The chanting was everywhere.
Not above or below, but inside the stone.
. It was a sound that made his teeth ache, a low, guttural, syllabic rhythm that was undeniably ancient. It was the sound of a world that existed parallel to his own, and now, finally, they had converged
Marcus turned, searching for a way back up the shaft, but the walls pulsed faintly , the sigils,which he now recognized as something more than mere decoration - glowing like veins of molten gold. He took a step toward the ladder, his only known exit,
but the air thickened. The light from his flashlight bent, curling inward.
When he reached for the wall, his hand stopped inches short. A resistance,it was invisible but absolute. The restriction held him back. The sigils brightened at his touch, burning brighter the harder he pressed.
A barrier!
Marcus staggered back, his heart hammering against his ribs like a desperate fist. The faint chanting rose and fell, synchronizing with the pulse of the light. The rhythm was compelling, oppressive, making his head pound with an insistent ache. He realized then that he wasn't being trapped by accident. The barrier was not meant to keep him out, but to guide him. The restriction was simply an elegant funnel.
The only open direction was forward.
He followed the light. Each step was reluctant, but the compulsion pressed against his spine, whispering move.
The corridor widened. The air thickened with incense and iron. And then — suddenly ,the space opened up.
Marcus emerged into a cavernous antechamber lit by hundreds of oil lamps suspended in alcoves. The air shimmered with heat. The walls were alive with sigils — no longer glowing softly, but burning bright like open wounds.
At the center of the chamber stood a massive, imposing stone altar, dark and pitted, as if it had suffered the same cruel rites for centuries. Around it, a circle of figures in black robes swayed rhythmically, their movements slow and hypnotic, their voices raised in that scraping, low language that felt less like sound and more like a vibration directly against the cavity of Marcus's mind.
The air buzzed with a sickly vibration, as though the very molecules resisted what was happening.
And there, standing before the altar — was Mr. Griff.
He was not in his usual immaculate, starched uniform. His tailored jacket and polished shoes were gone. Instead, he wore a simple, dark, loose robe, the fabric so black it seemed to absorb all light and shadow. His posture was unsettlingly calm, utterly reverent.
"Welcome, Detective," Griff said without turning. His voice was serene. "You are punctual. The hotel rarely rewards punctuality, but tonight… it will."
Marcus's throat tightened. "You were expecting me!"
Griff turned slowly. His face was pale, almost luminous in the red-gold glow cast by the burning sigils.
His customary, perfect smile was absent. In its place was something worse: an expression of profound devotion. It was the face of a man who believed, utterly and without doubt, in the righteousness of his terrible action.
"The hotel provides a witness for every renewal," Griff said softly. "And sometimes, a catalyst."
Marcus's eyes moved to the altar — and froze.
Lying upon the cold slab was a girl. Pale. Unconscious. Her chest rose and fell in shallow rhythm.
Thecla?
The name from the ledger. The missing one.
Her appearance differed from the frantic, fleeting vision he had experienced in the corridor.
The girl wasn't tied down, yet her body lay unnaturally still, as if pressed by invisible hands. A faint shimmer of air — a distortion — hung over her like heat mirage.
Marcus took a step forward, but the nearest cultist hissed a single syllable. The air rippled, and he felt a pressure against his chest that shoved him back.
"Don't," Griff said gently.his voice,a warning given to a careless child.
"She is balanced perfectly. Touch her and you unmake the ritual before it serves its purpose."
Marcus forced himself to speak. "You call this purpose?"
Griff tilted his head. "Everything that survives has one. Even you, Detective. Especially you."
He gestured to the cultists, who fell silent. The chamber dimmed slightly as the sigils withdrew their glow, as if bowing to their master's words.
Marcus's pulse roared in his ears. He tried to keep his voice steady. "You think this....this madness....keeps you alive?"
Griff smiled faintly. "Madness? No. Continuity." He approached the altar, laying one gloved hand upon its edge. "This hotel breathes because it feeds. Its foundations rest upon a convergence older than cities. We do not worship chaos, Marcus—we tend to it."
Marcus's jaw clenched. "Who's 'we'?"
"The custodians," Griff said. "Every generation, the Crescent chooses new hands to sustain the balance. When one fades, another awakens. The walls remember loyalty."
"Loyalty to what?"
Griff's eyes glimmered. "To Him."
He did not elaborate. The single word, capital H included, hung in the air, weighted with a power and a threat that required no further explanation. It was the name of the power they served, the entity that rested beneath the Crescent Hotel, the one that required a renewal, a ritual, a life. The chilling serenity on Griff's face told Marcus everything he needed to know: he was in the presence of someone who did not fear the dark, but was a willing, dedicated agent of it