The Host's Judgement

6. The Smell of Fear

The oxygen that filled my lungs again had a metallic taste of blood and glass dust. I was still on my knees, coughing, with small shards embedded in the palms of my hands, when the sound of three long, continuous beeps echoed through the gray hall. The red lights inside the cabins of Arthur, Letícia, and Clarice went out, leaving only the fallen bodies in the gloom.

“My God… they’re dead. They really died,” Daniela’s voice, the real estate broker, rose in pitch, bordering on hysteria. She pointed at the cabin where Letícia, the woman in the fake fur coat, lay with her face pressed against the glass.

“Did anyone doubt it?” Marcus stepped forward, adjusting the sleeves of his crumpled suit jacket as if he had just left a boring business meeting. He didn’t look once at Arthur’s cabin the man he had just betrayed and indirectly murdered.

“You killed him, you bastard!” Roberto, the ex-cop, lunged at Marcus, grabbing him by the lapels. Roberto’s physical build was imposing, but the decay of corruption and years in the underworld gave him a sloppy appearance. “Arthur trusted you!”

“Arthur was a useless sack of fat who spent his children’s entire inheritance on underground poker tables and owed money to half the loan sharks in the capital I saw it on his card at dinner,” Marcus spat the information with surgical contempt, pushing Roberto’s hands away. “He was already dead before he got into that sedan, you corrupt cop. I just saved the bank the trouble. I chose what anyone with a brain would choose: my own survival.”

I looked toward the corner of the hall. Lucas, the hacker, was leaning against the wall with a cynical smile on his face, typing on a digital watch on his wrist.

“The suit has a point about one thing,” Lucas said, drawing everyone’s attention. “The one in cabin 8, Letícia… she was just a dumb ex-model who borrowed money from the wrong person. And Clarice? She did whatever she wanted in her position including a lot of dirty shit, if you really want to know. If you want to play the game of innocents, you came to the wrong hotel. No saints make it past the Summit’s reception. My phone has no signal, but these encrypted messages keep coming with random information about all of you.”

Lucas’s words fell like lead over the group. Sixteen of us remained. Sixteen sinners trapped in a marble labyrinth.

“Enough!” Diana, the lawyer, intervened. Her voice was firm the same one she used to intimidate prosecutors in court. “Digging up the past won’t open the doors. Hayes broke the glass. The system accepted his escape, which means the Host has strict rules. We need to move to the rooms before the clock resets again.”

As if obeying her command, a gap opened in the opposite wall, revealing a flight of stairs leading up to the hotel’s residential wing.

Before climbing, I passed by Elena. She was still holding the small black box with the golden key symbol the privilege she had bought with my near-death. She tried to keep her gaze steady, but I saw the slight tremor in her fingers.

“Next time, Doctor,” I whispered, close enough for only her to hear, “make sure the coffin is properly locked.”

We climbed the stairs in silence. The corridor of rooms was long, carpeted in a wine-red tone that reminded me of trampled blood. Each door had a name on it. I entered my room, locked the solid wooden door from the inside, and collapsed against it.

The room was luxurious but felt like a high-security cell. There were no windows to the outside, only a large painting on the wall opposite the bed. I approached to look at the canvas. It was a realistic oil painting of a nightclub in flames, with desperate silhouettes banging against dark glass.

In the lower corner of the frame, a date was engraved on a bronze plaque: July 12, 2016.

Exactly ten years ago.

My stomach twisted. I sat on the bed, head in my hands. The Host knew. He knew what had happened that fateful night. Was there a reason for each of these people to be here, or did each one have a different sin from mine?

Suddenly, a metallic sound came from under the door. Someone had slid a note underneath it.

I rushed over and picked up the black paper. Written in the same silver ink as the invitation, there was only one sentence:

“You used her back to reach the window, Hayes. How many chapters of success did you think that death was worth?”

A piercing scream, coming from the room next door, tore through the silence of the hotel’s early morning.