The hotel never truly slept; it simply shifted its breathing.
As the frantic, neon-soaked adrenaline of the midnight hour bled into the bruised purples of dawn, the Ivy Morell Group lobby underwent a silent transformation. The heavy, rhythmic thrum of the bass from the lower levels faded, replaced by the sophisticated, expensive clicking of heels against Italian marble and the low-frequency hum of rolling suitcases. Las Vegas at 5:00 AM was a city of ghosts—the winners, the losers, and the weary workers who kept the machine grinding.
Eli stood behind the massive obsidian reception desk, a pillar of professional grace even as her muscles began to feel like lead. Her eyes, stinging from the recycled air-conditioned breeze, flicked rhythmically between the glowing monitor and the thinnin
