The streets of Mesopotamia were always crowded, no matter the hour. Shops of every kind pressed in along both sides of the road, and the cries of steam engines mingled with the whinny of horses as they both hauled their vehicles forward.
Gherm slipped into the current of the crowd. He had just stepped out of the airport, and he didn't bother hailing a taxi. Airships of varying sizes flew overhead. Emitting low hums and steam.
His thoughts drifted from one trivial matter to the next, carefully skirting the single thing he truly meant to confront. It was as though his mind refused to hold it still.
He thought first of his family—his foster mother, and his little sister who shared his dark eyes and hair—both believed him to be the proud owner of an international logistics company. From there, his mind wandered back to his earliest days with the mafia, when he was merely an affiliated child of the family, running dirty errands just to scrape by.
Those were the days when he both envied and coveted the respect the made men and capos received. But looking back, he realized he was just a 19-year-old, lost and uncertain about what to do with his life.
With the twisted irony of fate, after five long years, he had turned into a man who had turned to despise and loathe what he had once coveted.
His thoughts then turned to the real reason why someone as powerful as he was was being laid off. He knew the "being a liability" excuse was a lie, but he also understood the unspoken message—there would be consequences for digging too deep.
After drifting through the streets long enough to convince himself it counted as a decision, he stopped in front of a grand building. The imposing castle was just about five stories tall and built like it had been designed by someone who had taken the whole architecture degree three times over and passed each of them. Stone columns flanked the entrance, each one thick enough to survive a siege or at least a particularly dramatic wedding reception.
He stood there a moment, squinting up at the windows as if they might blink first. They didn't. Above the entrance, three words glowed in a constant white outline, welcoming travellers—"The Ishtar Palace."
The brass handles on the giant revolving door gleamed with the sort of confidence only constant polishing can buy. His gaze fell lightly on the two men who were dressed as butlers. They noticed it too.
"Welcome, sir," One unenthusiastically asked, "How may I help?"
Gherm said nothing and moved inside, his unhurried steps might have won him an audition if he tried.
Inside, the hotel lobby swallowed him whole as he felt the temperature drop.
The air was cooler, perfumed with something expensive and faintly floral, like money trying to smell approachable. Overhead, a vast chandelier hung in the universal language of "rich people only", its suspended crystal prisms catching light from hovering stones that burned with a steady, smokeless glow. The illumination was soft but resolute; it lit every corner of the place, even if something covered the light's path.
Marble floors stretched out before him, polished to such a shine that one would briefly consider apologizing to them after stepping on one. His footsteps echoed, small and out of place, as if the walls were quietly taking notes. Along the sides of the room, brass wall sconces cradled more of those stones that contained lights, their glow humming faintly, contained within etched housings like captive stars.
A sweeping staircase curved along the far wall, dramatic and unnecessary, which meant it was perfect. The banister gleamed with worked metal filigree, intricate gears embedded more for ornament than function, ticking softly in decorative rotation.
Plush armchairs sat in careful clusters, occupied by people pretending not to look at one another. Somewhere behind a discreet arrangement of white lilies, a small mechanical ensemble operated on an elevated platform, strings plucked and keys pressed with unnatural precision, producing a melody that was almost comforting if one ignored how no human hands were touching it.
He adjusted his coat, suddenly aware of every crease and thread. Then he spotted the reception desk: a long, polished slab of dark wood standing like a border checkpoint between anonymity and whatever came next. Behind it, a brass-framed register clicked softly.
On the reception, beneath a glass pane, three tiny runes—red, green, and blue—burned faintly. Their light flickered and blended across the surface, forming letters and numbers that shifted as the receptionist entered each detail.
Another receptionist stood immaculate and composed, her smile as precisely arranged as the curls pinned at the nape of her neck. She glanced up as he approached, her expression brightening by exactly the amount required.
"One room," He wasted no time, "For tonight only."
"Yes, of course, sir," She smiled with enthusiasm, though he could tell she was probably tired.
"May I ask what kind of room you would prefer?"
"Biggest room you got." He answered quickly. What he needed most was space.
The receptionist blinked once. Not surprised, exactly. Just recalibrating. She quickly typed something into the screen.
"Certainly, sir. We have a few suites available. May I have your name and ID for the register?"
Gherm did not answer immediately.
Instead, he slipped a hand into his coat as if searching for the card. The movement gave him an excuse to turn slightly, enough to let the lobby fall into the edge of his vision.
The revolving door turned slowly behind him. Two travelers stepped through it, dragging their luggage across the marble with dull scraping sounds. A porter followed a moment later.
No one paused. No one looked at him twice.
Good.
He withdrew a card and handed it over.
Solid metal. Clean edges. Official enough to satisfy a desk clerk, and temporary enough that it would not matter if it vanished later. There was no photograph on it, only the encoded proof that the banks insisted upon.
The receptionist glanced down at it.
"Colt Holloway," she read.
The runic display beneath the glass flickered again as the name appeared in its tidy columns. The card itself was all the confirmation she needed. In this city, the banks verified identity better than any guard ever could. A man could lie about many things, but not about the account that carried all his money.
"Suite 502 on the fifth floor." The receptionist kept smiling, "I believe it would fit your needs, sir."
Gherm nodded and did not answer. The fifth floor worked just fine.
Letters started rearranging themselves as the receptionist logged in his stay. "...502, for one night, that would be 300 crowns."
'300 crowns, ' Gherm motioned for her to use the bank card; he was not surprised at the astronomical price, since this was the best room at a luxury hotel. Even his airship cost only 5 crowns for an international travel.
After the price was settled, the receptionist handed him a room card. "Do you have luggage, sir?"
"No"
"Then allow me to send someone-"
"No"
He took the card and left for the elevator.