The hotel lobby was quietly alive — not yet bustling with the incoming guests since it was an early afternoon, but breathing. Midday sun trickled down through half-curtained windows which were see-through enough to let people in the lobby bar enjoy the view but not to feel like fish in the aquarium if someone from the outside was trying to peek in. The piano was playing faintly in the background — recorded, not live, bringing just enough dissonance to keep the atmosphere elegant without being overly cheerful.

  At one of the couches, a family of three sat, deliberately making it noticeable how bored they were to just be there. They were one of those iconic types of guests who would come too early before the check-in time without noting about it in advance and awaited their room to be ready the moment they stepped up to the front desk. Usually — and today was not an exception — they turned out to be disappointed, greeted with a polite smile and an offer to store their luggage so that they could go explore the city.

  Throughout her years before becoming a part of hospitality industry, Mila was sure such cases she read about on the internet occasionally, or saw sketches of on social platforms were an exaggeration, but when she started working, the reality turned out to be exactly like that.

  By now she was already experienced, having very well learned that the main thing was to not make any eye-contact with such occurrences. They were worse then a Hallwalker noticing you were eyeing it, because they thought a simple glance from the receptionist meant their poor planning had worked out, and they were about to have their room hours before the time which was designated on the website, on the confirmation letter and even on the little print out at the reception.

  Reviewing a stack of arrival notes, she let her gaze sweep over those carefully: guest names, room preferences, arrival times, which blinds had to be double-checked after dusk; which mirrors to avoid eye contact with. It was fascinating how in a matter of barely a year and a half last two things became a normalcy which no one questioned.

  By her right, two girls chatted animatedly, keeping their voices quiet but not their hands calm as one gesticulated very openly about something she was explaining. They were both new but not bad, and Mila was okay with them having a breather while there wasn’t much to do. She couldn’t help but listen in to their conversation with half an ear though.

  “No, listen, I saw that original post!” the first whispered excitedly, “a guy was theorizing about this whole stuff, how the name is not for a person but for a spiral which is already in your head, and then there was this comment — wait, I’ll find the screenshot…”

  Mila couldn’t help but glance towards them two now, genuinely curious. She had heard a fair share of talks about everything going on, and, having a younger brother, knew kids these days were set on Spiralá in the worst way possible — romanticizing it, and everything about it. They went as far as to theorize about the structure, for god’s sake.

  “See? Here!” the first girl whispered excitedly. “This is not him, but he reads what you write. Carry on.” And the signature! V! I’m telling you—”

  “Suite 606 signs the same,” Mila hummed softly, just for the fun of making these two spiral into their trends even more.

  Both girls quieted down immediately, staring at her with wide eyes.

  “You’re lying,” the one which wasn’t originally from Prague (Mila vaguely remembered that her origins were either Kazakhstan or Kyrgyzstan) frowned with disbelief. It was obvious she was still a little bit skeptical even though joining on the whole ‘The spiral talked back to me’ thing.

  “Not at all,” Mila took out the check-in form all the guests signed on their first day and gave the paper to them. “See for yourself.”

  Just as the girls snatched the document from her, stepping aside to study it as if she gave them an artifact leading to some treasures, she heard the backoffice door opening.

  Rayan stepped out and leaned on the front desk with a clipboard, and a face full of restrained irritation. “That influencer couple better not film the fire stairs again,” he sighed. “If I have to explain municipal architecture to TikTok one more time…”

  Mila chuckled almost pityingly, turning her head to look at him.

  “I taped a ‘Restricted’ sign, in red. That usually scares them off.”

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “Mhm,” he huffed dryly, “nothing scares people anymore. Just delays them until they get bored.”

  The sudden soft ding of an elevator in the end of the lobby made them both stop talking — not startled or suspicious, just still for one moment before the doors opened.

  A man stepped out, not in a hurry, not lazy — just existing. Countless times Mila saw him, and he always moved like that, with that casual calm stride which somehow managed to command attention without even trying; but never held it long enough for people to remember him the second he passed by and disappeared around the corner. He always went out in that tailored black coat with perfectly folded collar — she used to joke with Lenka from the housekeeping that there’s no way a man could take care of his things that good without a woman’s touch; yet here was a one in a million example.

  They also sometimes checked the weather with him — if he had gloves, it was rather chilly outside even if the weather forecast said a complete opposite thing. And today, indeed, with the temperature being not usual for spring at all, he had a pair of gloves in one hand while the other was occupied with carton cup — no coffee inside as he seemed to have personal grudge for that and drank only tea. No luggage, no phone, no distractions at all. His custom shoes made almost no sound on the tiles as he walked like moving through a memory.

  “Good day, sir,” Mila smiled as he passed by the front desk.

  He glanced at her, giving a small, punctuation-like nod. “Morning, Mila.”

  Rayan just watched, saying nothing. Sometimes Mila thought he was envious of the man’s looks — while by the first glance they both were in late 30s, both having that salt-and-pepper hair, Rayan overall appeared a little weary while the guest seemed like he was, in reality, ageless and possessing those 'close-to-Rayan’s' numbers only on paper.

  Would she be into older guys, she’d be smitten.

  With Rayan’s silence, the guest slowed slightly, his dark gaze flicking towards the front desk paperwork, then — toward the schedule posted behind the glass on the lobby wall. And then, finally, dropping on Rayan, who very much didn’t like when those almost black eyes would be directed at him.

  “Well, aren’t you the talkative one today, Mr. Agli?.”

  Without waiting for an answer, he walked off — down the left hallway that seemed to tilt imperceptibly during high pressure days. Didn’t look back to see that the elevator doors never closed, just waiting.

  “...he said that like it was a compliment, or a threat?” Rayan muttered low.

  Mila shrugged, still watching the hallway. “With him? Yes.”

  Rayan marked something on the clipboard while the elevator doors finally slid shut, slow and deliberate.

  The newbies who were up to some moment busy with the signed paper for Suite 606, now were watching that hallway too.

  “Jeez, those cheekbones are sharp enough to cut through curfew,” the older one fanned herself dramatically. “What’s his deal?”

  “His deal is paid up six months in advance,” Mila responded without looking at them.

  “Still?” Rayan rested his chin on the palm.

  “To the hour.”

  “Then don’t knock. Just smile.”

  “Seriously though,” the other of the two newbies chimed in, “is he, like, single?”

  “Don’t.” Rayan shushed at them both.

  “Definitely don’t,” Mila nodded.

  Above them, the piano recording shifted key — a half-step downward, like someone exhaled in the wrong direction.

  Checking the time on her small watch, Mila counted softly. She was barely twenty-six, yet sometimes felt like a mother to the whole reception, knowing every minor detail. For example, the guy who must have a been on a concierge shift today till evening, had to rush in the next minute, panting about how he was late cause of another ridiculous reason.

  Three. Two. One…

  The door opened, a guest returning from an after-lunch tour around the city. Mila smiled, greeting him politely and asking how the sightseeing was.

  “Oh, you know, it was terrific!” the guy grinned at her brightly. As she offered a bottle of water, he declined politely and went to the elevators.

  Mila couldn’t help leaning over the front desk a little to see his shadow moving along with him. Seemingly normal. As she pulled back, she noticed Rayan staring at her disapprovingly.

  “What?”

  “Stop it.”

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  “You were looking at his shadow,” Rayan crossed his arms over his chest. “Counted the legs?”

  He sighed, shaking his head, his Balkan accent becoming more prominent as it always did when he got nervous or irritated. “We are a respected establishment, and I’ve told you just this morning we do not need your… shenanigans.”

  “Those shenanigans are keeping people alive and well,” Mila countered with skepticism which caused Rayan to roll his eyes so hard she was almost sure he would be able to see his own brain if doing it a little harder. “Stop trying to pretend things are as they used to be in 2028.”

  “I’m not trying to pretend?” Rayan groaned softly, rubbing his face. “But just… Come on, honestly,” he moved a hand towards Mila, “How many people have you seen who had actually— who had actually encountered this thing you’re so set on believing into?”

  “How many people you’ve met who didn’t?”

  For a moment they just stared at each other, too stubborn to back off. Rayan gave up first, stepping back the moment his working phone started ringing.

  “Whatever,” he muttered, looking at the caller’s name on the screen. “It’s a survivorship bias or something anyway. Get back to work and no spooky, spiral-y stuff, got it?”

  “Got it, boss-man.” Mila gave him a basic 'hospitality industry smile'.

  He scoffed at that and the nickname, knowing well enough that she wouldn’t stop doing what she did, but didn’t pressure. It was pointless anyway — he could deny things all he wanted but they were there.

  Otherwise, by this moment he’d stay the night at least once.