The hotel is the kind of place humans come to feel important.
Five-star, glass-and-marble important. The lobby smells like citrus polish and money. Soft music hums from hidden speakers, a piano track engineered to be soothing without being memorable. Everything is beige, cream, and gold. Everything whispers that nothing bad has ever happened here.
Which makes the Bellamys walking in look like a crime scene wandering off its leash. They draw eyes immediately. Not even subtle glances or polite curiosity. They are drawing full-on stares.
The concierge freezes mid-smile when he sees them. A woman near the elevators gasps quietly and tightens her grip on her purse. A businessman openly turns to watch them pass, his mouth pinched like he's trying to decide whether to complain or film.
