A familiar sight is spread out before me. The elevator doors slide open with a quiet buzz, and two sets of footsteps echo down the hallway. Two things differ from the previous time I walked these halls though: The person I'm with and my heightened state of alertness.

Now that I understand the perils this "hotel" has hiding just beneath its surface, my sense of danger is running rampant. This only increases now that I'm on floor 20, a place I shouldn't even dream of visiting after understanding that the higher I climb, the stronger my enemies are.

Roland and I creep down the hallway, trying to muffle our steps as we walk. The invisible man's room shouldn't be far, seeing as how it's labeled as 20-7. Still, the walk is excruciating. The possibility that every room I pass houses a bloodthirsty monster is very real, and since I don't have any means of defending myself, other than relying on Roland, I'm screwed the instant we get caught.

In a flash, we arrive at the correct room. From the outside, it looks the same as any other along the way. The same silver door glimmering in the sapphire light. Inside, though, I have no idea what horrors are presented on display. We have no option but to go inside. Staying in the hallway for too long is dangerous, and the possibility that somebody's inside is low from what I understand. People don't share rooms, though I'm not sure how true that is on the higher floors.

Roland reaches out and presses the golden card against the scanner. With a click, the door unlocks. Inside, the layout is far more normal than I expected. The walls are a toneless grey, with the light being cold and unwelcoming. There's a long hallway extending from the front door, with two closed wooden doors across from each other about six feet in. The hallway ends with what looks to be a living room and kitchen opposite each other.

Roland and I slowly make our way inside. I shut the door behind me, making sure it's unlocked before moving on. When I turn around, Roland is already jiggling the doorknobs to the two doors, it seems they're both locked. I was already told beforehand that I shouldn't break things when I'm unsure of the danger, so at the present moment looking for a key to unlock them is preferable to simply smashing them down.

We walk farther down the hallway, creeping forward at a snail's pace, ears straining for unknown dangers. Hanging on the walls are hundreds of strange, framed photographs. The images themselves are blurry and difficult to make out, but their vivid color is a striking contrast to the dull world around them. They line the hallway in rows upon rows, not a single frame out of place, yet none of the pictures inside are in focus.

I'm puzzled as to why someone would display so many blurry pictures, but remind myself that figuring that out is the very reason why we're here. Learning more about our hunters, discovering their weaknesses, searching for a unifying way to kill our enemies, finding a method that makes them prey. Roland goes through such efforts for those very reasons.

Just as predicted, the end of the hallway opens up into a living room on the right, and a kitchen on the left. The kitchen looks sterile. Everything is a dull grey, stainless steel everywhere. I'm surprised by how old the appliances actually are, puzzled as to why someone would still use an electric oven. Posted on the door of the refrigerator, piles of children's drawings are layered upon each other. The magnets pressing against them have the portraits of children on them, every magnet unique, not a single child repeating. Why would someone have pictures of so many kids? This apartment really doesn't have that many rooms, far less than what is required to house what looks to be over 30 children.

Without making any assumptions, I file the gathered information away. Opening the fridge, piles of Tupperware are filled to the brim with leftovers. Spaghetti, salad, chicken, stirfry. While chewing on the idea that one person wouldn't possibly be able to eat this much food, I shut the fridge and leave the kitchen. Roland checks the cupboards while I begin my search of the living room. What immediately strikes my eye is the presence of a third door, tucked away in the corner of the room. Next to it, hanging on the wall is a plaque with a bunch of keys hooked onto it. I want to investigate this room first, so I make no move to fetch the keys, but I remember it for later.

The living room is rather large. The massive couch curves in a semicircle, and is long enough to fit at least seven grown men comfortably. The rug laid across the ground is a muted blue and is rough to the touch. The sofa itself is a matching blue and looks to be made out of polyester. In the middle of the crescent that forms due to the sofa shape, a plastic coffee table has what look to be school assignments splayed across it. A red pen is situated next to the numerous stacks, its ink is nearly gone. A theory begins to form in my mind as to the identity of the room's owner, but I store it away, neither confirming nor denying it.

Embedded into the wall, opposite the couch, a massive flatscreen T.V. looks unused and forgotten. Its grandiose appearance almost seems superfluous, as if it is merely a decoration placed for appearance's sake. Nowhere around can I see a remote. Several abstract paintings, multiple bookshelves filled with books on self-help and teaching, blurry photographs in frames. The room is filled with clutter but remains organized throughout. There's a vague aura of unease hanging in the air, and I can't help but rub the back of my neck.

Now finished with the living room, I approach the key rack. What should I investigate first? The closed doors in the hallway, or the door tucked away in the living room? I call Roland over, who is finally done combing through the kitchen. I point at the keys and whisper in a low voice.

"Would you like to check the locked rooms, while I look through here?"

I point at the nearby door. There's no lock, clearly separating it from the rest. Roland should be more interested in the hidden contents stored away in the other rooms, so I have no doubt as to what he'll choose.

"Alright."

Without saying anything else, he grabs every key, even the ones that are obviously not for the doors, and stuffs them in his pockets. I turn around with a blank expression, walking to the door in the same breath.Click. I turn the handle and the door pops open. I push the heavy wood, easing open the gap. I'm hesitant walking forward, slightly puzzled as to how such a thing is possible. Stretching downwards is a dark staircase. The concrete staircase fades away as my eyes follow it farther and farther, deeper and deeper into the darkness.

How is this possible? A basement in a hotel? On the 20th floor? What reasoning could explain this? Could it be that the spaces between floors are abnormally large? But wouldn't that also mean this building is bigger than what would normally be estimated? This is 140 floors, an already enormous number. Stop. There's no point in trying to reason my way out of this one. All I can do is move on.

I take a step forward. Then another, and another. My feet tap against the concrete as I descend deeper and deeper. Eventually, all light fade away, and I'm left in grey darkness. It's not pitch-black, as the light from upstairs, while weak, is still careening down, but it is already difficult to see.

My feet hit the ground in front of me and I stumble, having expected yet another step. I reach my arm out and feel against the wall, searching for a light switch. The most logical positioning for a basement light fixture would be right next to the stairs, so I follow that assumption. Hands grasping, I feel around the cold, stone wall. Searching high and low, back and forth. Eventually, perhaps getting lucky, my fingers brush against a switch and I'm immediately blinded.

"Arhg!"

A cry escapes my lips and I cover my face. The pure-white luminescence is mindnumbing, and I feel my festering irritation spike before being forcibly smothered.

"... Haaah..."

I crack my eyes, allowing them to adjust. Soon, I'm able to look around unhindered. A large open space is spread out before me. To my right is a metal table with various photography tools. I can spot at least three different types of cameras and multiple manila folders piled about. There are also four metal file cabinets surrounding the table, two on each side, their surface polished and reflective.

To my left is a large glass box. There's a thin slot and flap on the locked and bolted door, similar to the kind used in prisons. The box sits about six inches off the ground, and its floor is wooden paneling. The roof has a large mechanical fixture, being what I can only assume to be a temperature controller, like an air conditioner. Inside of the box is a thin bedroll, a pile of books, a small pail, and a box of crayons next to a stack of white paper. Overall, the contraption looks like some kind of elaborate cage, meant to keep prisoners on display.

Directly in front of me is what appears to be a scene for a photoshoot. A stark-white sheet hangs from the ceiling, rolling onto the floor. Sitting on top of the sheet, just in front of the fixed tripod, is a metal chair with leather restraints attached to the arms.

"I see..."

I walk to the table with the cameras and files on them. Flicking one open, I can see the picture of a small little girl tied to the chair. Her lips are cut and her eyes are overflowing with fear as she stares feebly into the camera. She's being forced to smile, as her cracked, bloodied lips are twisted upwards in a semblance of a grin. Her skin is bare, her childish figure exposed. This also allows me to see the damage wrought upon her body. Her flesh is beaten and bruised. Several cuts cross her flat chest, and her ribs are showing, a clear sign of malnutrition. The girl's messy hair is torn and cut, cast in disarray due to the abuse. The girl's age looks to be around six or seven.

I stare unmovingly at the picture, a wave of overwhelming anger and abhorrence rampaging throughout my chest. My hands tremble as I reach out and open another file, then another, then another. They're all the same. The only difference is the subject of the photographs. Boys, girls, not once is there a repeat child. Attached to each photo is a short transcript giving the subjects name, age, the location they were taken from, as well as the amount they're being sold for. The unifying piece of information that separates them all is that they were taken from schools. The same school connect tens of children together, another by a different name has the same amount, painting an obvious picture of the actions that led to this moment. The predator stalking his prey, picking and choosing at his leisure. The kidnapping. The imprisonment. The photographs as advertisement and subsequent selling.

I open the drawers of the cabinets, only to see files upon files. Each drawer is a different place, but every file houses the evidence of sheer brutality.

"How large is this operation? There's no way all this was done by a single person... But why are there so many pictures in this basement?"

Using logic, I attempt to create a line of reasoning. I separate myself from my growing anger. The answer doesn't really matter to me, all I need to do is force myself to calm down.

Calm...

Calm...

"I need to get out of here."

Without waiting any longer to think about anything else, I turn around and walk to the stairs, my hurried steps are annoyingly loud in my ears. Footsteps rapidly tap as I shoot upstairs at a steady pace. It's been a while anyway, I need to meet with Roland to share what I found.

After switching on the lights, the stairs are bright now. I no longer trip over myself like I was when I was going down. In no time I reach the top, pushing open the door that has been slowly closing. Perhaps having heard my steps, Roland is standing just beside the door, ax hefted in his hands. I glance at him as I catch my breath, my chest rising and falling. After taking a moment to check that it is really me, Roland lowers his weapon. His scowling mouth cracks open as he questions me.

"What did you find?"

I stand straight and respond while looking him in the eyes. My voice is cold, completely unperturbed.

"A prison. A bunch of files that connect the owner to some kind of human trafficking ring. It seems like this guy worked at a school, and used that link to target multiple schools. There are hundreds of files down there, to an astonishing degree. You'd have to question the size of the organization. What about you? What's in the locked rooms?"

"Nothing much. The room on the left is the bathroom. The walls are scrubbed clean, like really clean, fuckin' weirdo. I couldn't find a single piece of grime anywhere in that damn room. The most interesting point would be that the mirror is cracked, like some idiot punched it, but that's about it. The other room is the bedroom. The bed doesn't have any sheets and is just a stained mattress, it's in pretty bad condition. There's a noose hanging from the ceiling in the middle of the room, creepy but I've seen worse. I did find a diary stored inside his nightstand, which I needed a key to unlock. You should check it out. Maybe it was fill in some of the blanks for you."

While I do notice Roland's change in attitude, I don't pay any special attention to it. I'm sure he has his reasons for being warmer to me. Besides, I'm more interested in the notebook he's holding instead. I reach out and take the offered journal. Its surface is cracked leather, stained from years of wear. I flip open the cover and brush my fingers against the paper, the pages are dry and brittle, crackling after every flip. My eyes scan the pages, and information flows into my brain in a steady stream.

The diary details the story of a man named Tom. He was a substitute teacher at a well-known private academy and was a trusted faculty member. The parents of the children were fond of him, and the children got excited whenever he replaced one of their regular teachers. Everyone liked him so much that he was constantly showered in gifts. Parents gave him homemade dishes, children wrote him letters and drew him pictures, he was even offered a regular position at the school, that way he wouldn't need to travel to other schools to substitute in. Tom was smart, well respected, and ultimately doing rather well for himself.

As with most heroes, however, Tom had a weakness. A single flaw that stole away his divinity, and plunged him to the land of the mortals. Tom had an uncontrollable fetish. Using his every resource, Tom would find ways to hide small cameras in the school bathrooms. Then, at the end of the day, after nearly everyone had left, Tom would sneak in, and retrieve his footage. The diary unabashedly acclaimed the work genius. The methods were labeled as "nearly flawless", the secret was deemed untouchable.

One day, however, a clear change showed itself in the writing. The page itself is shriveled as if covered in water, and the ink is scrawled in obvious fear and frustration. Tom had been caught. A child, nearing the end of their stay at the school, walked in on Tom while he was retrieving his cameras. Naturally being of the highest grade level, the child instantly understood the reality of the situation. Tom lamented to himself, detailed his disarray as the rose-tinted glasses cracked and shattered before the child's eyes. At the time, Tom was pushed to the edge. He first tried to reason with the kid, explaining that everything was a simple misunderstanding. It was obvious to him that the girl wasn't believing him. When she tried to leave, Tom snapped. He attacked the girl, covering her mouth and dragging her to the toilet, drowning her in the bowl.

He killed the girl.

The despairing Tom gathered as much evidence as possible before fleeing. Naturally, he didn't forget any of his cameras, so he was sure there was no evidence connecting him to the murder.

Ultimately, Tom was right. He lucked out, being in a city with corrupt law enforcement, so any potential evidence went ignored and swept away. Truly, he was winning at life.

Like all animals, Tom learned from this experience. Regrettably, the lesson was one that only brought about pain.

Tom continued to fuel his fetish. A few number times was he walked in on, but in every instance, the child was killed. Tom was careful to cover his tracks. He made sure there was no footage connecting him to the area, he even moved his car away from the school at the end of the day, and snuck in from the back to avoid further suspicion.

In no time ghost stories spread. And along with the ghost stories, a rumor came with it. Someone suspected Tom to be the one behind the bathroom murders. Whether a random act of chance or if someone really had caught him, Tom didn't know.

That fact terrified him.

So, with a heavy heart and maxed-out charisma, Tom switched schools before the rumors were caught on by the proper channels.

Unluckily for Tom, the rumors spread like wildfire, and soon, no matter which school he went to, suspicious gazes were leveled at him. He tried charming the parents, hoping to buy his way into their child's heart by showing how good of a person he is. Even so, while the parents gave him food, they were completely unaware of the seething hatred their children pointed at him. So, he kept switching schools, being burdened by guilt, and his ever-present fetish.

Eventually, Tom was caught. Not by the police, but by a human trafficking ring. They completely overpowered him. Tom had nothing he could do as they stole his life from him, and steered him in the direction they wished. If he tried to get help, they'd supposedly bring evidence that linked him to a long string of murders. Like a fly in a spider's web, Tom was caught.

And so, Tom did his job. He worked as a substitute teacher and scouted children per the specifications given to him. Everything went very smoothly. Tom didn't even have to get his hands dirty. That was until he began to rise in the ranks of the organization.

The organization had connections all around the globe. They had control over several countries, and human trafficking was far from their only business. This meant that no matter what Tom did, he could not escape.

So he began to market the children, acquiring a new job. He gave up his position as a teacher and had a neverending line of kids to photograph and document. Work waned on, and so did Tom's sanity. After sexually assaulting multiple children, all to feed his fetish, Tom shattered.

The final page of the diary laid bare his intentions to end his life. He even joked that the organization wouldn't even notice his absence. Tom had truly fallen into a neverending quagmire. Still, he didn't intend to resist his fetish, and that is what ultimately dragged him into the abyss.