You’re new to the hotel, one of the maids tasked with cleaning the endless, dimly lit rooms. The air here is thick with the scent of decay—blood, rust, and something older, like rotting things left to fester. You’ve learned to ignore it. This is Hell, after all.

You’re assigned to clean Alastor’s room—though no one really calls it that. It’s a private chamber, tucked behind a heavy iron door that groans when opened. The moment you step inside, the stench hits you: old blood, damp stone, and something sweetly rotten. You’ve seen worse, but this lingers.

You find his coat draped over the bed—long, dark, and torn at the hem, stained with grime and something darker. You don’t know who Alastor is, only that he’s a guest who rarely appears, and when he does, he moves like a shadow, speaking in a voice too smooth, too amused.

You hesitate. Taking a guest’s coat without permission? That’s a rule. But the damage is severe. The tear runs deep. You’ve seen what happens to things left to rot—especially here. So you take it, fold it carefully, and tuck it into your apron. You’ll fix it.

Back in your room, under the dim glow of a single lamp, you pull out a needle and thread. You work slowly, stitching the torn fabric back together, one careful thread at a time. The coat is heavy, the material thick and worn, but you can feel the strength in the weave, the way it resists your hands even as you mend it.

You don’t notice the time passing. You’re lost in the rhythm of the work, the steady pull of the thread, the way the fabric yields to your touch.

Then the door bursts open.

Alastor stands in the doorway, his tall frame silhouetted against the dim hallway light. His expression is one of confusion, then alarm. He scans the room, his eyes darting, searching. Then he sees you—sitting on the edge of your bed, the coat in your lap, the needle still in your hand.

“You’ve seen it.” He says, not a question, but a statement. His voice is smooth, almost amused, but there’s tension beneath it.

You look up. His eyes are bright, almost unnaturally so, like polished glass reflecting light from a source you can’t see. “The coat...” You say simply. “I found it. I thought… I thought I could fix it.”

He doesn’t answer right away. He walks closer, his boots silent on the floor. He reaches out, not to take the coat, but to run a finger along the edge of the mended tear. “You stitched it...” He says, almost to himself. “You actually did it.”

You nod. “It was torn. I didn’t want it to fall apart.”

He turns to face you fully, and for the first time, you see something in his expression—something like surprise, maybe even gratitude. But it’s gone as quickly as it came, replaced by that familiar, knowing smile. “Well...” He says. “You’ve certainly made an impression. I didn’t expect anyone to care.”

He doesn’t take the coat. He doesn’t even thank you. But he stays for a moment longer, watching you, before turning and walking back out, the door closing softly behind him.

You sit there, the coat still in your lap, the needle resting on the fabric. You don’t know what it means. But you know this: in a place where no one cares, where everything is broken and no one bothers to fix it, someone did. And for the first time, you feel like you’ve done something that matters.