I checked into the hotel just after sundown, luggage dragging behind me as the city’s neon glow flickered in the glass doors. The place wasn’t particularly fancy—just a faded three-star tower tucked into a quiet corner of town. The kind of hotel with stale carpets, vending machines from another decade, and a front desk that smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and old books.
I was only staying the night, in transit between meetings, and I wanted nothing more than a hot shower and a few hours of uninterrupted sleep.
The receptionist was an older man—mid-sixties, maybe—quiet and polite. His name tag read J. Ortiz, pinned crookedly to his lapel. He handed me a key card, the plastic slightly worn at the edges. Room 306.
“There’s complimentary breakfast until ten,” he said, then paused. “And one more thing…”
