —was dated just one day ago. Meaning the next "ritual" would occur soon. Too soon.
A flicker under the door drew his eyes—an unfamiliar glow, cold and pale blue. Not fluorescent. Something… else. It brightened for a heartbeat, then blinked out.
Someone—or something—was right outside.
Marcus froze.
He forced himself to remain silent, body rigid, until the glow faded completely. Then he took a slow, careful breath.
He couldn't stay here. He needed an ally—someone who knew the underbelly of this cursed hotel.
He thought of the Night Clerk—nervous, evasive, eyes always darting to corners. The man clearly knew more than he ever said. If anyone had a key to the invisible passages beneath Shomon Crescent, it would be him.
---
The staff kitchen was almost empty when Marcus entered—a single light humming above the sink, bathing everything in a sickly yellow pallor.
The Night Clerk, Elias Crane, was there, hunched over a chipped mug, a cigarette trembling between his fingers.
Marcus approached quietly. "Evening," he said.
Elias flinched hard, ash scattering over the counter. His eyes darted toward the door. "You shouldn't be down here," he whispered. "Not tonight."
"I don't have a choice," Marcus said. "I need your help."
Elias gave a dry, broken laugh. "Nobody helps anyone in this place. Not for long."
Marcus placed his phone on the table and tapped the photo of the ledger. "You recognize this name."
Elias stared at it—and then went still. The cigarette slipped from his lips and hissed out on the counter.
"Where did you—" he began, but stopped himself. His hands trembled as he looked up. "You shouldn't have taken that."
"I'm not here to debate theft," Marcus said coldly. "That girl's missing. And I think you know what happens to the missing ones."
Elias swallowed hard, Adam's apple twitching. "You think I want to know? I see the families come here sometimes, looking for their daughters, their brothers. They ask me questions I can't answer." He rubbed his face, eyes wet and sunken. "Griff tells us the hotel…feeds on loyalty. He's not lying."
"Then tell me how to stop it."
"You can't."
"I'm going to try."
Elias stared at him for a long time—then whispered, "You're just like the last one. Brave. Stupid. She said the same thing before they took her below."
Marcus's jaw tightened. "Below?"
Elias hesitated. His voice dropped to a whisper. "There's a service lift no one's supposed to use. Old, forgotten. Runs deeper than the foundation—past the cellar, into the bedrock. They call it the sub-level, but it's older than the hotel itself."
"Where?"
Elias shook his head, fear hollowing his face. "You don't want to see it."
Marcus leaned closer, his tone quiet but sharp. "You think hiding helps you? You think he doesn't already know you've been talking to me?"
That struck something. Elias's eyes darted toward the ceiling, as if listening.
Marcus pressed. "Tell me where the lift is."
After a long silence, Elias exhaled shakily. "Behind the old refrigerator in the utility room. There's a false panel. It won't show up on the schematics. But listen—once you're down there, there's no coming back the same. If you hear… chanting, don't follow it. If you see light, it's already too late."
Marcus pocketed his phone. "I'll take my chances."
Elias grabbed his arm suddenly, grip desperate. "Detective—Griff doesn't hunt you because you're a threat. He hunts you because the hotel chose you. It always does."
Marcus met his gaze, unblinking. "Then I'll choose it back."
He turned to leave. Behind him, Elias whispered—
"God help you."
The refrigerator was ancient, buzzing faintly like a dying fly. Marcus dragged it aside, metal groaning across the tiles. Behind it lay the hidden panel—rusted steel, bolted in place.
He pried it open with a crowbar, revealing a narrow shaft that plunged into darkness. The stale air that rose from it carried the scent of rust, oil, and something faintly organic—like earth soaked in iron.
An old lift cage hung inside, suspended by a single thick chain.
He stepped in, flicked the manual lever, and the lift began to groan downward. The noise was deafening, echoing like a living growl through the shaft.
Halfway down, the lift shuddered violently and stopped.
Marcus looked up. The chain trembled above him, shedding flakes of rust. He cursed, grabbed the ladder welded to the wall, and began to climb down by hand.
The descent felt endless. The air grew colder, thinner. His flashlight beam carved through clouds of dust and spider silk.
When his boots finally touched ground, he found himself standing in a vast underground corridor—stone meeting rough rock, walls carved with looping sigils that pulsed with faint bioluminescence.
Every step echoed longer than it should have.
He moved carefully, tracing the marks on the wall—realizing, with a growing chill, that they mirrored the pattern on the stolen diagram. The walls themselves formed a map, spiraling inward.
He followed the path until it ended at a massive door.
It wasn't metal. It wasn't stone. It looked grown—a fusion of both, veins of faintly glowing material threading through its surface. The crescent-flame symbol burned bright at its center.
Beside it, neatly folded on a flat slab, was Mr. Griff's uniform jacket. Perfectly clean.
Marcus's pulse spiked. He knew what it meant—Griff had been here. And worse, Griff had expected him.
He raised his flashlight, scanning the jacket. A single note was pinned to the collar, written in immaculate cursive:
"The door only opens for the chosen."
A faint sound seeped through the cracks of the door—low chanting, rhythmic, almost mechanical.
Then his phone vibrated in his pocket.
Marcus froze. There was no signal down here. No chance for a message.
He pulled it out. The screen glowed with one unread text.
Unknown Number:
Welcome to the engine, Detective. You're just in time.
As the chanting grew louder, Marcus looked up at the door. The symbol pulsed once—like a heartbeat.
And then, in the silence that followed, he realized the chanting wasn't behind the door anymore.
It was around him.