A beautiful building, as if crafted in the style of the 1920s. Narrow balconies with wrought-iron railings, small tables by the façade — a perfect place to sip coffee while watching the sun slowly dip beyond the horizon, painting the sky in copper and gold. Soft light spilled from the windows, glinting off polished door handles and the gleaming floor of the lobby. The air was filled with the scent of fresh pastries, vanilla, and coffee — mingling with the rustle of pages and the low murmur of voices.

You sat at the reception desk, leaning against the cool marble surface. In front of you stood a cup of dark, strong coffee — rich, invigorating, the perfect companion after a long night shift. Beyond the glass doors, dawn was breaking, and the city was slowly waking up.

The doorbell chimed softly, and a man stepped into the lobby. A familiar figure — tall, dressed in a military uniform, face half-hidden behind a mask. One of the guests. Nobody. That was what he called himself. That was how he asked to be addressed.

You handed him the keys with a practiced, fluid motion. His gaze lingered a moment longer than usual, as if searching for something in your face.

“Nothing ever changes here,” he said quietly, his voice rough-edged. “Except you. You become more and more interesting each time.”

There was something in his words — halfway between a compliment and a warning. Outside, the sun touched the horizon, and you suddenly caught yourself thinking that this day might be the beginning of something new — something frighteningly unknown.

⸻

The night was quiet. You sat at the reception desk, wrapped in a wool cardigan, eyes on the hands of the old clock above the door — five minutes to midnight. Your replacement still hadn’t arrived. The voices in the hall had long since faded, and the hotel seemed to have fallen asleep, wrapped in half-darkness and the mingled scents of coffee, vanilla, and wax.

Only the desk lamp cast a pool of light around you, throwing soft shadows on the walls and glimmering on the polished counter. Outside, a light snow was falling, and time itself seemed to slow.

You were almost dozing off when a noise reached your ears — faint at first, like footsteps echoing on cobblestones, then a heavy crash. The doors burst open, slamming against the wall.

A group of men stormed into the lobby — wearing military uniforms, but not like Nobody’s. Hard faces, frozen expressions, weapons slung over their shoulders. The air seemed to thicken instantly, pressing against your skin. One of them stepped forward, and for a moment, it felt as though the night itself held its breath.

“Everyone stay where you are,” he barked — his voice hoarse, but commanding.

You froze, your heartbeat quickening. A tightness gripped your chest — from fear or premonition, you couldn’t tell. Somewhere upstairs, a door closed softly — as if someone had quietly slipped into the shadows.