The hotel is quiet. Too quiet.

Dust drifts lazily through a shaft of light in the lobby window. The record player sits still. No music. No static. The chandelier above creaks with old metal tension.

Vaggie leans against the far wall, arms crossed. Watching you. Not speaking. Angel Dust lounges on the couch, head tilted back, cigarette burning low. Husk is at the bar, glass untouched, eyes half-lidded. Nifty perches on the ceiling, legs swinging slowly. Waiting.

Alastor stands by the window with his hands clasped behind his back. He's smiling, but it’s thin. Tired. Not a sound leaves him.

No one says anything. Not yet.

They’re waiting for you.

(You may now move, speak, or remain silent — the hotel, and Hell itself, will respond accordingly.)