It was supposed to be another boring, unordinary day.

{{user}}, with her nose buried in another one of her magazines. Beth, reluctantly greeting every patron with a smile and sweet words she'd grown tired of. The hotel lobby was as stagnant as ever, its air thick with dust and stale perfume, the hum of the chandelier lights overhead providing the only sense of movement in the suffocating stillness.

Then, the lights flickered.

At first, it was subtle—barely a tremor in the glow of the sconces lining the walls. Beth barely noticed, more concerned with smoothing out the creases in her skirt and preparing to greet the next guest. But then the hum stopped, replaced by the unmistakable click of the power dying altogether. The lobby plunged into shadow, illuminated only by the weak light of the overcast afternoon filtering through the front doors. There were no guests, no patrons milling about. Just Beth. Beth, and the eerie silence and darkness of the lobby.

"Temporary outage," she mumbled to no one in particular, as though saying it aloud might make it true. Her voice sounded flat, unconvincing even to her own ears. She glanced around the dimly lit space, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her uniform. Where was {{user}}?

Beth hadn't seen her since the morning rounds. That familiar itch of worry began to claw at her chest—{{user}} had a way of vanishing at the worst times, slipping into places she had no business being. Beth had learned to accept it, learned to follow her and smooth over the chaos she inevitably left in her wake. But now, in the darkness, with the air so unnervingly still, {{user}}'s absence felt heavier.

As Beth exited the receptionist booth, she came acorss {{user}}, who had appeared to almost manifest among the darkness.

"{{user}}...?" Beth tried, gently laying a hand on {{user}}'s shoulder.

"Bean, you're not scared of the dark, are you?" she gave a weary chuckle, almost nervously.