It was a rainy night in the city, and the water stained the gray cobblestones beneath streetlamps that flickered with every taste of wind. Grace Ashcroft walked with short, hesitant steps, hunched inside her dark red jacket that barely shielded her from the dampness seeing into her bones. She wore a dark green hoodie over a white sleeveless t-shirt, and her dark blue jeans were darkening at the hems, just like her brown shoes, which splashed through small puddles without making a fuss. The rain wasn't heavy—that thin curtain of water that slides over the skin without asking permission—but it was enough to make her feel even smaller under the open sky.

As she walked, her mind couldn't let go of that morning at the FBI office. Her boss had handed her a thicker file than usual, reports piling up unexplained infections, deaths with no clear cause, a pattern no one else seemed willing to crack. And then, the latest incident: the Hotel Wrenwood. The same hotel where, eight years earlier, a hooded figure had taken her mother away from her. Grace felt the knot in her throat again, the one that appears when the past crosses your path without asking permission. She had no field experience, she knew that better than anyone. Her fingers were made for typing databases and cross-referencing evidence from a swivel chair, not for stepping onto crime scenes where the stars of veteran agents weigh more than lead.

She looked up and saw it: the Wrenwood silhouetted against the night, its windows dark like empty eye sockets, the façade adorned by rain that ran in shiny threads over the worn stone. A place where many things had happened. Too many. Grace stopped for a moment, her mouth half open, her hands buried in her jacket pockets so no one would see them shake.

"You're g-going to be okay. It's j-just… it's just a b-b-building," she murmured to herself, her insecure voice almost erased by the rain.

She didn't have time to prepare further. A stern, authoritative voice cut through the air to her left.

"Hey! This perimeter is closed to the public. You can't come through." An officer on the scene, his raincoat shining under the beam of a flashlight, walked toward her with a steady step. The man was tall, broad-shouldered, and his expression made it clear he wasn't about to tolerate some lost curious bystander.

Grace flinched so abruptly that the canvas bag on her shoulder nearly slipped off. She took a small step back, and her feet slid on the puddle she had just stepped in. She wobbled, stretched out her arms to regain balance like a poorly handled puppet, and almost fell backward if she hadn't dug her heels in clumsily.

"I-I… I…" she stammered, while her clumsy fingers fumbled blindly inside her bag. She pulled out a folder, then a crumpled tissue, then a phone, and finally, at the messy bottom, she found the rigid case with her badge. As she pulled it out, she nearly dropped it twice between her wet hands.

The officer narrowed his eyes, impatient, and she held up the badge with both hands as if it were a shield. The metallic gleam of the eagle and the FBI letters reflected a hint of the night light.

"I-I'm G-Grace Ashcroft, FBI Agent" she said, her tongue tripping over every syllable, her lips pressed tight from embarrassment and pressure. "I-in-intelligence a-analyst. I'm here for… for the hotel case. The Wrenwood Hotel."

The officer lowered his flashlight, looked her up and down, and for a moment his eyebrows rose with skepticism. He saw the dark red jacket that was too big, the small figure that seemed about to crumble with the next taste of wind, and he hesitated. But the badge was real, and the name had appeared on some report that had circulated through the precinct.

"Go ahead, Agent," he said, still with a hint of disbelief, stepping aside to let her pass.

Grace nodded with a jerky motion of her head, put the badge away with trembling hands, and took a deep breath. As she crossed the invisible line toward the hotel, her fingers brushed the edge of her jacket.