The transition from the world of the living to the lobby of Hotel Blue Moon was never a gentle one. It usually began with a fog—a thick, suffocating grey mist that smelled of ozone and forgotten promises.
The heavy oak doors creaked open, and the mist spilled across the marble floor like a breaking wave. Emerging from the haze was a man in his fifties, his suit torn and drenched in phantom rainwater. He looked frantic, his eyes darting around the impossible grandeur of the lobby. This was Han Seung-ho, a man who, until twenty minutes ago, had been the CEO of a major construction firm. Now, he was merely a soul with nowhere to go.
"Where is this?" Han gasped, clutching his chest where the memory of a heart attack still throbbed. "I was in my office... I need to get back. I have a merger tomorrow!"
Manager Choi stepped forward with a practiced, ghostly grace. "Welcome to Hotel Blue Moon, Mr. Han. You are currently in the space between 'then' and 'forever.' Please, follow me to the reception."
"No! I'm not supposed to be here!" Han yelled, his voice echoing off the high ceilings.
"Everyone says that," a voice drifted down from the grand staircase.
The new owner was descending slowly, one hand sliding along the polished banister. He had discarded his jacket, revealing a silver-embroidered vest that shimmered like fish scales. He didn't look at the guest; instead, he was focused on lighting a long, slender pipe that emitted a smoke smelling of dried lavender and old books.
"Mr. Han Seung-ho," the owner said, finally reaching the bottom step. He stood a head taller than the guest, his presence making the air feel heavy. "You died at 11:44 PM. Your 'merger' is currently being discussed by your board of directors, who, I might add, seem remarkably relieved that you are gone."
Han flinched as if struck. "Who are you? The Grim Reaper?"
The owner took a slow drag from his pipe, blowing a ring of silver smoke that hovered in the air like a halo. "Names are for those with a heartbeat. Here, I am simply the Proprietor. And you are a guest with a very heavy suitcase."
Han looked down at his hands, confused. He wasn't carrying anything. "I don't have a suitcase."
"Not a physical one," the owner replied, his eyes glowing with a faint, predatory blue light. "But your soul is dragging the weight of a bridge that collapsed in 1994. A bridge you cut corners on. Twelve lives, Mr. Han. That is a lot of luggage for one man to carry into the afterlife."
The atmosphere in the lobby shifted. The bright chandeliers dimmed to a ghostly flicker, and the sound of rushing water began to fill the room. The ghost of Han Seung-ho began to tremble as the weight of his guilt manifested as a dark, oily shadow pooling at his feet.
"I... I paid the fines! I settled with the families!" Han shrieked.
"The living take cash. The dead take justice," the owner said coldly. He turned to Manager Choi. "Give him Room 404. The one with the 'Leaking Ceiling.' Let him feel the weight of that water for a few decades until he's light enough to cross the bridge."
"Wait! You can't keep me here!" Han lunged at the owner, his hands turning into blackened claws.
The owner didn't flinch. He simply raised his silver cane and tapped it once against Han's chest. A shock of blue electricity surged through the ghost, pinning him to the floor.
"In this hotel," the owner whispered, leaning down so his cold breath brushed Han's ear, "I am the judge, the jury, and the one who decides when your sun finally sets. Take him away."
As Manager Choi led the wailing soul toward the elevators, the owner straightened his vest. He looked at the grand clock on the wall; its hands were moving in a jagged, irregular rhythm.
"One down," he murmured to himself. "Only a few million more to go."
He turned toward the darkened bar at the far end of the lobby, where a single glass of amber liquid waited for him. But as he walked, he stopped. On the floor lay a small, withered flower—a dried petal from the old Moon Tree of the previous era. He picked it up, his expression softening for a fraction of a second into something resembling grief, before crushing it into dust.