Chapter 19: Room 247
Adrian jolted awake with a start.
The ceiling above him was… smooth. White.
He sat up slowly, eyes scanning the room.
It looked like a five-star hotel suite—a far cry from the moldy stone and bone-choked wilderness he'd grown used to. The bed beneath him was massive, king-sized with deep blue velvet covers and perfectly arranged pillows that looked too expensive to sleep on. Golden light spilled through half-drawn curtains, revealing a panoramic window wall that overlooked a city skyline. The furniture was all sleek: a glass coffee table, two angular modernist chairs, and a minimalist couch of soft beige leather. In the corner, a small but fully stocked mini-bar sat beside a chilled mini fridge.
Adrian didn't think.
He threw open the fridge door and started devouring everything inside—sliced meats, fruit bowls, chocolate bars, juice boxes, bottled water, protein shakes, even a jar of olives he didn't particularly like.
To him, it all tasted divine.
"You look disgusting," May said flatly.
Adrian froze mid-bite, mouth half-full, a protein shake in one hand and a fruit cup in the other.
"You're still here," he muttered.
She stood beside a tall, abstract sculpture—one of those fancy hotel decorations that looked like a metallic noodle twisted into a loop—tapping it with a finger and watching it wobble.
"Why would I disappear?" she said, not looking at him.
Adrian exhaled, then dropped the empty containers onto the table, standing up. He was still in the same shredded pants and torn, bloodstained shirt he'd worn on the island. Sand fell out as he moved.
Without a word, he stripped them off, leaving a trail of ash and cloth as he walked to the bathroom.
The mirror didn't lie.
Scars crisscrossed his chest and arms like a canvas of survival. Burn marks, bite wounds. And right above his heart—the Seal—etched like a glowing brand, still pulsing faintly beneath his skin.
His hair had grown to his shoulders, a tangled mess streaked with dried blood and sand. His face was leaner now, shadowed by a faint, permanent scowl. His eyes, once sharp and vibrant, now had a dim, almost feral glow in them.
He looked like someone who had seen war.
Because he had.
On the sink sat a fresh stack of clothes—neatly folded, oddly clean. A collared black shirt, slim trousers, and a pair of polished dress shoes. Hotel worker clothes.
He pulled them on after a long shower. They fit perfectly.
The shirt had a silver nametag clipped to it.
"Colt."
His last name.
A sharp knock interrupted the silence.
Adrian opened the door.
An older, well-groomed man stood outside, barely reaching Adrian's shoulder. His salt-and-pepper beard was immaculately trimmed, matching his styled mustache. He wore a similar hotel uniform, but with a blazer adorned by a golden nameplate:
"Streit."
"Good morning, Mr. Colt," he said with a smooth voice and a professional smile.
"I see you've already become… acquainted with your room."
He peeked past Adrian and raised a single eyebrow at the disaster inside—wrappers and clothes scattered everywhere, the mini-fridge left open, half a protein bar stuck to the floor.
"Charming," he muttered.
"You're like a cartoon butler," May said, suddenly appearing beside Adrian. She leaned close to Streit's ear, not that he could see her.
"What are you gonna do next, offer us a mint and a passive-aggressive insult?"
Adrian suppressed a smirk.
"I'm here to show you around," Streit continued, ignoring the tension. "The orientation is mandatory. Shall we?"
Adrian stepped out. The hallway outside was immaculate—bright lights, pristine carpets, no dust, no dirt, not even a smudge on the walls. The doors were all numbered in elegant golden plaques.
Adrian's room was #247.
"We're currently on the forty-first floor," Streit said, leading the way.
"This is the Employee Wing. Specifically, the floor designated for… individuals like yourself."
"Others like me?" Adrian asked, trailing behind him.
Streit didn't pause.
"Yes. Others like you. And like me. Those who are… irregular. Those who've proven useful."