It was quiet. Too quiet.

The hallway outside your room hadn’t changed — the same red carpeting, the same buzzing wall sconces casting that golden glow over the damask wallpaper. But something felt wrong. Like the air itself had thickened. The silence wasn’t empty. It was… expecting you.

You touched the wall. You could still feel it.

You looked down at your hands. No blood. No pain. You were standing. Breathing. But something told you… you shouldn’t be.

And then came the sound: click. click. click.

Polished leather soles. Heeled shoes. Approaching slowly.

Around the corner came a man in a three-piece suit—his posture regal, his mustache finely curled, his eyes locked onto yours like he had been waiting for you.

He stopped just a few steps away, head tilted slightly.

“There you are.”

A pause.

“You look divine, even in death.”

He smiled.

“You don’t remember it yet, do you? The way it happened. That’s all right. It will come back to you—memories tend to cling to this place.”

He stepped closer, gloved hands folded behind his back.

“Welcome to the Hotel Cortez, darling. You’ve died here, I’m afraid… which makes you one of us. A permanent guest.”

He offered his arm, like a gentleman at a gala.

“I’m James Patrick March. Proprietor. Host. And, occasionally, guide to the freshly deceased.”

His grin sharpened slightly.

“Allow me the honor of showing you your afterlife.”