Dead Alone: The Awakening.

3:04 a.m. The hotel stood like a monolith in the heart of the city—a towering glass-and-gold palace where families laughed by day and power brokers schemed by night. But now, silence had drowned it. The marble halls were empty. The chandeliers flickered, as if shivering from something unseen. Blood was the first thing out of place. It stained the glossy floor like spilled paint, scattered in sharp, angry footprints—some dragged, others smeared. They trailed across the topmost floor, ending where a trembling, blood-slicked hand gripped the wall. Amy. Her skin, dark and shining with sweat, looked pale under the hallway’s dying lights. Her face was gaunt, lips trembling. She leaned against the corridor’s edge, her eyes darting behind her as a sickening voice echoed from the shadows. “Amy… You can’t run from us.” Her stomach tightened. Her legs, barely holding her weight, wobbled beneath her. Still, she moved—slowly, desperately—one foot dragging behind the other. Her bruised fingers traced a shaky line of red on the wallpaper, her breath coming in shallow, silent gasps. She didn’t scream. Screaming would waste the little strength she had left. Moments earlier, that same hallway had been empty. Now, it bore witness to death. Behind her, heavy footsteps stomped onto the bloodstained floor. Three men emerged from the shadows. The first wore a crumpled suit and carried a pocket knife still dripping with fresh blood. His face was half-shadowed, but scratches from fingernails ran down his cheek like claw marks. The other hand clutched an unlit cigarette between shaking fingers. Jamey. “Where is that ungrateful b***h?!” he snarled, eyes scanning the hallway like a wolf scenting prey. The tallest of the three, a broad-shouldered man in a sweat-streaked blazer, glanced at the knife. “Bro, I thought you handled her.” Jamey’s jaw clenched. “It’s not a well-done job.” The third man—sharp, clean-cut, in dark glasses—tapped Jamey’s shoulder and pointed toward the streak of blood leading into another corridor. “There,” he said, voice clipped, analytical. All three stared. The trail was fresh. Jamey lit his cigarette with a trembling hand. The flare of the lighter lit his face briefly—wild eyes, a crooked smirk, and lips stained red from his own madness. “We’ve got the map,” he exhaled. “So… what the f**k are we waiting for? That ungrateful b***h needs to bleed more.” — Amy moved faster now. Not from strength—pure fear fueled her. Her once-white gown clung to her body like a soaked shroud, stained entirely with blood from the deep, ragged stabs in her abdomen. Her arm wrapped tightly around her midsection, trying to keep her insides inside. Each step sent knives of pain slicing up her spine. She’d worked here for months. Night shifts. Cleaning floors just like this. The job was decent. Quiet. Good pay. Enough to help her parents and send money for her grandma's hospital bills. She never expected the hotel to become her tomb. She stumbled to a halt at Room 09. Her forehead pressed against the cool door, sweat dripping from her temples. Her knees buckled slightly as her vision spun. Her blood dripped steadily—warm, thick—and puddled at her feet. Breathe, Amy. Breathe. She grabbed the doorknob. Locked. Her eyes widened in panic. She turned to the next. Locked. Another. Locked. Tears blurred her vision as her legs finally gave out. She collapsed against the final door on the row, smearing blood across its frame with her shoulder. Her mind buzzed—faces she loved, moments she’d never live again. No. Not like this. Then—footsteps. Getting closer. Faster. Heavier. — Jamey rounded the corner first, stalking like a predator with a scent in his nose. He stopped. His eyes locked on the final door, where a bloodstained knob hung slightly ajar. The trail ended here. “Gotcha,” he whispered. The tall man slowed beside him, wary. “She might still be bleeding out in there.” Jamey raised his knife and licked the blood from its edge like a man savoring the last bite of a meal. “Amy, baby…” he said, voice full of grotesque sweetness. “Come on out now. I won’t hurt you anymore.” He chuckled. “Let’s get you patched up, hmm? Then we’ll finish what we started… just like always.” The man in glasses stepped up beside him, gaze sharp. “It’s a good thing all the cameras on this floor are down. Otherwise, this little reunion would be cut short.” The tall one laughed nervously. “You scared?” Jamey spun around, cigarette pointing like a dagger. “You can get your scaredy-ass outta here if you're getting cold feet.” “Shut it, Jamey,” the man in glasses snapped. “Confidence isn’t immunity.” Jamey smiled. A wide, wicked grin. “My carelessness grows from what I own,” he said, then turned back to the door. He kicked it open. It creaked slowly. The hallway behind them fell silent. One by one, they stepped into the darkness inside the room. The door clicked shut.