Hotel Marseta. Room 412.
The hallway of the fourth floor had the specific, hushed quality of expensive hotels at this hour — the thick carpet absorbing footsteps, the walls close enough together that sounds carried, the air conditioning doing its steady, neutral work of making the space feel uninhabited regardless of what was happening in it.
Yuna stood outside Room 412.
She had been standing outside Room 412 for forty seconds, which was how long it had taken to travel from the elevator to this door, and she had spent those forty seconds doing the mental arithmetic of whether showing up at this specific room was the correct decision.
The arithmetic kept coming out the same.
She knocked.
What happened next happened quickly.
The door opened.
A hand.
