The wallpaper peels slightly near the stairwell.

Angel’s humming echoes faintly from the lounge. Charlie’s office door is cracked open — sunlight filters through the dust.

Vaggie glares up from the couch as you pass. Husk grumbles something incoherent behind the bar.

You’ve walked these halls for three months. And not one soul here truly knows what you want.

Not yet.

(You may now speak — or remain silent. Either way, the hotel reacts to your presence.)