The elevator doors didn't just shut; they sealed. One second there was a sliver of lobby light, and the next, it was just us and our own ragged breathing in a gold-plated box that smelled like a basement after a flood.
"Great," Leo snapped. He started pacing the three feet of space we had, his expensive shoes squeaking on the carpet. "No buttons. Of course there are no buttons. Why would a magic hotel have buttons?"
He slammed his fist against the side of the lift. It didn't sound like hitting metal. It sounded like hitting a bag of wet flour. Thud. Thud.
"Stop it, Leo! You're going to break something," Chloe hissed. She was shoved into the corner, clutching her elbows like she was trying to keep her ribs from falling out.
"It's already broken, Chloe! Look at the floor!"
I looked down, and my stomach did a slow, sick roll. The cream-colored carpet was moving. The fibers were wriggling under my boots like millions of tiny, pale worms. I scrambled back, nearly tripping over my own feet, and slammed into the control panel.
Right in the center of the gold plating was a hole. A small, dark indentation about the size of a thumb.
"I think we have to feed it," I said. I didn't even know where the words came from. They just felt heavy in my mouth.
"Feed it what, Kai? My wallet? My soul?" Leo's eyes were wide and bloodshot. He looked like he was about to bolt, but there was nowhere to go.
I didn't answer him. I looked at the translucent key in my hand—the one that had already nicked my thumb in the lobby. I shoved the jagged end of it into the hole.
The lift didn't go up. It dropped.
It was the kind of drop that makes your vision go black. I hit the floor hard, my chin slamming into the top of my Nikon. I tasted blood immediately—hot, salty, and metallic. The elevator wasn't just falling; it was twisting, corkscrewing through the dark.
Through the gold bars of the inner door, the "view" was a blur of things that shouldn't exist. We passed a floor that looked like a massive, open mouth made of red bricks. Then a floor where it was raining inside—heavy, grey sheets of water that lashed against the elevator's glass.
"I'm going to puke," Leo groaned, doubled over and clutching his knees.
"Don't," I barked, trying to find my footing. "Look at the mirror, Leo. Look!"
The smoked mirror at the back of the lift was cracking. It wasn't a spiderweb; it was a slow, deliberate line cutting right through my reflection's face. I stared at myself, and for a second, the camera around my neck felt... warm.
The lens wasn't reflecting the elevator anymore. It was showing a memory.
I saw myself at six years old. I was on a bright red bike with streamers on the handles. My dad was running behind me, holding the back of the seat and laughing. I could almost smell the fresh-cut grass of our old backyard.
Then, the crack in the mirror reached the bike.
The image shattered. In a heartbeat, the memory was sucked out of my brain. I knew I'd had a bike. I knew my dad had been there. But the feeling of it—the warmth of the sun, the sound of his voice—was just gone. It was like someone had taken an eraser to a drawing and left nothing but a smudge of grey lead.
"Kai? You okay? Your nose is bleeding," Chloe reached out, her hand shaking.
"I'm fine," I lied. My chest felt hollow, like someone had reached in and scooped out a handful of my ribs.
The elevator screeched to a halt. The noise was like a hacksaw cutting through bone. The doors didn't slide; they just dissolved into a golden mist that smelled like burnt toast.
FLOOR 7. The hallway outside wasn't a hallway. It was a bridge made of old, leather-bound books, stretching across a pit of bubbling, black oil.
"Seventy-one hours left," I whispered, checking the red glow of the clock on the wall. "And I already forgot what my dad's laugh sounded like."
Leo didn't even look at me. He was already stepping onto the bridge of books, his eyes locked on a golden door at the far end. "Keep moving. Before the floor decides it wants a snack, too."