As they walked to the lobby area, the hotel felt quieter than most morgues. The piano in the bar was already closed, the blinds shut, and the main door locked. A woman at the reception — the one who he hadn’t seen yet, looked up at them. In her forties, maybe, she wore the hotel’s uniform with the nameplate saying “Petra”. Emil waved to her casually as they passed by, and when she waved back, the Protagonist saw she had two watches on her wrist.

  Since no one commented on it, he didn’t ask but assumed there was a valid reason. Nowadays there always was one.

  As they walked to the elevator, he noticed too late that something in his and Emil’s steps sounded off. Listening in, he caught a slight delay, but not in the detective’s — in his own; it felt like someone was making a little step after him every time. He didn’t turn, not wanting to attract unneeded attention.

  First floor was relatively fine — as much as it could be. As they passed through it, Emil noticed dryly that it was usually like this.

  “The guests here don’t get curious until day three”.

  The Protagonist remembered it, not asking if the hotel allowed the first-floor reservations to be only for three days maximum in this case.

  The carpets seemed to muffle everything so he didn’t catch any delays here.

  Emil walked a little ahead, moving like the halls belonged to him, and the kid trailed after him like he was trying to memorize the wallpaper pattern in case it changed.

  The hallway felt longer at night. Not darker — the lights were still dimmed amber, the same gentle color as in every hotel in the world — but something about the texture of the air had changed; the hallway held its breath a little too long between their steps.

  “Well,” Emil noticed, keys jangling faintly at his hip, “as I said — nothing much happens here.”

  The kid caught up to him, eyes on everything, including the carpet. Watching it for a couple of next steps, he noticed gentle — too gentle — curvy patterns on it. It wasn’t noticeable if not looked at directly that they pulled subtly to the left.

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  Room 102 was missing a peephole, but Emil didn’t give any explanation. Room 104’s handle was slightly warmer than the rest. The kid watched him resting his hand on it for a moment, both of them listening to what was behind the door. No sounds. Good for now.

  Moving on to the second floor, Emil glanced at the kid over the shoulder. “This one has a tone. Listen.”

  The kid frowned, pausing for a moment with his head tilted slightly to the side like a dog which was trying to locate the sound. Then, he heard it — a faint, high hum. Not in the ears, but behind the eyes, like the hallway was humming to him in a key they haven’t named yet.

  Emil watched him for a long moment.

  “You’re putting too much effort into it.”

  He didn’t wait for response, moving further down the hallway. He passed by the room 203 without giving it an ounce of attention, but the kid did, noticing it had two numbers — one on the plague; one hand-scratched, in graphite on the doorframe. Both matching, for now.

  Emil paused by the next one, room 205, and knocked on it. When no one answered, he moved on.

  “Do you always knock?” the kid caught up to him again.

  “Only on the ones I’d rather not open.”

  “Should I write it down?”

  “Do you write each step down?”

  The kid got quiet, just following him with that damn notebook in hand, and for a second Emil almost felt a pang of guilt for mocking him like that. Only for a moment though.

  They got to the third floor, not talking much — or, rather, not talking at all — and the kid squinted immediately. That was expected: this floor was warmer, but not like it was stuffy — coated, like the air had settled here longer than it should.

  Following Emil almost step by step, he noticed a little late that this place was different in other matters, too. It had a bend. Not a turn, a bend — like someone pressed their thumb against the blueprint and warped it inward.

  As they passed the room 302, he saw it had a mirror mounted opposite the door, the reflection in it slightly delayed.

  Room 309’s number was upside down, and he couldn’t help but pause, staring at it. “That always like that?”

  “No,” Emil threw over his shoulder. “It gets fixed, then it unfixes itself. It’s a negotiation.”

  At the end of the hall, they stopped by a small service storage door with a lock hung on it and a chain across. Emil looked at him, only now noticing the kid was almost taller than him but obviously didn’t know what to do with this height and always slouched a little.

  "We don’t open that," he said moving on, but the kid, of course, had a question about that.

  “What’s in it?”

  “That’s a question you only get to ask once.”

  Emil tapped the chain lightly before walking back, the lights humming slightly behind them two. The hallway felt straighter on the return trip, but only a fraction.

  At the corner to the elevators, the kid looked over his shoulder. Room 309’s number was now upright.