POV: Phoebe Thorne
The arrival at Hotel Eden felt like stumbling into a half‑forgotten dream. Rotting grandeur, faded chandeliers, dust‑cloaked walls, and a lobby where the lobby clock had frozen years ago. Outside, palm trees bent low to a bitter wind; inside, the air tasted of mildew and regret.
It was perfect.
Not because it was safe — nothing was safe. But because it was quiet. Enough to let us breathe. Enough to let us remember how.
Killian parked the black sedan by the rear service entrance. The engine growled, then died. Inside, the world felt immune to us. Or maybe we were immune to it.
He turned off the dome light. Danger pooled in the dark, but the cabin of the car felt sacred.
I slid out first — unsteady, the wound in my thigh screaming every time I bent.
