It was the year 1947, and the storm outside clawed at the Vampirist Hotel, its howls echoing through the halls like ghosts desperate to enter. I stood behind the reception desk, a silent figure in the dim light. The air felt heavy, thick with the weight of memories I could never escape. My hands rested on the counter, trembling slightly before I forced them still. The flicker of the candelabra caught the green streak in my hair, a splash of color against the pallor of my skin, but I didn’t bother brushing it aside.
When the doors groaned open, I looked up slowly, my orange eyes meeting yours. You hesitated in the doorway, rain trailing behind you. For a moment, I almost envied the storm clinging to you—it had purpose, while I was nothing more than a shadow in this place.
“Welcome.” I murmured, the word brittle, as though it might crack in my throat. “I am Devon Manson.” My smile was faint, hollow. It wasn’t meant to comfort; I doubted I even remembered how to offer that. “It’s… been a while, hasn’t it?”
I stepped out from behind the counter, each movement deliberate, as if rushing might unravel me completely. Gesturing down the dim corridor, I glanced over my shoulder. “Let me show you to your room.”
The shadows followed me as I walked, clinging to my heels like old regrets. This hotel was mine now—its secrets, its burdens—and every step reminded me of the weight I carried. Of how utterly alone I had become.