༻ 02 ༺

The knock came again. Trevin opened the door to find the same housekeeper holding a small bundle of clothes against her chest—an oversized T-shirt, a pair of track pants, and worn flip-flops. “That's the best we had,” she said apologetically. “Left behind by previous guests. They’ve been washed.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” Trevin replied, taking them. “Seriously.” He shut the door, dressed quickly, and a few minutes later was following her down the hallway, with the flip-flops echoing loudly against the tiles. Heads turned as they passed by and he ignored them.

The manager’s office was small and tidy, smelling faintly of coffee and printer ink. A middle-aged man sat behind the desk, glasses perched low on his nose, fingers steepled as Trevin took the chair across from him.

“Hi, I'm  Mr Thomas, the manager on duty,” he said. “Mr. Peterson. I understand there’s been… an incident.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Trevin said calmly. “I woke up with no memory of how I got here and none of my belongings. I’d like to know who booked the room.”

He nodded, already turning to his computer. “Normally, we can’t release guest information—but due to the circumstance we can make an exception.” The manager's fingers moved across the keyboard. The hum of the old desktop filled the room. “Mr Peterson, the room was booked for one night,” he said, reading the screen. “Checked in yesterday evening. Paid in full.”

“And the name?”

He read the name on the monitor. “Claire Stephen.”

Trevin stared at wall. Nothing clicked. No face. No memory. Just a blank. “I don’t know that name,” he said flatly.

Mr Thomas watched him closely. “You’re sure?”

“Positive,” Trevin replied. “I don't know how I came to be in the room, and naked. I have no recollection of last night other than having a drink at a bar."

Mr Thomas frowned. "She paid in cash."

“What about her ID?"

"Her ID isn't  noted on file." Mr Thomas said apologetically.

“What? Isn't  that a requirement for booking?"

"It is, but I wasn't  on duty last night, so I'm  not sure what happened." The manager steppled his fingers again. “Sir, if you believe a crime occurred, I recommend filing a police report. We’ll cooperate fully.”

Trevin rubbed a hand over his face. “Yeah,” “I’ll be making a police report.” He leaned back in the chair, exhaling slowly, thinking. A name he didn’t recognize and a chain. A room booked by someone with no ID on record. "My car..?" Trevin said, meeting his eyes again.

"My staff verified that your Audi is still in the parking lot.."

"Then I drove here?"

"We can't  confirm that sir."

"Do you have cameras? Hallways, elevators, parking lot—anything?"

The manager hesitated, then sighed. “We have limited coverage. One camera at the main entrance. That’s it.”

“I’d like to see it.”

It took a few minutes for Mr. Thomas to find the footage, then he turned the monitor toward him. The timestamp glowed in the corner of the screen. Grainy. Slightly skewed, then there he was. Trevin recognized himself instantly—jacket on, shoulders loose, walking a little too easily. Not drunk, but not fully present either. And beside him—Someone obviously a female from the size, with their face down, and hoodie pulled low. They were holding hands when the two of them entered together. Trevin’s jaw tightened. Mr Thomas skipped the footage ahead. The same figure exited alone two hours later. Same hoodie. Same unhurried stride. No bags. No rush.

“That’s the only person who came in with you,” Mr. Thomas said quietly.

Trevin sat back, eyes never leaving the screen. “Can you pull a face from that?”

The manager shook his head. “Too obscured. We’ve tried enhancing footage before—this is as good as it gets.”

Trevin nodded once. It was enough to confirm what he already knew. “I’ll need the footage preserved.”

“It will be,” Mr. Thomas assured him. “The police can request a copy.”

Trevin asked for a call, and after one ring, someone answered.

“Yeah?” his brother’s voice came through.

“Hey,” Trevin said, keeping his tone steady. “I need a favor.”

A pause. “What kind of favor?”

“Come pick me up," he gave his brother the address. “I’ll explain later.” Another pause—longer this time.

“I’m on my way,” his brother said.

Trevin quickly wrote on a paper he asked for. “Here’s my number. Call me if anything else comes up. Anything at all.”

Mr. Thomas took it. “Of course.”

Trevin paused at the door, then turned back. “And if ‘Claire Stephen’ tries to contact the hotel?”

The manager met his eyes. “You’ll be the first person I call.”

Outside, the afternoon heat hit him like a wall. He checked and his Audi sat exactly where they said it was, untouched, almost mocking in its normalcy. He peered into the car, saw everything looked the same,  then he leaned against it,  pulling in a deep Breath. He was certain that last night hadn’t happened coincidentally.

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