The Victim and the Investigation The following morning after the discovery in Room 306, the lobby of the Blackwood Grand Hotel buzzed with anxious murmurs. Guests lingered in alcoves, sending surreptitious glances in the direction of the stairway and asking anxious questions. The front desk switchboard rang nonstop—journalists, officers, and a couple of high-profile clients all demanding the same thing: information.Ethan Carter was seated in the manager's office with Detective Alana Reeves, who had shown up before dawn. She flipped through the first report while Ethan tapped his fingers on a warm cup of coffee."So," she said, not looking up, "Victor Langley." Ethan's brow twisted. "You recognize the name?"Reeves nodded. "Hard not to. Corporate titan. Real estate, offshore accounts, one or two failed businesses that conveniently caught fire for the insurance money. He was being quietly investigated for fraud. And he had enemies." Ethan leaned forward. "You think that list just g

The Twists and Deadly TruthEthan Carter leaned in the darkened hotel security office, arms folded, gaze fixed on the bank of video monitors. Rows of grainy black-and-white video showed various views of the lobby, stairs, and corridors.Behind the desk, Mark Alvarez, the hotel night security supervisor, shifted nervously as he scrolled through video files. "You said you'd pull the tape from the third floor, 9 o'clock to midnight,"Ethan stated. "The evening Langley was murdered. Where is it?" Mark rubbed his forehead. "That's… the thing. It's not there." Ethan cocked an eyebrow. "Not there?" "Yup. I swear, it was there a couple days ago.I double-checked the timestamp myself when the cops were done with me. But now it's just… vanished. Like someone erased it." "You're telling me the sole camera taping from the corridor outside Room 306 is gone," Ethan spoke slowly, voice steady. "The corridor where a man was found dead?" "I know how it sounds," Mark spoke quickly, glancing at the doo

The ConfrontationThe Blackwood Grand's ballroom was empty—its chandeliers downgraded, its velvet seating piled up against walls. Moonlight poured in through floor-to-ceiling windows, casting ethereal shadows on the gleaming floor. Ethan Carter stood at the center, checking his watch, then quietly tapped on the recording device on the inside of his jacket. He'd left the message exactly as practiced: "Meet me in the ballroom. I know everything." Footsteps echoed down the corridor. Detective Graham Wells entered, trench coat flapping, eyes glinting."Quite the dramatic setting, Carter." Ethan stood before him, calm. "Fitting, don't you think? This building has witnessed its fair share of tragedies." Wells's smile never reached his eyes. "You said you had something. Proof?" "I do," Ethan said. "I know about Langley.About Fisk. About the deleted footage, the doctored reports, the hidden corridor from Room 304." Wells moved forward cautiously. "You've been busy." "And you were careless,"

The Whispering DoorThe rain fell in thin sheets over the Blackwood Grand Hotel, drumming steadily on the high arched windows and bleeding the moonlight into streaks across the marble floors. Ethan Carter stood in the third-floor corridor, staring at a section of wall that seemed... off. According to the hotel's blueprints, this was where Room 209 should be. But there was no door—only wallpaper faded with time and age."You're sure this is it?" Natalie Reed asked, her voice low. She held a flashlight steady, the beam catching dust motes floating lazily in the stale air.Ethan nodded, pressing a hand against the wall. "Positive. The original floor plan lists twenty rooms on this floor. Only nineteen are accounted for. Room 209 was sealed after the fire in 1983."Natalie shifted, uneasy. "I thought the fire started in the kitchen.""That's what the management said. But Langley’s notes suggested otherwise. He believed it started here. And that it wasn’t an accident."As if in answer, a

The Bellhop’s SecretEthan Carter sat in the dimly lit lounge of the Blackwood Grand, sipping lukewarm coffee while waiting for George Mallory, the hotel’s oldest and most elusive bellhop. The fire crackled softly in the grand hearth, casting long shadows on the velvet-covered furniture and ornate rugs. It was nearly midnight.Natalie paced beside the fireplace, arms crossed."You really think he’ll talk?" she asked, her voice low.Ethan nodded slowly. "He’s been here for nearly five decades. He’s seen everything—he just never thought anyone would ask."Just then, the side door creaked open, and George Mallory stepped in. He looked to be in his seventies, wiry but spry, with sunken eyes and a weathered face framed by thin gray hair. He still wore the maroon bellhop uniform, the brass buttons dulled with age.George glanced around the room before approaching. "You wanted to talk," he said in a raspy voice. "But not here."Ethan stood. "Where, then?""The laundry room," George said. "No