The murky sky of the Northern Outskirts doesn't end; it only grows heavier.
The horizon is a ledger of the day's productivity. Soot-stacks from the industrial belt churn the air into thick gray, turning the sun into a faint, greasy smudge—a pale copper coin buried beneath layers of charcoal rot. It isn't evening; it is the world thickening.
Light doesn't fade—it filters through, casting a sickly, monochrome hue over the streets. Visibility is a luxury few can afford.
Ashlynn grabs my hand as we leave the Hearthlight building.
"Len, come," she says.
We walk a few steps. A manhole gapes beneath us.
"Open it," she says, letting go of my hand.
"Are we hiding from someone?" I ask as I stare the hole.
"No silly, we claim this part of the sewer first."
"Why?"
"No one has touched it yet. We can sleep here," she says proudly.
"No. Let's find a hotel," I reply.
"They're expensive," she murmurs.
I tug her hand to keep walking.
A massive structure looms ahead. Box-like machines groan along its foundation. From brass grilles, a shimmering pressure climbs the marble like liquid glass. It isn't a breeze—it presses like a wall. A wall of mist.
The smog hits the perimeter and recoils, curling back into the gutters. Inside the invisible shell, brass railings sharpen, stone snaps into focus. The hotel sits there, beautiful but suffocating, breathing the diluted lives boiling in its gut. It lacks any trace of ash or shadow, standing as a stark, geometric monolith against the monochrome charcoal sky. The polished marble walls gleam with a sterility that slices at the senses, and a faint metallic hum vibrates through the air, like the building itself is alive—and watching. Valazam Hotel.
We cross the mist and walk to the front gate.
Ashlynn slowed, her grip loosening.
I release her hand. Then I bend and pick up four rocks nearby.
I walk through the front gate. To the front door. Ashlynn follows.
"Here." I hand a rock to the doorman.
"Thank you, monsieur," he responds. "This way."
The doorman leads us into the lobby.
The Valazam lobby is a temple of pressurized silence. Polished—brass leaf veins the vaulted ceiling like a gilded nervous system, illuminated by crystal chandeliers that shine with a steady, electric ferocity. There is no dust here—only the suffocating scent of ozone and expensive lilies. The air is thick, artificial, heavy with a salt-sweet clarity that makes the lungs ache. Every surface is polished mahogany or white stone, reflecting a world where light is a commodity and shadows are not permitted to exist.
"How many nights can this get us?" I lift my rocks toward the receptionist.
"None. We're not accepting poor people," the receptionist replies with a cold unwelcoming tone. Her eyes don't look at us, they look past us as if there's anything behind us. Immediate and practiced.
"But I have money," I protest.
"That's not enough. Valazam hotel hosts politicians too."
"How much per night?" Ashlynn asks, embarrassed.
"Ten phens a night."
Ashlynn turns to me and pulls my coat. "Len, let's leave. We can't afford this," she says.
I sigh.
I concede.
We leave the hotel and find a nearby smith shop.
The hammer strikes ring like distant chains; I flinch once, then keep walking.
"Excuse me," I say. "How much for this?" I point at a small wooden box.
"One phen."
I give him a rock and take the box.
The box is simple, undecorated. Its height and length are about the size of bread crate. I can carry it with ease.
I walk the street, looking down.
Ashlynn follows in silence. She doesn't comment, just watches me bend and pick things up.
I pick up enough rocks to fill the box.
We return to the hotel. To the receptionist.
I place the box on the counter and flip it over. Rocks spill out.
"How many nights for all of them?" I ask.
"Let me count them first, monsieur," she says with a soft tone and a smile this time. Welcoming and sweet.
The receptionist freezes. Then she starts counting, piece by piece.
An older man in an elegant purple suit descends the lobby stairs. Dark hair. Brown eyes. Olive skin.
The receptionist stops counting.
"Monsieur Mynar," she says, straightening herself.
"Ahhh, a guest," the man says, looking at the piles of rocks first, then at me. "Welcome to our magnificent Valazam Hotel."
"I'm Len. This is Ashlynn."
"I'm Mynar Valazam, the manager," he says with a smile. His eyes keep drifting between me and the rocks.
Mynar walks to the counter and studies the pile.
"I think you have about enough for three months," he says.
"Len, where did you get all this money?" Ashlynn whispers into my ear.
I shrug.
"For the best room?" I ask.
"Yes, of course," Mynar says.
He leads us upstairs through the elevator between the grand staircases in the lobby.
The room is a massive, cedar-scented vault that trades soot for expensive soap. Velvet curtains smother the city noise, and brass vents hiss with air that feels too clean to breathe. Between silk-paneled walls, a mahogany bed rests on a rug thick enough to bury our boots. And a small oak desk and chair in the corner. A mirror by the desk completes the room.
I move to the window.
Beyond the glass stretches a sea of glowing spires and gas-lit boulevards—nothing like the black, smog-choked pits of the Outskirts.
"Monsieur Mynar, what's that thing down there?" I point at the box-like machines near the hotel's foundation.
"Ah, those are Vaporgates," he says. "They clean the air."
"Is that all they do?"
"Yes. We use the best Vaporgates on the market," Mynar assures me. "Is there anything else?"
Before he leaves—
"Can I have a pen?" I ask.
He reaches into his suit and produces a dip pen, weighted with mother-of-pearl and engraved silver, balanced for precision.
He hands it to me. "You can have it."
Click.
The door closes.
Ashlynn jumps onto the bed and rolls around.
"Calm down," I say.
"Hihihi."
She laughs.
"You take a bath first," I say.
She sits up.
"Okay—but no peeking," she teases, then disappears into the bathroom.
Now I'm alone.
I pull out Allen's red notebook. On the first page, beneath Allen's name, I write: Len's diary.
I write what I believe.
Not what I see.