Marcus spent another afternoon walking the hotel grounds, blending in with tourists who were still taking pictures under the soft glow of the grand fountain. Children darted between parents, sticky with ice cream; couples held hands as music floated from hidden speakers. Every polished surface reflected beauty — but the longer Marcus watched, the more it all felt staged, like a play being performed for an invisible audience.
Behind the luxury, there was a rhythm.
A pattern.
Every smile lasted a fraction too long. Every laugh rose and fell at the same pitch. Even the music looped too perfectly — a cheerful tune with no beginning and no end, like an echo that refused to die.
Marcus knew how to watch without staring. His eyes flicked from the bellhop by the door to the bartender polishing the same glass for the third time. The concierge's polite nod. The receptionist at the front desk with that dazed look again, her movements mechanical. And always, somewhere at the edge of his sight, the quiet man — Mr. Griff — guiding yet another small group of tourists on a "special" grand tour.
He waited.
He had learned to be patient long ago, on stakeouts in the cold, waiting for suspects who never came. He knew how to let time slide until the scene shifted.
When the families had gone to bed and the laughter faded into silence, He finally moved. He changed into dark clothes, plain and forgettable. No badge, no gun — just a small flashlight, his phone, and the strange triquetra burned into his mind. He slipped through the corridors like a shadow.
He checked his signal.
It was full bars.
He turned a corner,it was still full.
He entered through another hallway, it was longer this time. The carpet were darker, the wallpaper richer, lined with tall mirrors that distorted his reflection. The air changed subtly here. The bright scent of fresh polish gave way to something older,like damp wood, mildew, and a faint metallic tang like rust.
He glanced at his phone again.
Two bars.
His pulse jumped. He knew he was close,too close to answers.
At the end of the hallway, a sign hung crookedly:
"Guests Only — Tour Wing Closed After Hours."
The letters shimmered faintly in the dim light, as if they'd been repainted again and again over the years.
Marcus's jaw tightened. He pushed the door open.
Instantly, the air changed. The faint hum of electricity was gone. The distant music of the lobby — gone. Even his footsteps seemed muted, swallowed by the thick carpet before they could echo.
He glanced at his phone.
No signal. No Wi-Fi. No service. Finally what he had been waiting for.
-The offline zone.
He moved forward, his flashlight beam slicing through the dark like a scalpel. The corridor here was different — older, narrower. The plush carpet gave way to bare floorboards scuffed and uneven. The wallpaper peeled at the edges, exposing wooden panels beneath. Cobwebs clung to corners, stirring in the faint draft.
It felt like a forgotten part of the building, a secret bone beneath the hotel's polished skin,where no soul had ever ventured.
He swept the light along the wall. It caught on something — What he saw was ,faint lines glowing gold beneath the faded paint. His breath caught. He reached out, rubbed at the dust, and the flakes came away to reveal it: the glowing symbol This one different from the one,he had seen before.
The symbol pulsed faintly. Once. Twice.- A call.
Marcus froze. He had a gut feeling about it. This sent a cold shiver down his spine.
All along the symbol's glow deepened.
His flashlight flickered.
His vision swam.
He staggered back, clutching the wall for balance. For a heartbeat, the corridor dissolved like mist.
He was standing in a chamber of stone. Chains hung from the ceiling like skeletal vines. The air smelled of salt and ash. In the center of the room knelt a girl, her head bowed, her hands clasped.
Golden light pulsed from her chest — the same rhythm as the mark on the wall.
Her lips moved, but there was no sound. The words bypassed his ears and went straight to his mind, like a memory he didn't know he had.
"You're here." She said faintly,barely a whisper ,but he could hear it in his mind.
Marcus's breath hitched. The girl's eyes flickered open — just a flash of dark irises catching the glow. Then the vision snapped away.
He was back in the corridor, the peeling wallpaper under his palm, his flashlight trembling in his grip. The mark still glowed faintly, but less now, like a dying ember.
He swallowed hard, heart hammering. He had seen enough crime scenes to know trauma, to know grief — but this was something else. Something deeper. Something he couldn't decipher.
He pulled out his notebook and sketched the layout of the corridor. Doors lined either side, some locked, some ajar. He pressed his ear to one, then another. Silence.
Then he heard it — a sound too soft to be natural. Not footsteps, not breathing. More like a whisper pressed through the walls.
He turned off the flashlight. Darkness swallowed him whole. His pulse filled his ears.
The whisper grew clearer, but not in words — in feeling. A plea. A warning.
He opened his eyes in the dark and saw, for the briefest moment, another shape at the far end of the hall. A man's silhouette. Thin, tall, leaning slightly like a marionette on strings. Watching.
Was it Mr. Griff?
When Marcus snapped the flashlight back on, the hallway was empty.
He exhaled shakily.
He had no backup. No warrant. Nothing but a name, a symbol, and a vision. But now he knew the offline zone was real. He had seen the girl. He had felt her plea.
And he was no longer sure if he was the hunter — or the hunted.
He straightened, tucking the flashlight under his arm. Ahead, the corridor bent sharply to the left. Beyond that curve, the glow of another mark,the triquetra flickered like a lure.
Marcus tightened his grip on his notebook and moved forward.
Whatever lay beyond that bend, he would face it.
For his cousin.
For the girl.
For the truth.