The Hotel de la Paix didn't appear deserted. It seemed… indifferent. Its majestic exterior was spotless the windows gleaming,. The sturdy oak doors remained shut. No doorman was present. No lights glowed in the lobby, behind the glass. The renowned lakeside terrace, once bustling with coffee drinkers and deal-makers for generations lay vacant with chairs set on still gravel.
It was contained in a pocket.
Devon came closer the subdued buzz of the city diminishing as he walked. Upon arriving at the doorway the world had shed its tones. The Jet d'Eaus spray turned into a drawn-out exhale. A tram moving along the Quai du Mont-Blanc appeared to float through thick air its riders hazy and lethargic, behind the glass.
He tested the door. Secured. He glanced into the lobby. The large clock, above the reception counter stood still. The second hand stalled mid-tick. Particles of dust floated in beams of afternoon sunshine unmoving, caught in a timeless, pause.
This was the bubble. The hotel was more, than a hub; it had turned into a cyst filled with dense inertia, a growth of passed moments. The "polished silence" Hugo had cultivated had taken on a local presence.
A modest inconspicuous service entry, on the side surrendered to his Europol bypass gadgets. The lock's click was muted, absorbed by the atmosphere. He pressed the door inward. It shifted, though with surreal effort like forcing through molasses.
Within the atmosphere was chilly and motionless. Not lifeless,. Purposeful. Noise didn't bounce back; it vanished. His own respiration was a effortful noise, in his hearing. He moved forward. His foot landed with slowness the ground touching his sole with a gentle drawn-out thump that appeared to endure for moments.
He proceeded along a servant's hallway. A linen napkin had slipped from someone's hand resting on the decorated floor tiles caught mid-descent its edges faintly quivering in a stillness. A steady drip from a faucet in the butler's pantry formed a plump droplet, at the spout hesitant to drop.
Warped time. Not halted. Slowed down. The hotel existed within its timeline moving at a slower pace compared to the outside world. It stood as a symbol not of broken peace but also of the wearisome drag of that failure.
He discovered the Imperial Suite. The door stood slightly open. Within the sight was a display of lethargy.
Hugo Hubert was seated at the treaty table his head lowered above the quantum resonator. His finger hovered over a control. The action to press it seemed to stretch indefinitely his muscles locked in a constant slight tension. Luna Lorelei was positioned near the balcony door left ajar by a gap—the origin of the subtle slow breeze that permitted Devons entrance. Her shift in direction, toward the disturbance was a graceful turn her gaze following him with the barely noticeable pace of an hour hand.
On the table next, to the humming resonator (its light throbbing in drawn-out waves) lay the rumpled evidence bag Devon had left behind. It was present here well a fragment of external detritus trapped in the thick flow of time. Its creases appeared eternal suspended.
"Hu… come." Devons tone was a warped moan the sounds drawn out like melted candy.
Hugos gaze rose. The movement lasted a tangible moment. A grin started to appear on his lips, a fracture of calmness. "Annn… aaa… lyyy… st." The word felt monumental. "Youuu… caaame… baaaack… to… reeeest."
Each word represented a universe of exertion. To communicate in this place was to engage in a transformation. Devons mind hurried,. His ideas also seemed dense moving through cognitive syrup. The allure was instant and bodily. Why resist? Resistance was quick. In this place all moved slowly. In this place all was… effortless.
He compelled himself to take another step inside the room. His leg cut through air that seemed tangible. He was, like an insect trapped in amber. This revealed the nature of the "peace" they presented. Not void,. Eternal suspension. A realm where each choice every outcome, was delayed indefinitely.
He gazed at the balcony door at the glimpse of regular-time Geneva seen through the gap. The world beyond was hectic, unclear, like a forwarded movie. Inside there existed the lengthy gradual exquisite unfolding of the present moment.
Hugo's finger kept its path, toward the resonators button. The Grand Conjunction wasn't an instant; it was a condition to be attained.. This chamber served as the vestibule.
Devon needed to shift. Not rapidly—that was out of the question—. Deliberately. He concentrated on his hand on the stone, from Glen Lyon tucked in his pocket. He urged his fingers to clasp it. The order flowed down his arm like a message through a wire excruciatingly gradual. He was a statue striving to awaken.
This served as the contention. Not theoretical,. Based on experience. Was he determined to opt for the agonizing rapid realm beyond?. Would he yield to the graceful slow-paced demise of this flawless eternal hotel?
With a grunt that echoed for what felt like minutes in the dense air, he took another step towards the table, towards Hugo, towards the still-pulsing heart of the slowing world.