POV: Isabella
The basement had its own gravity. It was a world of perpetual, humming twilight, divorced from the glittering universe of the hotel above. The air was a stale cocktail of old paper, industrial cleaner, and the distant, cloying sweetness of laundry soap. Isabella’s new desk was a scarred metal island in a sea of grey filing cabinets. A flickering fluorescent tube buzzed overhead like an anxious insect.
Her uniform was a costume of erasure. The stiff white blouse chafed her neck. The sensible black skirt felt like a denial of every curve she owned. The plastic badge—HART, I-EVENTS (TEMP)—was a brand. She was no longer a person with a vision; she was a function. An asset ID.
The work consisted of meticulously crafted tasks that felt monotonous. Fetch coffee for the Senior Eve
