CHAPTER 7: THE AWAKENING.

The black stone fluttered violently in the old woman’s dark, wrinkled palm as she stood in the hotel’s basement. The underground room, cluttered with empty containers, dangling chains and shattered bottles, hadn’t been touched in years. Dust and cobwebs coated the cracked walls, dim bulbs flickering weakly in their sockets.

She stopped singing in her ritual tongue as the stone stilled. Slowly, she stepped toward the liquefied body lying across the floor, focusing only on its legs.

“So... you were here all along,” she whispered. Kneeling beside the corpse, she wept quietly. Moments later, she wiped her tears, her face twisting into rage.

“You shall not go in vain. You shall live—feeding upon the death and pain of the dwellers here!”

She bowed, pressing her forehead to the grimy floor in front of Amy’s body. Carefully, she peeled her hand away from Amy’s decayed stomach—stab wounds still visible—and placed the black stone inside. As she resumed her chant, her fingers dug deeper into the corpse. A wet squelch filled the air. The stench was unbearable. Cockroaches scurried from the punctured intestines, followed by a surge of maggots and liquefied tissue coating her hand.

The bulbs overhead spasmed in a frenzy of flickering light. Her chant grew louder, more intense, until—finally—she nestled the stone deep within the remains.

Amy's fingers twitched.

Instantly, a power surge erupted across the hotel and beyond. Lights exploded and blinked out. At that same moment, Amy’s presence flashed beside every person inside the Splitson Hotel.

She appeared in tattered white—blood-soaked, gaunt arms, blackened claws, and long grey hair covering her face. Her gaping mouth dripped steadily, frozen in a silent, horrific scream.

And then she vanished.

Back in the basement, Amy’s real body lay motionless. Lifeless.

---

Candice gasped, spinning around on her bed, eyes wide in panic. She was sure—positive—she’d seen someone behind her. Darkness swallowed the room. A second later, the emergency generator kicked in, and light filled the space once more.

“That’s strange,” Jeff muttered, staring up at the now-flickering chandelier in the hallway outside Candice’s room.

“You felt that chill too?” Candice asked, brushing a strand of her ginger hair behind her ear as she stepped into the hallway. She crossed her arms, eyes sweeping for any movement.

“What, you scared?” Jeff asked, eyebrow raised.

Candice narrowed her eyes. “Says the guy who’s been frozen outside my door since I walked in.”

Jeff chuckled. “What if I told you I was born and raised here? Right in this country.”

Candice shot him a bombastic side-eye, clearly not buying it—not with that British accent.

Down the hall, the young Indian guest stormed out of his room, phone and charger in hand. “Argh! Can anything go right today? All the sockets are dead, and this hotel fried my charger!”

He glared at them. “Any of you adults got a spare charger? Power bank? Anything?”

Before either could answer, the old woman from the basement emerged from the stairwell. She shut the door behind her, one of many doors and corners leading to the basement and walked past them silently. A faint stench clung to her, but none of them commented.

“…Anyone?” the boy asked again, unfazed by the strange old woman.

Jeff opened his mouth, about to respond, but paused. His attention shifted to a woman struggling to force a red large coat into a small bag while coming down from the stairs at his far left.

“I can’t take this anymore!” she snapped. “This is what they call a VIP suite? Do they even know who I am? I’ve won awards—donated to charities—this is unacceptable!”

She stormed down the stairs, her voice echoing. “And don’t get me started on that busted elevator…”

Candice stepped back into her room. “Speaking of which, I’ve got a few things to handle… alone.”

“Oh, uh, okay,” Jeff said, still distracted by the chaos unfolding.

“Later,” Candice called through the door before locking it with a metallic click.

“Later, Candice…” Jeff whispered, staring at the door. His thoughts shifted back to the old woman. Was that the same person Candice mentioned seeing earlier?

He frowned. Something about her movements—her silence—and familiarity had disturbed him.

“…Hello? I was talking to some certain people earlier!” the Indian boy barked again, now standing alone. He sighed. “So this is how the other Supes must’ve felt when Batman ghosted them mid-convo.”

---

At the hotel reception, Hermit eyed the celebrity woman who had just stormed off. Their eyes met. She hissed under her breath and kept walking—heels clicking like gunshots on the marble floor.

Hermit’s earpiece buzzed.

“We’re breaking in,” a voice said.

In an instant, the hotel’s front doors opened inward.

A masked tactical squad in black burst through the entrance like a human wrecking ball—weapons raised, formation tight. Guns locked on target.

“FREEZE!” one of them barked.

The celebrity woman, halfway to the stairwell, spun with a gasp.

“What the—?”

“Get down! Get the fuck down, woman!”

Without hesitation, she let out a shriek, flung her small designer bag like it was a bomb—hitting one agent square in the face—and bolted up the stairs, trembling with panic and rage.

“Jesus!” the agent staggered back, the bag with the red large coat dangling from his rifle. “She hit me with a fucking purse!”

Another agent took aim, finger twitching.

“Don’t!” the squad leader barked, knocking his rifle aside. “One shot and we’ll spook the people we do want.”

The agent groaned, already sprinting after her. “I’m going! I’m going! She’s fast for someone in heels!”

The squad leader exhaled sharply, shaking his head.

He stood at the back, partially cloaked in shadow, but his presence was unmistakable—the kind that silenced even his own men.

A thick eyepatch covered his right eye, the strap digging into weathered skin. His remaining eye was a pale, icy black—cold and calculating.

His hair, steel-gray and slicked straight back, glinted under the emergency lights like sharpened metal.

The tribal cuts on his face were unmistakable—etched in the style his ancestors wore with pride, back in the days when drums called to war and elders ruled from the highlands known throughout the southwest.

Then he turned, eyes narrowing at the front desk.

Hermit was still standing there, expression blank, hands raising slowly like a man half-suspecting today might not be the weirdest thing he’ll see this week.

“Reception’s closed, I take it?” he said dryly.

One of the squad turned to Hermit. He gave a single, subtle nod.

Immediately, eight agents rushed toward the VIP suites. Two remained behind, weapons trained on the receptionist—Hermit sighed, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.