The elevator descended with a haunting chime that sounded like a funeral bell. When the doors slid open, the lobby was no longer the pristine sanctuary it had been hours ago. The air was frigid, frosted with a spectral winter, and the grand chandeliers swung violently as if caught in a phantom gale.
In the center of the room stood a figure draped in tattered, charcoal-colored robes from the Joseon era. The spirit's face was obscured by long, matted hair, but its aura was unmistakable—it was a Gwishin of immense power, a vengeful spirit that had refused to fade for over a century. In its skeletal hand, it clutched a rusted, iron key that pulsed with a dark, sickly rhythm.
"Give... it... back..." the spirit rasped, the sound like dry leaves scraping against a gravestone.
The Proprietor stepped forward, his silver cane clicking rhythmically against the frozen marble. He showed no fear, only a clinical curiosity. "You've been wandering the fog for a long time, old friend. The bridge to the afterlife has been waiting for you since the fires of the Great War."
The spirit lunged, moving like a blur of shadow. Before it could reach the Proprietor, he slammed the tip of his cane onto the floor. A barrier of blue light erupted, throwing the spirit back.
"I have no interest in your soul," the Proprietor said, his voice turning cold. "I only want the key to the Void Chamber. It doesn't belong to the dead, and it certainly doesn't belong to you."
"It belongs... to the one who promised!" the spirit shrieked, its hair parting to reveal eyes that were nothing but burning white pits of resentment. "He promised the door would stay locked! He promised she would never be forgotten!"
The Proprietor paused, his grip tightening on his cane. The word 'He' struck a chord deep within his dormant memory. A sudden flash of heat seared through his mind—a memory of a burning palace, the smell of charred cedar, and a face he had tried to erase from his soul.
"Who made that promise?" the Proprietor demanded, his calm facade cracking. "Was it the man who built the first foundation of this house? Was it the one who came before Man-wol?"
The spirit let out a harrowing laugh. "You don't even remember your own blood, do you? The key... is the lock. And the lock... is you."
With a sudden, violent surge of energy, the spirit didn't attack the Proprietor. Instead, it plunged the iron key into its own spectral chest. The lobby erupted in a blinding flash of crimson light. The ground shook, and for a moment, the walls of Hotel Blue Moon became transparent, revealing the thousands of years of ghosts trapped within its framework.
When the light faded, the spirit was gone, leaving only the iron key clattering on the floor. But it was no longer rusted. It was now glowing with the same blackened-vine pattern that marked the Proprietor's hand.
Manager Choi rushed forward, his face pale. "Master! Are you alright? What did it mean by 'the lock is you'?"
The Proprietor picked up the key. As his fingers touched the cold metal, the mark on his palm burned with an agonizing intensity. He looked at the key, then at the grand staircase leading to the forbidden floors.
"It means," the Proprietor whispered, his voice trembling for the first time, "that I am not just the owner of this hotel. I am its greatest prisoner. And the guest we just saw... wasn't a stranger. He was a messenger from my own forgotten life."
He looked up at the blue moon through the skylight. It seemed larger now, as if it were drawing closer, hungry for the secrets he was about to uncover.