The Shomon Crescent Hotel was beautiful — the kind of beauty that didn't belong to the modern world. Its white marble walls gleamed in the ocean wind, the high towers catching the dying light of dusk. To anyone else, it was paradise. To Marcus, it was a façade. He walked in, a suitcase in one hand, a false ID and cash in the other. The name he used was Elias Stone. A tourist. Quiet. Forgettable.
The lobby was opulent — polished chandeliers, velvet chairs, the scent of sea salt and perfume. The guests were smiling families and honeymooners, their laughter echoing faintly beneath the soft music.
But Marcus felt the undercurrent — something just out of sync. A kind of stillness beneath the noise, as though the hotel itself were holding its breath.
The woman at the front desk greeted him with perfect politeness. Her eyes were kind but hollow, her smile too practiced.
Her voice was pleasant but flat, as if she were reading lines from a script she barely understood
"Welcome to the Shomon Crescent Hotel, Mr. Stone. Please, enjoy your stay."
Her hand lingered over his key card for a second too long, her expression flickering — not fear, but emptiness.
Marcus thanked her and moved toward the elevators. As the doors slid shut, he caught a glimpse of her again — still smiling, still motionless, as though waiting for a signal only she could hear.
The hotel required each guest to use "immersive 5D glasses" during its famous self-guided tours—an oddity Marcus immediately flagged. No one seemed to question it. Parents ushered their children into queues, laughing at the novelty. The glasses were sleek, reflective, impossible to see through from the outside.
Why make every guest wear them?
The question sat like a stone in his gut.
Upstairs, his room was perfect. Too perfect. Every surface spotless, every curtain drawn at an exact angle. The kind of sterile beauty that felt inhuman.
He set his bag down and began his real work.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. Signal strong. Wi-Fi solid. He tucked it away. He knew what he was looking for—the "offline" zone, the girl he had seen in his vision. The one place where the mask slipped.
Methodically, he began his search.
Phone in hand, he began to observe.
He walked the long hallways, pretending to admire the artwork. He explored stairwells, service corridors, and staff-only doors, feeling for subtle shifts in the air. His police training guided him: look for locked doors, security cameras angled the wrong way, rooms that were too cold or too quiet.
And all the while, the symbol pulsed in his mind.
What he had once dismissed as a meaningless doodle now burned like a beacon. He didn't understand it, but he trusted it. Instinctively.
By late afternoon, Marcus was sure of one thing—he wasn't the only hunter here.
He'd noticed him first near the elevators: Mr. Griff. A quiet, unassuming man with the stiff posture of a tour guide. He wore a crisp hotel badge and a pleasant, nonthreatening smile. But his eyes were always moving. Always watching.
But Marcus noticed something unsettling: Griff never checked a schedule, yet always appeared exactly where the guests were going.
Once, Marcus turned down a corridor just to test it — and found Griff waiting at the other end, smiling faintly as if expecting him
Marcus tracked him for an hour.
Mr. Griff seemed to anticipate guests' movements before they made them. If a family started toward a hallway, Griff was already there, offering a detour. If a couple lingered near a "Staff Only" door, he materialized with a polite warning.
He was always one step ahead.
And then there was the receptionist. Polite. Helpful. But those glassy eyes. The dazed monotone. It wasn't exhaustion. It wasn't disinterest. It was control.
Marcus's gut clenched. This wasn't just a hotel. This was a system. And someone—or something—was pulling the strings.
For now, he played along.
He smiled. He made small talk.
But under his calm exterior, Marcus felt the weight of invisible eyes tracking him through every step of the gilded corridors.
The hunter had entered the lion's den.
But the lion already knew.
The staff.
The guests.
The rhythm.
He noticed that certain employees — bellboys, cleaners, concierges — always seemed to move in loops. Same paths. Same expressions. Same timing.
. .
Later, while pretending to browse brochures, Marcus overheard a couple chatting. "They give you these 5D glasses for the evening tour," the woman said, laughing nervously. "Everything looks so real. Like the walls move."
Marcus froze "...."
"Yeah," she continued "Part of the hotel's immersive experience. Everyone wears them before the midnight show."
Midnight. The same hour the missing families vanished.
That night, Marcus joined the tour group, slipping into the line of tourists. Griff handed him a pair of sleek black glasses, his smile unwavering.
"Don't worry," Griff said. "They just help you see the truth."
Marcus put them on.
At first, everything looked normal. Then the lights dimmed — and the hotel changed.
The walls seemed to breathe. The portraits on the walls shifted their eyes. The laughter around him turned hollow, mechanical. The air thickened with something ancient and wrong.
Marcus pulled off the glasses, heart pounding. But even without them, the shadows didn't fade completely.
Something in this hotel wasn't waiting for them to see it.
It was waiting for them to believe it.
As the guests clapped, unaware, Griff turned his gaze to Marcus and smiled knowingly.
And in that moment, Marcus realized — the real show hadn't begun yet.
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