CHAPTER 4: THE RESIDENTS I

At the hotel reception ward, a young Indian boy in his teenaged years wearing a large multi-colored hoodie, having a large rumbling headsets in deep, bass playing the song ‘Ocean Eyes’ around his neck with an orange backpack, came by for his room key.

“You called earlier. Here you go.” The hotel receptionist said, handing a key to him with a smile. “Just follow this side of the stairs up, it will lead you straight to room ‘264.’ So sorry—the elevator is under repair.” He added.

“Tell me. How cool is your accommodation here?” the Indian boy questioned, raising his bushy eyebrows while lightly brushing his undercut hair.

“Well… Splitson hotel…” The receptionist began but was immediately interrupted by the boy.

“The Splitson?! I still think it’s a ridiculous name. Or are you trying to tell me the hotel’s staircase splits around just like the Harry Potter movies…?! I can’t walk around ‘Splitting’ in ‘Sin’; get it?!” the Indian boy joked, then burst into laughter before quieting down, realizing the receptionist wasn’t finding it funny whatsoever.

“--As I was saying,” the standing receptionist—bald, dressed in a uniform of white long sleeves, black jacket and trousers, his golden name tag reading Hermit Labosbie—continued, ignoring the earlier joke. “Splitson hotel has a specially arranged menu from fourteen different countries, ready to be served when ordered. Yes, you won’t miss our enchanting hotel halls, bright blue swimming pool, and comfy mattresses. These are the features that give our hotel its uniqueness—rest and comfort, most especially for people like you and I.”

The Indian boy wasn’t satisfied. Hermit forced a smile and added, “… so is there anything else you need?”

“Seriously? You don’t know what a cool guy like me would want?” the boy asked, leaving the receptionist blank-faced. “Amenities, bro—like video games, CGI visual effects, shits like that. Not facilities, bro. This hotel don’t have any?! Bro?”

Uhm… but I just mentioned it all, the receptionist thought. “Sorry, mister—you could also check this out. We have great bars, spas, and, uhm, rooms filled with all kinds of goodies for special guests like you. If you know what I mean…” Hermit added with a wink.

“Bull-fucking-shit!” the Indian boy yelled and walked away. “Am I being punished for being transferred here in this arid country?!” he muttered aloud just as a fairly-skinned lady in shades entered. A black bandana wrapped most of her curly black hair, and she wore tight black tops and shorts beneath a pink, oversized coat and shiny loafers. Still, she gave off the unmistakable aura of a celebrity in disguise.

“The usual. I need to lodge in,” she said, resting her arms on the receptionist’s table, chewing her gum with attitude. The receptionist squinted, suppressing his irritation. They just keep coming one after the other.

“… Sorry, miss. That has already been accommodated—every suite on that line,” Hermit replied. The lady glanced at the key-stand board where a few pass cards were placed.

“Hey, uhm… Hermit,” she said, reading his name tag. “I don’t live around this dull city ground and I don’t have a home, but this shelter—this Splitson hotel—is mine. The last two weeks, you gave me a VIP ground of my choice. Same the week before that. Until now. Are you trying to drive away an allegiant guest? Is there someone more important than me here?”

“No, miss. Sincerely, we have many special rooms, but every room offers the same uniqueness,” the receptionist answered. “Being comfortable is key here, ma’am.”

“No. I am not comfy with sudden environmental changes or relocations. I want my hotel suite, not a room. I want my pass card, not a key.”

Hermit sighed, took a different pass card, and handed it over to her. She stopped ranting, staring at the pass card for a moment.

“If you see trouble, you know when and where to relocate without anybody warning you,” Hermit quoted cryptically. The woman didn’t respond—she had what she wanted—and walked away after receiving the card.

“Have a nice day,” the receptionist added, waving with a smile.

Then Candice came in, analyzing the interiors of the hotel. For the first time in a long while, she felt relaxed and welcomed. The peachy fragrance, vibrant colors, and lush gardens around the reception glowed in illuminating white, wrapping her in warmth.

She exhaled in relief. Finally, some good old rest.

The receptionist noticed her. Oh, look—a normal one, he thought.

“Hello and welcome, Ma'am. How may I help you here in the Splitson hotel?” he asked with a genuine smile.

“Hi. I just need a room for the next twenty-four hours, that’s all,” she replied.

“Very well. We’ll get you the best room for just you alone… for the next…” Hermit said, dragging his words while typing on his tablet.

Candice interrupted. “Don’t you have a room that has surveillance cameras?”

The receptionist paused and looked up. She blinked, then continued. “I mean, just outside the rooms or anywhere else beyond that… will do.”

“Yeah, well… We don’t normalize placing surveillance cameras on our esteemed customers’ rooms. That would be spying—or worse, stalking—which is against the law. But no worries, if you desire it, I’ll see what I can do. However, you are completely safe here—as are all our guests.”

He handed her a key. “Here you go, miss. Room number ‘218’ is your residence.”

“Thanks… auh…” Candice dragged the last word, peeking at his name tag.

“Hermit. Hermit Labosbie,” he said, smiling widely and pointing at his golden tag.

“Oh, thanks Hermit, much appreciated.” She smiled and turned to leave.

The receptionist bowed his bald head, his face beaming with smiles.

“Please, enjoy your stay here.”

Candice slightly bowed her head, then flashed a smile before moving to find her room. The small yellow traveling bag was starting to feel a little heavy as she slowly dragged her legs away from the reception.

Behind her, Hermit’s smile slowly faded as he glanced toward a blinking red light beneath the counter.

Unseen by Candice, the woman in the pink coat leaned casually against the stairwell railing above, chewing her gum slower now, eyes locked on Candice as she disappeared down the hallway.

The hallway stretched in both directions, quiet and dimly lit. Candice moved with calm purpose, scanning door numbers. Her small travel bag rolled behind her with a faint rattle of wheels on tile.

Suddenly, she was bumped off balance.

“Looking for your room number?” a voice asked casually.

She turned to find a teenage Indian boy, oversized hoodie hanging loose, giant rumbling headphones around his neck, and his eyes still glued to the glowing screen of his phone. Fingers tapping rapidly. Gaming.

“Sorry,” he added, not looking up. “Not trying to be nosy. It’s just... I recognize the lost-and-confused look. That was me when I first checked in. Splitson Hotel? More like Splitshit. No offense.”

Candice raised a brow.

“Seriously, you ever seen a hotel this huge and ‘prestigious’ with so few staff? No real amenities? It’s like this place was built to impress from the outside, but inside... it’s a damn ghost town.”

He finally looked at her, smirked, then disappeared into a room near the stairwell.

Candice stood there for a beat, staring at his door, then shook her head and continued until her eyes caught the glint of a familiar number—218. She paused, leaned in. A match.

The lock clicked. She entered.

The room was modern and neatly kept. A crisp scent of peach and mint floated in the air. The central bed was large, sheets tucked in tight. Warm light spilled across smooth wooden furniture and a sleek white wardrobe.

She dropped her handbag, crossed to the wardrobe. Inside were a few neatly folded towels, basic toiletries, and empty hangers. She placed her travel bag just beside it.

Then shut the door.