Starting her shift (thank God it wasn’t a night one because she hated those for messing up her sleep schedule), Mila as always, dropped to the reception first to greet colleagues for the day and check that everything was running smoothly, grabbed the daily report from yesterday off the table in the back office, and left. It was a little regular thing she hated — but not too much to not do it — the meeting with the general manager. Sometimes she thought he just felt lonely and tired of people guessing what exactly Balkan country he was from, and he just wanted someone decent to talk to, even if under the pretence of hearing “How things were yesterday and how we expect them to be today”. As long as she could spare time passed standing by the reception and torturing her feet, she would push through this reporting.

  His office was maybe the most modern looking room in the whole building — clean, cool, with a kind of a desk which anyone would die to have in their working space, all high-tech style with rounded edges. Wall-mounted calendar was color-coded within an inch of its life, and a single lamp glowed warm in the corner even during day. He wasn’t here after the sunset anyway. Never stayed over for the night.

  The door, when Mila came, was opened, as always, which was Rayan’s version of diplomacy. She paused before it anyway, holding a clipboard to her chest before knocking — just once, sharp.

  “Yes?” Rayan didn’t even look up from the screen of his computer, chin resting on the palm. He knew it was her — she was the only one after Emil who cared to knock.

  “Guest in room 212 reported cold spots again,” Mila walked deeper into the office, sitting down on a plush chair while Rayan continued typing away something. “Same corner, bathroom, midday.”

  “Insulation. Or cross-draft from the pipes.”

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Mila sighed quietly — here it was. “Bathroom has no pipes in that wall.”

  This made Rayan pause, but he still didn’t spare her a glance. “Historic building. Air behaves strangely.”

  Mila didn’t respond to that, but her raising the eyebrows for a second gave all the answers needed. Looking down at the clipboard, she tapped it with her nail.

  “They also said the mirror fogged from the inside. No steam, no shower on in the moment, just… fog. Then cleared in a spiral.”

  Rayan finally stopped typing — whether because he finally had that email composed to perfection, or because he got tired pretending to not be that invested in what she was saying — and rested his elbows on the desk. “And what did you say to them?”

  “I said our building reacts to pressure shifts,” Mila looked at him calmly. “Offered a voucher for the lounge and gave them salt for nightstand.”

  “Mila.”

  “Guests like the salt,” she deadpanned. “It makes them feel safe.”

  Rayan rolled his eyes stoically. “It makes us look like a cult.”

  “So does your calendar.”

  Rayan paused with mouth slightly agape — his calendar was perfect for him. Kept things structured. Sighing, he rubbed his temples.

  “Mila, I don’t want this place becoming… a thing. I don’t want influencers with hex bags, or paranormal tour buses, or—”

  “They’re not coming. They’re afraid of the hallways.”

  “Good.”

  He went back to typing, not looking at her again.

  “Room 212 is near the fire stairs.” Mila continued carefully. “You know that wall’s never quite lined up.”

  The sound of the mouse clicking stopped for a second.

  “If there’s a draft, call someone from the facilities,” Rayan answered finally. “Otherwise… add an extra towel rack or something. Make it look symmetrical.”

  She nodded, looking down at the clipboard to see if there was anything else to discuss.

  “What time did it happen?”

  She looked up to see Rayan was looking at her again, his face only half-visible from behind the monitor.

  “3:33, give or take five minutes.”